Tuesday Night--Youth Open Bouting

Ousting butts from comfy benches

Into uniform

Interrupting chat and chase to

Herd them to the strip

Breaking up covalent clumps to

Pair them two by two

(And separated far enough to fence)

Combatting innate tendency for

Every touch to devolve to debate

Turning back to find the game’s no longer

Glove on glove, but hit and run

Noticing who’s snubbed and left to

Linger at the fringe

Threatening to cycle in if they don’t

Buckle down and try

Making good the threat and romping gently,

Teasing with a gentle blade presented and withdrawn

Finally, as night winds down,

Gathering up the random bits and bobs left

Scattered when they’re gone

Good Luck

Find a penny 
In the venue 
Tuck it in my shoe 

Choose a t-shirt 
Drenched with victory 
In its sweated history 

Blades heaped by the strip 
Contemplating which one to adopt 
Pick the one on top 

Silly that I think 
Beating my opponent to the center to test weight 
Can influence my fate 

I challenge you to share 
Surely you have a ritual…or three 
These superstitions aren’t unique to me!

Amplitude

Peacock struts upon the strip

Pectorals spread wide

Magnificent in self-possession

It isn’t even ego, its just

Innate confidence

Transcendent poise

Peacock’s truly puzzled if he

Doesn’t draw all

Eyes to his display

The stomp and bother

Shaking of the blade, the

Thrum of concentration

But he’ll fence, regardless of regard

Intimidating with his dance

His aureate display

In myth, his species bears the gods to battle

Immune to cobra’s venom, inured to viper’s bite

Gaudy plumage doesn’t mean he cannot fight

Illustration

With thanks to Richard Thompson for capturing my mood and puncturing my pretensions at the same time:

(While this immensely talented cartoonist has stopped drawing this strip, as he copes with Parkinson's disease, you can catch up with the archive at GoComics. Highly recommend.)

Third Place

("Third place" in the sense coined by sociologist Ray Oldenberg to refer to spaces--not work, not home--where we connect with others, known and unknown, bond over shared interests and forge community.)

Lending patient sympathy to woes of

Injury

Indignities of age

(youth and geezerhood—each have their tribulations)

Helping to untangle cords,

Straighten a blade

Test a bad connection

Lend a pair of socks

Finding one good thing

To compliment

Amongst the countless blunders

In our bout

Overlooking flares of peevishness

Respecting fallibility, recognizing it as

Common currency

Of practice

This is what we do, each of us for each

As clubmates, teammates, sometimes even friends

People find their families where they can

Chance-met assemblages of

Common cause

At home, at work, at play

The ferrous kinship of the blade,

Formed in the salle, is strangest yet

But forged in kindness

Even-tempered, strong, forgiving of our flaws

Lessoning

An errant twitch could mean I erred

Or not

***

You interrupt your charge to turn, and curse

Did I mess up…

Or did you tweak your back?

***

Once wrong, twice wrong

Damn autocorrect

You knew I’d go too far

The other way

The third time ‘round

***

I don’t give you lip

But my mute outrage

Reeks of skepticism

‘til you penetrate my guard and

Prove your point

***

This is my revenge:

My sincere look of utter disbelief when

Something that we practice

Works

And scores the touch

Carding

A rainbow spread of

Serial transgression

The cheery yellow flag of

Minor sins:

The blade that won’t

Hold weight

The cord unblessed by armorer, the

The hand carelessly strayed into

Forbidden ground

Absconding from the strip

Without a pass

Silken locks burst loose and

Tumbling down the back

The rosy blush of shame for

Greater gaffes:

Grasping at the blade as it collides with hand

Faking cramps

Lurking in anonymity, lamé conspicuously

Blank

Innocently shutting down opponent’s march by

Timing out…the floor

Raking in the dough by advertising Badger Balm

Upon the sleeve (I wish)

Delivering a bell guard to the snoot

(No matter how provoked)

And Blackest Black, Beyond the Pale—the Deepest Dark of Night:

Sneaking a mic into

The mask

Balking at a foe too loathsome to

Endure

Throwing the game

Withholding courtesy

Trying to cause harm

The system generously grants penance to

Bystanders needing grace as well:

Continued catcalls,

Obstreperous support or

(Ignoring reprimand)

Repeated hassling of the ref

All these penalties comprise

A winning hand

Tucked into blazer pocket

Ready to deploy

Elevating our authorities above the

Hoi polloi

Nostalgia

Brown bread smells like loam, like

Beer

Like garden mulch

Pumpernickel’s sour snap

Waits for mustard bite

Rye’s seedy strength, bearing up the

Fatty weight of beef

Dense focaccial spring

Olive-studded

Thick with cheese

Dour Russian black bread begs for

Sweet butter, thinly spread

Radish slices, salt

Supple silken warmth of fresh tortilla

Dunked in guac

Sugared crisp of fruit-nut bread

Thinly sliced in toasted bliss

Even pita’s cardboard mimicry

Flood my recollection with each step

Down the bakery aisle

Past the cornucopian cases

Breathing deep of wheat

Condemned to timid crumble, unsupported loft

I devour the past