(original art by Rick Mobbs)
MORGAN
The waiting is the worst. The hour before the fight.
I am ashamed for being so
Scared
He sees it. As he sees everything.
If you not scared, he says, it’s time for you to stop.
But still, the waiting
Is so . . .
hard.
So he sits with me.
Facing me.
Slowly wrapping my hands.
Nimble, gentle movements. Serene.
Breathe, he says. Just breathe.
Toothpick in corner of his mouth.
Never shows emotion. An occassional smile flickers;
Ocassional mischief.
Nothing more.
In our long van rides across the countryside
We would talk.
Nightime excursions to
Dusty towns.
Past the grey mills.
The quiet farms.
On our way to the next fight. And the next.
You kids don’t understand, he says,
That a piece of me dies each time you fall,
and don’t get up, with your head high.
A picture is taken.
A moment frozen in time,
Between rounds.
I am overwhelmed. Overmatched.
Never seen someone so strong, so fast.
My breaths coming fast.
inandout. inandout. whatthefuck.
He slowly kneels down.
And rests his forhead against mine.
And smiles softly. Howyoudoin’?
inandout. inandout.
I’m going to stop the fight, he says quietly.
And I freeze. And my eyes go wide.
No. no. Please no. Anything, but that. Never.
He picks up the white towel. It’s ready.
You better get busy then, he says.
He’s not smiling now.
When the fight ends. And they raise the other man’s hand.
I close my eyes, and take in the moment.
And life is wonderful.
I fell, and got back up.
I walk to him.
And he takes my head, and brings it to his.
Congratulations, he says.
You done good.
And he grins.
And so do I.
This is why we fight.
Will Scarlet's Feud 
That is a fabulous poem, perfect in its pacing and timing and the thought so immaculately tied up in the story of the fight, “There is no honour in victory, only in struggle,” said the poet. Fantastic.
Broadus and I read these entries out loud at the kitchen table before the ride to school, his first week of 4th grade. Next week he starts riding the bus. You’ll be hearing from him. I hope you get some stories from kids, too.
You write beautifully, willscarlet.
Wow, will wonders never cease–a pugilist poet emerges. Welcome, youngster. I have been posting over on Rick’s blog for a few months, and would love to do the same over here.
Glenn
Jason, like over at your Dad’s blog, I am having trouble posting comments. At some point maybe I can exchange email addresses with you, and send you stuff direct for the site.
I am a newish collaborator over on Rick’s blog, being led to it from Janet Leigh’s blog, POETMEISTER. I am a teacher, but writing has always been my passion. Rick mentioned that you would like “stories” for your collaborative, but that you would prefer that they be “personal reflections”. That’s cool. Do you want the whole story posted here in the comments, or do you prefer to have it sent to you on email for you to peruse and study before you post it in the “storybook”? How about long epic free verse poems? I have a couple that would be perfect, 10 to 20 pages each. I would love to have you stop by my blog site. My name does not seem to click onto it, so that would be blogging as “Butch” & “Marlowe44” over on FEEL FREE TO READ, http://bibliosity.blogspot.com Let me know how you want the material submitted and I will be glad to lead off with some stuff.
Glenn
Paul, Joyce, Glenn. Thanks for your kind words. I have one more Morgan story in me, I think. Maybe a second stanza.
This was my contribution before I knew who you are.
Painting by Rick Mobbs
Fist of Dreams
Jason Bruno
was a heavyweight;
198 pounds of passion,
amateur ambition,
with a record of 20-1-0.
He was a stevedore
down on those rowdy docks,
like his daddy and his uncle;
and his thick long arms rippled
with the solid muscle
built from hard and honest labor.
He was a fresh kid,
19 years old,
still had all his teeth,
and never had any
run-ins with the law.
Coach Morgan
stopped by one fine day,
and said in his raspy tone:
“I been watching you all year,
and I like your style, kid.
I think you can be
an Olympic contender,
could wrap those fists
in old glory.
You got a right hand
hits like a sledge hammer,
and a left hand
that punches like a mule kicks.
Do good,
stay clean,
and for God’s sake
stay away from the money boys.
After that
look me up.”
That night
Bruno could not help himself—
he had the Rocky dream
again.
Glenn A. Buttkus August 2008
Well said, all – especially the poem “Morgan”. Takes us all back, even if we’ve never been there…
Rick posted his image prompt for the painting; Jason Goes To War. I wrote THE FIGHTER in reponse. You can check it out on my blogsite, http:bibliosity.blogspot.com
Glenn