Young man, your clenched fists hard and ready, Yet, you are still too short to box with gods. So listen to me carefully, the true struggle ain't against gods in heaven, it's here in the dust. Life, sly ringmaster that he is, he takes the hardest jabs. He weaves in and out, a ghost dodging every blow. He'll promise you victory, then deliver a sucker punch of desolation. He'll urge you from ringside, but leave you to the hardest rounds by yourself.
Twenty-four hours a day, twelve rounds of sweat and will. Every morning a bell, every evening a final gong. The world delivers haymakers, left hooks of grief, uppercuts of loss. Your face swells with tears, knuckles pop under the blows. You taste your own blood, feel the canvas slap your back. Every breath a grunt, every scream a wailing, like the legendary "No Mas!" that great sportscaster Howard Cosell bestowed upon boxer Roberto Duran, "No Mas!" I too wept, "No Mas!"
You don't wear fancy gloves to absorb the blow, only knuckles rough as the storm. You choke on your fear, spit out desperation, but employ the spark of your own will to ignite your fire. Yet where is your cornerman, that cunning Life who lured you into this ring?
He's ridden with you into the wars, won the fights, calmed your wounds for losses. He was your boy, the fighter who fought your fights, spurred your spirit. Yet now the darkness closes and the arena bell screams, and he's gone. Only the wind-whispered apology, "No time to train, son, gotta get you to the next bout."
Here, you dance alone, with each new dawn, a new test. You are pushed into the ring by a world of unknowns, a whirlpool of chaos, to test how much you can withstand. Don't you remember the "harder, quicker, stronger" that Life used to whisper? They were commands, not taunts.
Then battle, son, battle like the sun blasts forth in dawn, relentless and fierce. Life will be an unpredictable ringmaster, but you, you are the victor in your own ring. Every fall, every bruise, a badge of pride. With every sunrise, you rise again, battered but unbroken. For in this battle, the only enemy you ever conquer is yourself.
And one day, when the final bell tolls, you'll step out of the ring, battered but not conquered, head held high. And Life, that old thief, may even wink at you and say, "Not bad, son. Not bad at all."
Dr. Michael Anthony Ingram is the host and producer of the internationally recognized poetry podcast Quintessential Poetry: Online Radio, YouTube and Zoom. Through his work as a retired associate professor of Counselor Education and Supervision and as a noted poet and spoken word artist, Dr. Ingram also leverages the arts, especially poetry, to bring attention to the effects of power, privilege, and oppression in our society. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee, and his second poetry collection, Metaphorically Screaming, is eagerly anticipated. For more information about Dr. Ingram or the podcast, visit https://www.qporytz.
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