Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-

Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long

Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives

The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains

Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:

Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury

And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors

Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,

For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains

On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools

To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind

One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,

Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;

You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.

Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.

~~~                                              The thirteenth day at Kurukshetra
                                                     ­   verily an unfortunate day
                                                      for this is the day a hero falls
                                               the likes of which were never seen again

there he stands on his chariot                                                          ­          but his face is clouded with worry
his armour shooting arrows of  light                                                        ­         mind disturbed by confusion
truly he looks like the son                                                              ­             a David among Goliaths he stands
of the king of the night                                                            ­    a mammoth task on his youthful shoulders
                                                his uncle, the king must be protected
                                                       ­      his father is away
                                             the enemy has planned a tricky strategy
                                   a war formation-which only he knows how to break

                                          The Chakravyuha or Padmavyuha as it is called
                                            in the shape of a circular lotus it is arranged
                                                 a deadly trap like a venus fly-catcher
                                                  dea­th is certain for those who enter
“I know how to enter, he laments                                                          ­      but my lovely mother fell asleep
but of how to escape it  I am unaware                                                      unin­terested in the skills of warfare
my father taught it to my mother                                                           ­             so I learnt only how to enter
when I was in her womb                                                    and of knowledge of the exit I was deprived”
                                                  “Go­ forth bravely”, his uncle says,
                                                          w­e’ll follow you closely
                                                       no one can harm even a hair
                                                    on your head while we are there

                                                          ­  and so Abhimanyu enters
                                                          ­    a hero-true to his name
                                                            ­ with courage in his heart
                                                         and the Lord’s name on his lips
he prays, ‘let me make my father proud today”                                              so rapidly do his arrows fly
like a lion he is fierce, like an eagle swift                                              that they remain unseen to the eye
ten thousand soldiers fall                                                             ­                          only their stabbing tip is felt
under his wrathful gaze                                                             ­             before the receivers keel over and die
                                                             ­   the brave warrior forges on
                                                              ­    unaware of the goings on
                                                        his uncles have been trapped behind
                                                          ­  he’s alone behind the enemy line

                                                           ­      when he realizes the danger        
                                                                ­            its far too late      
                                                            a true warrior does not his fate berate
                                                          ­        bravely onwards he wanders
finding chinks in the enemy’s armour                                                         but treachery raises its ugly head
he is Yama himself incarnate                                                        ­                               alone he battles a crowd
into every heart he strikes a mindless fear                           Karna, Drona, Vrshasena, Salya, Durmashana
claiming lives as he plans an escape                        Duryodhana, Dussasana, Lakshmana, Aswathhaman
                                                           and Kritavarman all surround
                                                        ­scavengers against this lonely lion
                                                         Karna does his bowstrings break
                                                     and Kritavarman leaves him chariotless

                                                    ­           multiple arrows upon him rain
                                                            ­    he is now grievously wounded
                                                         ­          yet unnerved and undaunted
                                                       ­      he rises with sword and shield in hand
he challenges his attackers thus,                                                          come one by one and I shall be glad
“O mighty warriors, this cowardly act                                                              ­       to give you a good fight
does not your stature befit, the laws of war                                        and in this fair combat befitting kings
do not prescribe for many to stand against one                                                        may the best man win”
                                                           ­  but his plea for fairness went unheard
                                                   Karna breaks his shield and Drona cuts his sword
                                                           ­      unarmed and bleeding he employs
                                                         ­       his chariot wheel as a final defense

                                                        ­             but corruption is a cruel master
                                                          ­        that ruled the minds of his attackers
                                                       ­                       together in all injustice
                                                       ­     they smash  the chariot wheel to smithereens
they laugh their wicked laughs                                                           ­        with deceitful swords he is felled
and rejoice at Abhimanyu’s helplessness                                                     ­  but even in death he is dignified
to his honour and their ignominy                                              his only regret is that he shall not live to see
with ruthlessness they strike                                                           ­               his queen, Uttara and his child  
                                                         ­    but as he thinks of his father
                                                          ­    his heart is filled with pride
                                                     “look father”, he screams to the skies
                                                        “y­our son has died a hero’s death”

                                       “against many Maharathis  he has stood his ground
                                               and fulfilled his dharma - he hopes you are proud
                                                          h­is last wish is that you should avenge
                                                   the treason that has driven him to this end”
with these last words                                                            ­                  poor Abhimanyu - his words echoed
he leaves this world                                                            ­                              filling the battlefield with dread
the villains around him dance                                                            ­        his uncles hear his bellowing roars
in a shameful victory celebration                                                      ­      and know that their beloved is dead
                                                       with their mind-numbing sorrow
                                                         comes their unquenchable fear
                                                       how will they let their brother know
                                                          th­at he must light his son’s pyre

                                                           with bloodshot eyes they swear
                                                       that his noble death will be avenged
                                                         and then they fall deeper in sorrow
                                                          ­as the sun sets upon their beloved
his blood mixes with the earth                                                            ­              his death shall be a reminder
as the Gods rain praises above him                                                             that honour comes not with age
“here lies a true champion                                                     but by one’s actions is one’s worth determined
unbeaten and courageous                                                       ­           ascend Abhimanyu to the heavens!”
                                                    Th­e thirteenth day at Kurukshetra
                                                     ­        verily an unfortunate day
                                                            f­or this is the day a hero fell
                                                   the likes of which were never seen again
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
   16.09.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

time and tide waits for none
nor does the soldier of the battle won
swift as the light that pass
the mist crept  the landmass

thunder and lightning left out
when the major called out
ahoy! all brave men
the sons of the Ganges terrain

reach out to the far north
where the enemy slept forth
show no mercy for you'l receive none
feel no pain and march as one

here's the ensign to raise up aloft
think of the weary deeds that you've got
let the din of cannon shred
the rhythm to carry you in right tread

never panic when the men grew wear
wave the standard to shook the fear
never misjudge the foe as weak
but remember your oath to our peak

never fall when ponderous struck
never halt when stark strike
fight till your warmth is turned icy
then the hawkish eyes will see

the unbeaten soul stamped on Indian lads
the mortal's robes you 've clad
holds the blessings of thousand
which will retain your soul and

spirit even when the tricolor is laid
on the honored graves made
hold tightly like limpet
till success is met

march brave Indians with gusto
and show them you are a maestro
draw your sword across
to pierce the devil's heart across

Her snowcap dress disappears,
as forest on compass interferes.
She can not be azimuth for escape,
why some left trail of yellow tape.
bowing usher points on with blighted limb,
retching out its own hemlock gin.
path in is beaten, with log and stone,
crevices drown a webbed saliva moan.
path out is unbeaten and hard to find,
from death's brambles on the mind.

All trees seem to want to die,
no effort to brush off strangling vine.
where you think they have broke loose,
swaying ropes that once had noose.

And where there is light, is mossy glen,
just enough, for one last note to pen.
dolls, cloths, skulls make up forest litter,
shoes, bottles, and smiling family picture.

With the only surviving sounds so faint and sickly,
Scraping nylon tent--a starving man on day sixty.
The songbirds break the silence,
A cruel happy tune,
They see dark doom in ultraviolet,
the panicked slit wrists and  poison diet,
create failed trails ,
that don't escape and help to hide it.


"The wood line, I made it out"--the cruelest thought,
Mount Fuji's white dress through the trees up top ,
They see themselves smiling,
It is, and it is not,
a happy photo,
identifying their skulls stained green by moss.

I'm going to make sure you stay safe,
I'm here to protect you.
I'll be watching over you.
Don't worry, you'll be safe.

I'll tell mother if you do something bad,
Dad won't be too please either,
You'll get told off, they might even ground you.
You won't be allowed out, but you can have visitors if you're good.

We all love you, honestly we do.
We just want what's best for you,
Make sure you don't hurt yourself.
After all, we're your family.

You have to love us back,
Or else I'll tell everyone you're bad.
No one will like you, and no one will listen to you.
You'll be an outcast.

Come now, little brother,
You can't hide from me;
I'm everywhere you look.
You might not be able to see me, but I can see you.

We can play hide 'n' seek if you want,
But I'm pretty good,
Unbeaten.
I know some pretty good hiding places.

As they always say,
"You can run, but you can't hide",
I won't chase after you,
But Dad will, mother will make sure of it.

The Road ahead I prepare to travel
Full of holes and moles  between metal and gravel
Replete with a series of frightening bumps
I have to drive anyway over the stumps

Roads are lonely and instill awe
Never tell the  journey leads to where
Most often tend to paint  despair
Makes one bewildered how to care

The hope of meeting an exotic fairy
not bothering the journey how dreary
Hope and expectations keep us moving
meeting somebody so caring and loving

The road becomes lengthened
and Goal post is far from sight
still I have no choice but to cross the bend
to continue the journey with all my might

Congratulations another consecutive win
******* central made it clear
You're the biggest family of ******* every year
There is no rival that can compare
Sponging off us and can't see
The burden we bare
Well the cost of your unbeaten record consumes us
while your respect is something refused us.
our dignity is intact never stooped as low to air the trash talk
We'd rather hold our heads high and walk.
But the ******* of the year can enjoy paying rent
because this finance bubble debt needs a good dent
dont worry I know youll all object,
with the usual ******* excuses  to that effect
but when we asked for assistance which you had the ease of doing
you said no, get someone else and audaciously bunked right in.
Go live in rip off ******* home theyve got a big roof.
I should know i paid for it
I expect more crap but I hear ******* of the year is up for grabs!
Go for it! I'm sure youll win
Regards from the newly crowned,
******* ***** of the year.

The epitome of greatness, a mark in history

Of discipline remarkable, a stellar victory

Defeating the unbeaten, knock and break the mould

International heavyweight of Olympic Gold



Strike in quick succession, opponents retreat

Delivery duration, a knockout of defeat

Tactical ability, step into the range

Catalyst created, set for further change



Of the highest calibre, man who beat the man

Delivery on target, a humble champion

Of opponents outclassed, discontinued bout

Dominant performance, within and without



With athletic excellence, distance travelled far

Gym of daily training, cardio and spar

Professional perspective, stood to set the pace

Dedication, boldness, motivate, embrace



Influencing globally, rank of the elite

Rapid combinations, uppercuts repeat

Powerful formation, readiness of stance

Daily preparation, practice over chance



An honourable service, magnificence abound

Celebrating victory, crowding to surround

Continuing the greatness, strength and stamina

The world is truly grateful, Anthony Joshua



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

Patrick (Lucky Stars) O'Hara set his disabled grandson up on the old horse's back. Contrary to his moniker Paddy was anything but. His luck had run out. His son had just died of leukemia, and his grandson was now fatherless. His "daughter-in-law" had run off long ago. Couldn't handle having such a disabled son, and a sick husband. Paddy had never liked her anyway.

Patty looked at the child's wizened body. The cruelty of scoliosis. The doctors said it would cost vast thousands of dollars to straighten Bobby O'Hara's spine. Money Paddy absolutely did not have.

His sad gaze shifted from the boy to the horse he was sitting upon. Oh what a magnificent creature you were, 8 Ball! His own retired racehorse. What was once a stone black coat was now mottled with white. The figure eight shaped blaze on his forehead had given him his name. Not to mention the way he took off at the Starting Gate. As if someone had goosed him with a cue stick! And he bounced off the turns in the track as if he had a spin on him that was absolutely deadly. 8 Ball loved to run! He was unbeaten in every race that he entered. A real Dark Horse. With no particular lineage whatsoever. 8 ball just had Talent. And the track owners hated it. Most races were rigged. And Paddy O'Hara didn't play the game.

So they set up a race. With a big race horse named Red Rodger. This horse was also unbeaten, and had a promising future. But Red Roger's jockey was told to lay his horse down... Right in front of 8-Ball. So lay down he did. Killing Red Rodger and severely injuring 8-Ball. There was a lot of speculation about the race. Especially how the jockey riding Red Rodger had jumped from the horse just before the accident happened. He said his foot had slipped the stirrup. No one could prove otherwise. So red Rodger was dead, and 8-ball was very effectively out of the game.

8-Ball, being a sweet natured horse, stood stolidly as a little boy patted his withers. He looked back at him with his gentle dark chocolate eyes and nickered with what Paddy could have sworn was tenderness...

He heard a frustrated whinny behind him. Looking back he saw what he expected. The F-tch was back.

Lady Genevieve Summerfield-Fitch looked down her long nose at Paddy. Astride the most magnificent jumper O'Hara had ever seen.

Gentleman Jim was an astonishing animal. The dappled grey of rainclouds on a milk white sky... and his lines were flawless. Not to mention his lineage. His dam was Proud Nelly, and his sire was none other than Seafront View. And The Gent was as good as his name. He wasn't hare- brained like some horses which became ******. This was a well-tempered, almost intellectual horse. He worked WITH his rider. Practically thinking his way through a course. And it was no surprise that Gent won more awards than you could shake a club at!

But Gentleman Jim's rider was anything but his counterpart. She owned him, but she was no lady...

All of a sudden Paddy's gaze shifted again... this time in the far distance to take in an apparition. A small blonde girl... hair the length of her knees! Running like the Hound of the Baskervilles was after her! She closed the distance between them so rapidly O'Hara was almost dumbfounded!

"I... must... buy... your horse", the child panted.

"He's not for sale..."

Suddenly Paddy saw who the youngster was running from. Back in the middle distance was an ugly bald-headed creep. The spider's web tattooed over the left side of his face was enough to change Paddy's mind... he'd give the girl TomTom, though. He was a good, swift horse....

... then, before he knew what happened, his grandson was sitting on a chair by the stables and Blondie was astride 8-Ball!

"Hey! That horse is old and LAME!

"Not anymore." The blonde girl said simply. She pressed something hard into his palm. "And he's now mine".

As 8-Ball wheeled around to go out the gate something... happened. Was it O'Hara's imagination? The Ball's coat got darker! And shiny! His "game" leg seemed to... straighten...

When he made it out to the trail with his small rider he bunched up his flanks and took off Like a bat out of HELL!

The young blonde girl's long hair streamed out behind her like a sail as she took on the seat of a hockey... PERFECT FORM!

Paddy looked down at the hard object the girl had pressed into his hand. It was a classically cut emerald, dark as the hills of Kentucky. And bigger than any Paddy had ever seen...

In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

Seven lessons I've learned from math
1) we all will make mistakes but still
Hope you spoke in pencil
Because someone once said that words when spoken and hearts when broken are the hardest to repair
2) remember people as well as remember that one plus one is two
Because what meant so much to them could be little to you
Even if you flew by and continued a line on the plane of life
The mere point of tangency may have pulled them from strife
3) never judge a person on the outward complexity of their problems until you have factored completely
It is only when you have seen all the parts that understanding can come freely
4)no matter how far two numbers may seem the greatest common multiple with come
Even if it's one
5) its not a matter of whether or not your ti-84 can perform the task easier
Its if you can do it better
Because accuracy matters and there are many shortcuts to take
But be careful of the choices you make
6)you won't always be the best
or do good on the test
but don't let any of it make you forget the rest
Of the amazing things happening right underneath your nose
Because you will need help from time to time
So forget all the angles formulas and cosines
Just breath
Because not every part of life can be described in numbers or proofs or even words
Some just need to be lived
7) you can find a lesson in everything  
From books to a song you love to sing
From a sunrise to an unbeaten path
From butterflies or maybe even math

This is not a poem, this is a story of a an 83 yr old man, that
got away with lying aboat his actual age, so he could box,
for the light weight Dallas County Iowa, championship.

"Howard is the name and these are my two knock out fists, Tuffy and Tougher and I'm here to sign up for the light heavy weight championship boxing title of Dallas County."

That was my official registration to the County boxing Commission.
They of course ask me my age and some other questions related to
my boxing experience, to which I lied very convincingly.

By the way, the way to lie convincingly is to literally believe yourself what you are lying about. I had spent hours telling myself the lies I told the Boxing Commission, so they had no doubt about what I told them about my boxing experience. I even had some fake newspaper articles about my boxing experiences that I printed on my home printing press. I'll tell more about this later in this story.

What motivated me to do this, was the current champion was the
Grandson of one of my high school classmates that I detested, because he was such a proud blow hard, about every athletically thing
he did, from being a baseball pitcher, a running back football player,
a wrestler and on and on he bragged about himself. One time when
I could not stomach his bragging and pompous way he walked, I confronted him to his face, actually his chin, as that was as close to
his face I stood. He was about 6' 4'' and I was slightly over 6'. I looked him in the eyes and told him I and everyone else in school was sick
and tired of his bragging about himself.

He then sneered a me, reached down and grabbed me by the callar of my shirt, and said. "Why you little dumb pipsqueak, you aint nothing but a hog raising farm boy!" and shoved me hard against
the hallway wall, so I smacked the back of my head against it, and was
knocked out for a few minutes, long enough for someone dumping a cup full of water on my face to bring me alert. Then ol blow hard
spread it around that I had attemped to hit him and he "just naturally" defended himself and gave me a little shove.

But back to the main part of this story, I had been working out in the city gym, working on my cardio, that's my breathing. I had been keeping up with my physical condition all of my life, so for an 83 yr old man  I am in good physical shape. I have been punching the heavy bag on daily basis and have had someone bouncing a heavy medicine ball on my stomach five minutes every day, so I have those three muscle stand outs on my stomach, that everybody ooos and aaas about.

I also sparred with young boys around 20 and 30 years old, convincing them I was just 28, by my foot work and bobbing and weaving and left-hand jabs. I still had a good head of hair, which I
had dyed a light black, which also convinced the boxing commission that I was 38, actually the year I was born, 1938

My boxing bout with the young grandson of this high school classmate that I detested, was supposed to be just a warm up match for him, in preparation for a title fight. He was the Dallas County Light Heavy Weight champion defending his title against some unbeaten
opponent. My goal was to knock him out and disqualify his title fight.

Oh yes, I neglected to mention my boxing manager, who was a young 62 year old retired boxer. He didn't grow up in
Dallas County, Iowa,  so he had no idea of my background age. He came from New York or New something.  I had him convinced that I was just 38 yrs old also. I grew up in a small town called Vermillion about 60 miles from Des Moines, where the fight was scheduled. Vermillion was a town with a population of around 2500 when I lived there. Most of the people who knew me are living under ground now, or in a old folks' home, so the secret of my age will not be revealed.
,
This grandson of the school mate I detested, is just like his Dad, a smart mouth, bragging, pompous, cocky Strutton showboat. He has no idea who I am but has already started boasting about what he is going to do t me.

"Hey, I'm only 27 yrs old and this old man I'm fighting is 38 yrs old. Somebody will have to help him through the ropes to get in the ring." "What's an old man like him still thinks he is a boxer?

"He ought to be sitting on his back porch, watching the rabbits and squirrels hop around."

"He claims to be 38 yrs old, I'll knock him out in 38 seconds in round 3."
   ,
He came to the gym when I was working out one morning to scout me out; I put on an act of being slow and winded.

He yelled at me from a few feet away, "Hey old man, my kid sister
has a faster jab then you. You sure you want to fight me?"

My manager walked up to him, and gave him a double arm shove
out the door, so hard he stumbled. "You big mouth punk, crawl
back in the skunk hole you came from."

                           The Big Fight

I was in the ring first and was warming up with little dance steps I had had learned in a dance studio, which I intended to use on him, BTW  his name was Virgil Throgmartin, but he took pride in calling himself, "V T"=Very Tuff.

He was taking his time coming to get into the ring, and when he did decide to enter, he did so with a bunch of short, skirted cheer leading girls dancing to loud music being played. When he approached the ring, two of the girls, squatted down on one knee and VT than made a big show of standing on each of their leg, and pushed himself off, tumbling over the ropes onto the ring apron.
amid 40,000 loud cheering fans.

"Enjoy it while you can VT, because in about 15 minutes, five three-minute rounds, yu're gonna have 40,000 stunned fans looking at you, sprawled halfway under the ring ropes, watching the referee
waving the fight over."
                                ROUND ONE
VT came quickly to the center of the ring with a stupid looking
grin on is face, hands down, swinging back and forth at his waist level.

I took a couple steps toward him, then through him a big surprise,
that stopped him in his tracks. I did a little two step tap dance, and in the few seconds it took him to recover from surprise, I took a quick step toward him and shot out a left jab, purposely hitting
his right eye. Over my years of boxing experience, I developed a
fast twist at the end of the jab. This little twist would tear the skin
producing a cut in the eyebrow, which it did to VT. I don't think he had ever been cut before by the way he wiped his eye, leaving his face unprotected, of which I took advantage, and smacked him with
another quick jab on his nose, drawing another spurt of blood.

VT wasn't expecting such an early barrage of attack and started back peddling. Once again, I put on my little tap dance,
to a 40,00 applauding, whistling crowd of men, women and teenagers. By now ol VT had no idea what to do with me. He took a quick look over at his corner for help. And when he did, I took a big step forward and planted to quick left jabs on each of his eyes.

I heard the fight announcer telling the radio listeners, he had never seen such a show boating boxer like Howard is putting
on. He has VT totally confused, not knowing what to do with
him. He came into this fight as a warmup for his upcoming defensive championship fight with The Rock, Rocky Argo and he is being bloodied and cut up, by what in the boxing sport is considered old, a man close to his 40's but is moving like a 25 or 26 year old. Folks I don't recall Howard in any past fights, but uh, hang on a moment Howard is moving around VT, bobbing, weaving and talking to him, I can't quite read his lips, but something about going down in uh, some round. Meanwhile VT continues to back pedal away from Howard, who is trying to cut him off....Oh! now Howard stops chasing him and motioned with his hands to come in and fight. There's the bell ending this third round.

There is some kind of commotion going on behind me.... someone wants to tell me something but is being detained by the police.
"Hey officers, let him talk to me. Folks, this is the craziest night I have ever experienced, let's see what this old man, I'm serious about Old, He must be  "Uh how old are you, sir?"

"I'm just a couple years younger than Howard. We grew up together in Vermillion, Iowa. I'm 81 years old and that old man in the ring, he was known as "Howie", is 83 years old and...."

"Hold on just jack rabbit minute! Are you telling me, that Howard,
  what did yu call him? Howie, that boxer in the ring, beating VT, the current light weight Dallas County champion, is 83 years old? Is that what you are saying?"

"Yep, dats whot Im sayng.We growed up t'gether, in da same school t'gether, wrestled and boxed t'gether, and I'm 81 years old and he was alays 2 yars older'n me, so I knows he is 83 yars old.

Folks., getting back to the fight, VT is circling to his right to get in position to throw is left hook and then is right overhand knockout punch. I think Howie is aware of what VT is trying and keeps circling to his left.


This is the  the round Howard bragged he would KO VT. VT is coming out in his usual swaggering way, Howard had him intimated in the first four rounds, with his little dancing jig and blooding his nose and eye. VT wasn't used to that kind of pressure, but his corner manager and some others that joined him, gave him a little pep talk, and so he has regained his confidence. As usual Howard, try's his little tap dance as he approaches VT, it's gotten a little much and no one is cheering it.

I failed to ask you, old man, your name"

"I was known as "The Rock in Vermillion my real name is Rocky Argo. You said dis is da round Howie is going to lower da boom on this young feller?"

"Well that's what he told the fight reporters in the newspaper. But frankly, I have doubts that he can do it. Thus far all I've seen from your friend is a few left jabs. He hasn't used his right in the entire fight."

"Well you just keep your eyes on his right; what yor going to see is a flurry of left jabs, and out of nowhere his right and will suddenly show up and that will be the end of the fight."

Well folks there is just two minutes left in this round, if Howie is going to KO VT, he is going to have to get more aggressive than, OH! Howie just connected with a double left jab, and another one and he had VT weak legged from a barrage of jabs. He looks like he is about to go down OH WOW Howie hit him with a straight right hand punch right between his eyes and VT is on the canvas, trying to get up, the count is up to 5, 6,7 VT was up at the count of 8 but collapse. The referee is waving the fight over, and the Dallas County  light heavy weight champion has been knocked out by Howie Howard in the 5th round just as he predicted."

"Let's listen as the referee announces the winner of this fight."
"And the winner and NEW DALLAS COUNTY LIGHT HEAVY WEIGHT CHAMPION IS HOWEEEEEE HOWWWARD!!

Howie, the talk around the dressing room is that you are 83 years old. Now tell us your real age. I mean, a 83 yr old man can't do that little jig you did tonight and beat up a 27 yr old. So c'mon and let this crowd and thousands of radio listeners know your real age."

"I was born on the twelfth day of July 1938, if my math is correct that makes me eighty-three years old, and that's the absolute truth."

"Ok, so tell us how you have kept in such physical shape to be able to
dance and beat up a young 37 year old champion boxer as you did tonight?"

"Well, first of all, I have to give God all the glory f or entrusting me
with an extraordinary physique. I have honored God many times in many ways because of this extraordinary body, that I , or others could not have done with a normal body. The second thing I want to emphasize is when I was just eight years old, I was convicted that there was a hellfire, called The Lake of Fire, that unbelievers in Jesus Christ are cast. I was just a small child, but I knew in my heart that in God's sight I was a sinner for whom Jesus suffered and died on the Cross of Calvary, and if I just received Him as my sin-bearer and personal Savior, He would forgive me all my sins for the rest of my life. And I have done a lot of sinning in my 83 years of living, one of which has been a distain for VT's grampa, with whom I graduated from the Vermillian High School in 1957. He was the most egotistical, arrogant, vain and proud ****-of-the-walk person I ever knew, and VT was just like him. His grampa died about five years ago, but I have held a grudge in my heart for VT's grandpa all my life, I thought it would give me great satisfaction to ruin his opportunity to fight for the Iowa State Championship.  So I arranged with the Iowa Dallas County Fight Promoters to give VT a warm up fight for him to fight the current Iowa State light heavy weight champion. I studied VT's fights and trained for them these past three months, with the intention of doing what I did to him tonight."

"So what are ..."Excuse me, I'm not finished yet. I thought I would feel good about beating the snot out of VT, but you know what? I don't. I was really enjoying it when I was blooding VT up, as though I was kicking the arrogance out of his grampa. But now that I've destroyed VT's  chance to fight for the Iowa State Championship, I feel empty inside, and feel sorry for VT. To all of you who paid out good money to see this fight, I just want to leave you with this one thought "A grudge is too heavy a load for anyone to carry"
     From Jerry Howarth's Book of Stories

.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.

Sometimes, to break is nothing but pain
But even when we don’t see it, there is something to claim

“Whatever doesn't **** you makes you stronger”
But pain doesn't always toughen us, and make life last longer

There are the times though, we destroy ourselves with reason
And we know we’ll come through the fire unbeaten

Nothing can be made bigger, made more powerful
Without a little destruction; truth can be sorrowful

The times when we willingly subjectify ourselves though
Feel the best, we know what we’re doing—reaping the glory we sow

We all desire strength, power and might
We all want to be stunning, beautiful of sight

We think the ways we build ourselves up, are what pretty us the most
And give little attention, to life’s trials and complications; they’re nothing to boast

But those are where we find our strength; withstanding the tempest
Screaming our passion, unmoving, fighting, holding fast

It is the pain we endure, that we often try to ignore
The brutality, the violence, the blood sweat and gore

But the cruelty of life, all the things you've battled through
That’s what makes you beautiful…this is why I love you

Stay strong, Life's a fight
But I'll go through it by your side

We agreed it was the
******* of life searching
on our hands and knees
as meteors burnt up

in the atmosphere
discovering new through
burnt ashes and falling
in love too fast while

the child in us screams
where's the fresh cement
of unbeaten path? Silly
scowls sit with little lips.

Abduction he swore! They
probed picked his brain .
Meanings change when the lights
start to flash

and your senses are hollow
gelatin mix. Remembers not how
they got to be but
where it used to go

He said purgatory got him here
because he told them he
didn't want to wait.
Moses had to wait for

thirty years and millions
of lives.  His naked ghost,
hair whiter, than artificial
light when he said

“it was in the naked catacomb
when the walls fully dressed, in purple's
nobility, while not forgetting to grab all
the beggars' begging.

the leak was quick not slow
and the air pumped itself.
Athena looked down and cried at
the misery. She pleaded for no flood, she
couldn’t persuade God.

Crumbling steal and birds of fire
brought upon the sand
that got stuck in the mouths. Grains from
different dunes all on one spoon

Does not mix all to well just like
how Noah placed the Lions
beside the Zebras in an empty place.
  
Mayans mark their skies as
Cats will their lives.  They don't worry until
they're down to one, down to one
grain of sanded rice that's supposed to
feed the entire world but won't suffice until
someone sees at last.

Better too late than never, as they'll often say.”

We have bulldozed the Garden of Eden;
we are nothing more than a parasite with an unending appetite
for destruction in the name of civilization.

Our monstrous monumental achievements can be viewed from space;
we are the cataclysmic legion, the unbeaten ******, the demon of freedom
with the desire to demolish and impoverish the last bastion arboretum.

We are mad and frenzied in our passion;
we are the phantasm assassin choking the very lungs we use to breathe
the misanthrope who carves materialistic thrones to sit on and wait for exalted death while we replant trees in self-centered glorification of hope.

We are doomed and we know it, but we still don't care;
we question science and bemoan nature for wreaking havoc, stare into the microscope looking for answers in the reverent appliance of defiance waiting to find the sparks to eternal life there.

We are the envy, the mistrust, the sadist and the snake;
we squabble over the scraps of apple peel and douse ourselves in ice cubes
whilst far away some African child walks 50 miles for a sip of clean water
we are the plague of mistakes broadcasting hurricanes to entertain.

We have bulldozed The Garden of Eden
now only the snake remains and there is no escape
freely offering the apple peel to those who obligingly accept

our epitaph will read:
humanity stepped back
to be overshadowed by an ape.

A shape shifter.
A transformer.
Everything you fear.
Change.

The unknown is
a scary place,
a scary thing.

Do you know who I am?
Do I know who I am?

Would someone please show me
which home is my place,
which family my own,
which lines I should trace?

Every contour on my face,
every word that I utter.
It is all you.
And that’s scary.

Why does it scare you?

Because I am a stranger, and your homie.
Your son, and your enemy.
I am all that you were,
and all that you will be.

You want to embrace me
as your child, your kin.
But I’m different, a little
too complicated to fit in.

You wish for things to be simple,
the son whose identity is set in stone.
So I travel these unbeaten paths alone -
As you close your eyes to me,
a child who barely knows part of his family.

I look to you to help define me,
and still you refuse to see,
even as your memory is stirred by me.

Your mind pushes me
to the back of your head
but your heart won’t let
you forget who I am,
and so I’ve grown,
the invisible boy,
soon to become
the invisible man.

Some days you simply wonder,
and life seems more an illusion, and
all those heavy questions drive
your mind into diffusion.

Your reason screams “yes,”
while your sleepless conscience
tells you otherwise.
So which is telling truth,
and which is telling lies?

As you struggle to pick,
you start to realize,
you’ve made a wrong choice -
a part of you died.
This choice about me
could never be wise.

So which shall you follow,
your heart, or your head?
Don’t be too quick on the take -
You might make a worse
nightmare of your bed.

To see the unseen
is a complicated thing.
Many have said that
with knowledge comes pain,
And I assure you that
seeing me has consequences.

So you whisper, “ok”
Your curiosity parched
For the knowledge that quenches,
As it tugs at your core,
A million tight wrenches.

I will see you
Is your tardy demand!
And a transient being
Lifts his transient hand.
Where this unveiling takes you,
You intend to land.
You’re facing your demons,
You’re being a man.

So who is behind
the mask, you ask?

It’s me,
An interracial boy.
A melting *** of culture, and color,
A child who won’t accept the word other.
Not molded from one sole identity cast,
Destined for eternity to sculpt my mask.

His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.

In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.

He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.

The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.

The champ was unbeaten.
He ground his foes down.
They'd be down, looking up
at the Champ looking down.

How then to cope
with an unbeatable foe?
This cup would not pass
even if he wished it so.

He was not getting younger,
This was his last shot.
Would he be one more challenger
that history forgot?

He was no timid soul,
avoiding the chance.
He'd go down swinging.
No regrets, he would dance.

He stepped into the ring
and they stood toe to toe
They touched gloved hands together
When the bell rings, you go.

Old beaten path, bent backward on its axis acting like a scientific textbook projection map.
Becoming something impossible to traverse even for expert woodsmen or a genius of a certain variety that is imbued with Zoom Zoom PED's, just enough red wine, or some self appointed enlightenment that "never failed me before"
Ignoring all traces of anxiety, disregarding inhibition, conquering every whim and mental roadblock desperately vying for success and representation as SOMEone instead of everyone else who writes in blue ink and drinks their coffee black and hides in plain sight and doesnt care what other people think and watches primetime reality television programs and believes in Jesus Christ and chews with their mouths closed and keeps their finges clean.

The Path
remains forever unbeaten
how far we get along it is our legacy that no one ever gave a **** about until we wrote about it.

Shining chariot of the king you are, I am the sprinting horse,
the diabolic king has met with his fate, we two freedom seek,
I am a ******* rider, the shining star of the rodeo nights,
you are an ambling horse, moves the way my mind wishes to dance
no animal activist can ever find any fault in our magical pact,
I do bull riding, barrel racing, tie-down roping and all the rest,
an unbeaten team we are, life for us has been a blast so far
you are my Juliet and I am your Romeo, right from the first sight
against the wish of the whole ****** world, that keeps snarling at us,
happily united in a suicide pact, no one can in anyway object,
when the passion filled moments cherished, turn to mere mirage,
why live, life is but a dream, let's wake up at last, fall dead.

So ignoble to want to keep it all and then to
realize that it is worth naught but a title
To potentially be able to take a form that
leaves one wanting to bury deep beneath
an unbeaten track to lie low for just a while

What price can be put upon a priceless piece
of Art, that can only be appreciated by 'the one'
Who bears the burden of owning something
that will only be just a trophy to gather dust
in thought, never to be remembered how it was won?

Fear: Will it hurt?
Bravado: Who would care?
Caution: Don’t listen!
Resolve: It’s no longer there!

“Did I hurt you love?” and a pat on the ****
goes a long way to taking away the pain
“No, no, it’s alright” but the blood that streaks
the sheets glistens in the shrieking storm
only to be distorted by the reflection from
the window as it drowns under the rain
“So the names John” but it’s not so much
the name, its more the casual way that
it’s thrown away. A sigh is offered up to
complete the act.
Not a care to place a name with the face.
Sigh
Isn’t always the same?

A beautiful girl with an astonishing feature
The uncle was attracted to this lovely creature
Taken far, far underground
Deep down where you could hear no sound

Misery settled among mother and daughter both
This relationship let their be no growth
Crops died and life was falling apart
Like a bulls-eye being hit by a dart

Everyone knew that an agreement had to be made
So that this family feud would eventually fade
The boy knew what the girl had eaten
So this family feud will not be left unbeaten

This story has a good reason
For all our annual seasons

my scar
etiolate
but my vigor remains
I stand unbowed, unbeaten, and
alive

To sit in silence,
to ponder, to muse
the fate of the unbroken,
the valid, reckless few,
who fear not
a journey long
or a path unbeaten,
who embrace a life untold.

To squander life
lost in the comfort of home
is to forego a gift
on the horizon unknown.
Though the world is not perfect,
and the paths of many
are far from true
they journey forward,
the reckless few.

Like a stone from home into night I am cast,
My need for a story is certainly vast.
Thus fleet are my feet as I take to the street,
To implore the lore of ev’ry thing that I meet.

My interest is incentive to know,
Where from rocks roll, how the grass doth grow,
When so many things do cross this sod?
And who dared on what dirt trod?

The unbeaten trails entail many tales,
Of travails against which mine merely pale.
How came you here, oh cairns and stalks?
Confide you in me, I swear I’ll not balk.

For I as brave sentinels regard you all,
Though I know time will yet see your downfall.
And know I better that the ******* of prattle,
Will for their own gain seek thee to embattle.

Such cowards their duty for continuity botch,
Not showing their knowing that it is your watch
Holds the stars in the sky, for our fates are all married.
And thus ours must follow, when all you are buried.

Speak to me then, let heard be your pleas,
For I am as a Lorax, speaker for the trees.
And for the ground that holds them fast,
Loving their present, saving future, knowing past.

I received a letter, written on a brown piece of paper,
with my name beautifully written in a diagonal line,
it said: “-Sweetheart, please keep a dance for me!
A first important dance at a traditional wedding! Be mine!

Let your black hair fall in waves, in messy, loose curls!
For I can bathe forever in the dark blue of your eyes!
Let's have the Sun, the Moon, and thousands of stars invited,
for our love will endure, it will burn in fire in the skies!

Let me enjoy that dance until the last signs
of your smile that will contradict me in deep silence,
not to get scared by the force of other mannered fellow,
I want to live the sweet life and reach out to the horizons!”

Breathless sweat began to burn my cheeks,
having the smile as lightning in the darkness of the night,
the heart bounced for a while, then began to lament
for the fear of flying towards the sky, holding me tight.

“-You will forget that dance, as if nothing had happened
on the unbeaten territory of the heart on some maps,
the colourful laughter will turn into an immaculate white
because love is worth living, don't ever let it collapse!”

The greatest pleasures in life are simple

The things you search for and never find

Happiness is my only goal

Moving through life unknowing of what the future may hold

The never ending journey through life is  amazing

Even without you by my side

I will conquer my faults nd become a lively soul once again

To walk down the unbeaten path

Ill make my own way with out help from a soul

I have turn from my evil ways and walk in to the light becoming new once agian

Excited for my future

My life was a tragedy day after day page after page

But the rest of my pages are blank so lets turn it in to a comedy

Sealing chapters one through eighteen in my past

Live everyday for today and maybe alittle for tomorrow

Roll with what comes my way

Blind and bind myself from evil

Help every soul possible

Make something of myself

The new me will never be forgotten

The old me is locked away never to return

Good will always prevail

In every-ones heart they know this

Is the world ready for this are they ready for the revolution of me

I want to help everyone know what i know just be happy never turn back to dispare, heartache and misery

Never give in to the evil within

There is no more mystery, no hidden gem,
No unfound treasure, no rock unturned,
No land untrodden, no holy ground,
#unfiltered all around.

No want for tomorrow, no story to tell,
No chinese whisper or wishing well,
No unheard tick of a clocks pointed handle,
No unchartered water or unlit candle.

No patience to bare just one more day,
No unscripted plays, leaving nothing to say,
No route unmarked, no map undiscovered,
No unbeaten tune, no songs uncovered.

No sitting, wandering what might never be,
Why bother wondering when google is free.

No crime unreported, yes, a marvelous thing,
But if crimes become nothings is war a greater thing?
No boundaries obeyed, as cultures melt together,
Empty replies downpour with "whatevers"

And we stand back to witness,
Life moving with such speed,
Unable to slow it, barely able to breathe!

A smile recalled in every tear,
I can't get over you.
We met and were pulled, strangers but not quite.
Your light in your smile warmed my world;
your beautiful, brilliant mind shared space with mine.
Buttery brown, lovely and fiery…
Our first kiss was almost a forest fire.
Love had plans for us, and I can't let go.
Your adoration of life healed my icy soul
Your paved the unbeaten paths of love in me
Everything sweet is you, everything…
Sugar, Honey, a pretty please.
You are me, and I'm done lying to my face.
Us is every heartbeat. Dull, low, aching, yet alive.
Days crawl by as I devise my master plan
Although I may lose myself, I will fight to win
your affections back.
Everything is our dream, our secrets, sharing,
that dinner we cooked, that adventure we had downtown.
My love for you is loud, crooked and clear
It pierces my bones, fills my hollow corners.
Yes, you make me nervous— you are so great,
so much of my self.
Our trying times are locked tightly in my chest,
Reminding me of who I am supposed to be,
and from whom I must turn away.
Hope fills me, underneath this clotting. Hope unabashedly,
even when dwarfed by my aimless nomadism,
painful nostalgia,
Hope lives. I ask God, and I beg Him.
I think about us