Rudimentary Rumblings

Virulent vitriol, violent in his hate,

erupting without encracity -

flaught infant flocks watch him vesuviate;

he devours young hope with voracity.

Fremescent rocks rained from the mouth of his vent,

a fusillade of barbed, bellicose bricks -

burning the innocence of all where he went;

sending souls along the lava of Styx.

But through the rumbles, the roots where he stands

grow a verdure still of verdure and pure - 

remaining unmoved by chaos he demands;

standing up for all hope; steadfast and sure.

That rubicund ridge could foam in its threats

but dowsed with indifference and peril wets.

Silver

What is a silver medal

but an invitation that shines

in another man's shadow;

a lunar loser's false light.

Routine

Tiptoes traverse the muddy trail,

heeding not the heavy heels

which hinder their tender tread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition

through foliage fair and frail,

each steely sinew anneals

to a thorough structured thread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition

must eventually derail

from the salubrious appeals

of the constant path ahead...

The Final Stretch

A variegated verdure of tendril-like veins

vesuviate their stillatitious sudor.

Sweat sweeps down sinew strengthened trunks

with each strident stride; with each replanting of the roots,

engraving an ephemeral power

against the pot-holed pavement.

Natures' tempest, with its own truculent power, contends each giant step—

torrid torrents transfluent to the fluent pounding.

Yet each droplet,

each beat,

each step

fades...

until the spirited spurt of a storm with home in its sight

reaches the final

S        T        R         E         T         C        H.         

Running From/To

I could get into a good position

but then I would let the world pass me by.

My intentions never reach fruition

because I'm afraid of crossing the line.

I have much talent that I've buried deep

and it's so frustrating to slow my pace.

I cannot rely on a pair of feet

that do not believe they can cross this race.

I am hoping that time will make me strong

and I'll no longer have a need to roam,

then I'll find that which I had all along

and regard the ribbon's embrace as my home.

...but 'til then I will run and run and run,

and when I have stopped I can say that I've won.

Uphill

The tasks that I've usually found fine

feel overly difficult today.

My legs cramp up at the slightest incline

and my head has been taking me the wrong way.

But I'll carry on walking up this hill

in the hope that it's easier each time

and that exercising body and will

will bring my welfare back into its prime.


Two weeks have passed, and I still feel the strain
and my breathing's as heavy as my heart
but I'm beginning to pull through the pain
so this mental strength is at least a start.


Trials take time to better your technique
but it's worth the effort when you hit the peak.

A Fight in the Forest

The trees in the nighttime forest encircle me like a boxing ring

offering no escape,

with rusting ropes made of amber leaves

and thick trunked ringposts

which have seen so many battles like this

end in tragedy.

My opponent, the bitter cold wind, is pulling no punches

and is determined to defeat me.

I find myself up against the ropes

to the delight of the audience of wolves,

who watch on hungrily,

raucously howling for their gambles to pay off

at the expense of my life.

But as the back of my head collides with the adamantine cortex

I feel hope awaken inside me,

with everything against me but time on my side

I have nothing to lose.

So I let the cold slap me in the face every now and then,

making sure I wrap enough to endure it.

knowing that their offence will leave gaps in their defence,

and sure enough, picking my shots carefully,

things start to feel a bit warmer

and nothing they can throw deters me.

I know that I can outsmart the night with enough positivity

and with that thought in my head

I see the first orange glitters

emerge from between the branches at the peak of each corner,

the brightness suddenly shines down on the audience

highlighting that the wolves have disappeared

and the dew-filled grass is now rampant

with rabbits in a buoyant bounce

and flowers rising in rapid rush.

The sun is up;

and so the cold's time is up.

Growing Pains

I haven't felt growing pains in so long,

and I wonder if that's what's preventing me

from standing tall.

To succeed you sometimes to need to take a hit

and to avoid discomfort is to avoid contentment...

I'll no longer shrink away.

Hydra

For each head that I slash

off my adversary

it grows another three

each uglier than the last.

I feel I cannot defeat

the demons in my head

so I run away instead

into a shameful retreat.

The rapid regrowth strains

but this is achievable

with effort unbelievable

the opposition's strength wains.

My ever growing to-do list

is a Sisyphean task

so they only thing I ask

is that nothing is missed.

A Butterfly's Nudge

The butterflies that ruled my past

appear to have flown away

but I know that they have not died;

for I still feel their wings flutter,

tickling against my itching feet.

I wonder if their wings have strength

to carry me through my fear

back to where I once felt happy

and if so, can I match their strength

and reward their delicate nudge?

I miss this like a punch in the face,

but I will gladly endure

five thousand more if it means that

I am able to once again

be proud of the person I am.

In Between Rounds

I have worn my skin down to its last stitch

and I am now rewarded with a rest

but I must still soak in the coach's pitch

and then put their methods to the test.

So whilst I try to refill my lungs

I cannot lay back and close my tired eyes

for they must closely observe frantic tongues

which attempt to devise plans and advise.

The break on the muscles is hard on the brain

and now my body dreads the next assault

knowing that it must yet withstand more pain

my brain wonders when this onslaught will halt.

A break can be welcome in between rounds

but the prospect of more scares and confounds.

In the Ring

I dream of an eventual glory
writing a happy ending to a hard earned story.
I cannot be lazy in this craft

so I will continue to work and put in the graft.

An intense battle of skill and will,
the carnage ongoing until
the bell rings to summon the end of war
or the ref pulls me off and says no more.

Some say I am not ready for such a test
but I am confident I can put the doubt to rest

When training gets hard and I can no longer smile
I think of glory to go the extra mile.

It’s going to be tough, and yet so am I,

and all I can ask is that I honestly try

to make all of my hard work pay

so there's no doubt that I will be ready on the day.

Square Battles

He felt like he was on top of his game,

his courage and effort were not to blame,

but on the day he just was not the same.

His physical sores trivial compared to his pride's pain.

Upon entering the ring the bright lights revealed

a deathly pale that almost had it sealed.

His opponent came with deadly weapons to wield

whereas he came with a broken spirit and a broken shield.

Those who knew him knew that something was amiss,

his guard slackened, tiredly swinging his fists.

The onslaught continued to persist,

he could almost taste defeat's dark kiss.

He persevered in spite of the hurt,

yet his dazed head was not quite alert.

His legs locked, tired and shocked, deeming him inert;

his comeback attempt was valiant but curt.

Why he was off, he couldn't understand,

for his opponents would usually land

on the canvas, as alone he would stand;

yet today, his opponent raised his hand.

Waiting I

Waiting behind the closed door, oblivious to the crowd.

Waiting to make your entrance, standing tall and proud.

Waiting for your music, so that the anticipation is increased.

Waiting for the bell to awaken your inner beast.

Waiting for the rituals, to tranquil pre-battle worries.

Waiting for the initial attack, impending in controlled flurries.

Waiting for your opponent to give up and quail.

Waiting for the day when you finally fail.

Waiting for the day I have to choose.

Waiting for the day I have to lose.

Waiting for the day when I will thrive.

Waiting is the time when I truly feel alive

Waiting backstage, oblivious to the crowd.

Waiting to sing your lyrics, accurate and loud.

Waiting to be dazed by the bright light in your eyes.

Waiting for your throat to loosen and hit those highs.

Waiting for the adrenaline to make an impact.

Waiting for the audience to ultimately react.

Waiting for the wall of sound, as you ultimately prevail.

Waiting for the day when you finally fail.

Waiting for the day I have to choose.

Waiting for the day I have to lose.

Waiting for the day when I will thrive.

Waiting is the time when I truly feel alive.