Best Boxing Glove Poems
(Especially, for new writers)
Just as in real life, some poets have the art of wearing masks of friendship.
You will know, when they stop commenting to all your works.
It's not rocket science to figure it out.
They just stop posting to you totally and it feels like being hit with a boxing glove.
No, your poetry is not inferior!
In fact, you may be a more than one time POTD winner!
Even then, they simply refuse to acknowledge you.
They just ride on white unicorns, under an allusion that they are superior?
How cheap, how tawdry, how unloving and cruel!
These poets who think they are some precious jewels?
But you must go on, though they ignore you like dirt.
They are nothing but arrogant, selfish-centered squirts.
The most loving poets are here in abundance.
They honor you, love you..
These lift your soul with a sweet, humble incense filled cadence.
......Write-on..ignore the unicorn riders......
"By their fruits, you will know them!"
January 14, 2020
He was the child that did not smile, or live
or breath, towards his death he did not look
as though he had the time to duck and dive
he was taught to live or die by the book
Bruised and battered in a dishevelled state
hiding in corners wrapped only in tears
he, deprived of love, a child they did hate
starved of food, under the stairs, hiding fears
Then justice stepped in and took him away
to a home full of love, fun and laughter
in that tormented life he could not stay
as one so young he could not look after
He grew into a man without a care
Adopted a child, saved them from despair.
©1/3/2014
Shackled
Deprived of freedom then held as a slave
mental torture, in every race and creed
trapped in a void, while trying to be brave
inside looking out, a broken heart bleeds
Tormented, abused, while home is their jail
shunned by a partner and tainted with lies
no contact with friends including no mail
then pushed to the brink each day they despise
Whispered sweet nothings, then captured by love
charmed to the alter, their vows they both read
the cracks appear, as does a boxing glove
sentenced to life for an innocent deed
With prayer and patience they will be released
A living hell at the hands of a beast.
They spied me in the sky, dropping bombs of love
on Ferguson, and bitchy women's rooms; and rednecks'
shooting range was next, the blooded boxing glove.
They spotted me in Tel-aviv and also in Tehran, collecting
Jewish kisses for the Iranian Imam.
They toasted me in the family courts, breaking hearts
I quickly soothed, and at their breakfast;Klu Klux Klan,
I spread their toast with jam.
They gifted me with patted back in Auschwitz and
Guantanamo, compassion was my hand; while Isis
and Seal Team 6, provided me a marching band.
They lauded me with accolades, the bankers and the poor,
while serial killers and the FBI, shot my name into the sky,
like Gotham on the screen.
And now I rest my head this night, beneath the troubled moon,
for tomorrow I go partying, with venerable, Ban-Ki-moon
Hand Grown In Thyme.
On Brummie Sea and Burnley oak,
In bearded wood and clove
I hidey in this Mutton cloth
That strangles like a choke.
Lampooned upon this Ferris wheel,
A chuckle for a hoot.
I swung with empty boxing glove
And knocked a joke aboot.
I thank you from my Uncles chin
And dear old Auntie Pat
Who did asunder to a sin
And dogged her pussycat!
They trundled stubborn as a toe
And caring not a care
Sent humphing parties to and fro
Though knew not who they were.
‘Bejees!’ I crippled all a goat
What finery I’ve found,
Four friends in foursome charging free-
A bargain at a pound.
‘Well fancy that,’ a woman sat,
And bending like a river
Weaved not a spell but nasty smell
And sent me all a quiver.
‘How come you like to gape alewd?’
I asked but half an inch.
To which the Lady took a fence
And hit me with a pinch.
I whispered lightly as a rose
To grease my oily bagpipe,
And sniffing with her hairy nose
A dwarf flew into sight.
‘Pull down your flabby chopsticks, man.’
She ordered like a waiter,
And lowering my name to Stan
Got on all fours to cater.
‘I am Dame Doris Chucklebum.’
She laughed but half an inch.
‘I like things that are rarely done.’
Then stroked me with a pinch.
‘Take back thy sweaty chollocks, love.’
I pleaded like a pro,
And with a hefty boxing glove
Took on the lady so.
It lasted less than half a tick,
Less if you counted slow.
And with a little knowing trick
Fled fleeing on the go.
‘Come back! Don’t go!’ she wept with ploy,
‘I’ll change like Whitney Whopper.’
Enjoying but a little joy
And playing with her chopper.
Dark thoughts twitching on a nightstand.
Wrinkled -bloated-bloodied.
Like an ancient boxing glove.
Powerless-broken-longshot.
A dead sea scroll- smoldering.
In the chambers of a burned-out heart.
Mom knew long before I did
that I never made this bid
Proud and did not leave it under lid
She loved and never got rid
Her only son, her gift from above
God sent to her, with all His love
Peaceful as the white dove
God never intended for boxing glove
I believe He makes no mistakes
Although we treated like earthquakes
He gives us strength in His name
He does not play that dirty game
It is not a choice we had
It does not make us bad
We all live for just one thing
Joy our heart can bring
Mom and sisters loved me more
Protection they all swore
that no-one will harm
I don’t need to be alarm
God sends His blessings everyday
He keeps evil, quite at bay
You wonder how to be
just give love, that is all you see
Don’t carry hate
that will be your damned fate!
He was tough, he’d been raised to be big, fit and strong,
To hide any hurt, pain or fear.
He’d prepared for this fight, bottling his feelings,
Living an unemotional atmosphere.
Then the time had arrived, a fight till the end,
He had to win this fight at any price.
His opponent knocked on his door, ready to take him on,
By casually rolling the dice.
He swung to the left and glanced to the right,
Then an uppercut straight to the chin.
Then he kicked like a soldier, a seasoned marine,
And he thought he was going to win.
But his opponent was smart, and took all of his rage,
Took it with one boxing glove.
His opponent she won, so he lay down defeated,
Defeated by that emotion called love.
A can of coke and a good book to read
Sitting in the sunshine embracing my greed
The sun's beaming rays piercing my skin
Microwaving my internal organs from within
My sanctuary from daily life is here
The worries of the day disappear
Feet up and entwined in this non fiction book
As if I’m caught on a grappling hook
I love my garden believe it or not
It’s a sun trap with no blind spot
Drinking my coke with ice and lime
Enjoying the peace in my spare time
Spare time is something we are deprived of
Trying to avoid the swing of life’s boxing glove
My garden is my part time sanctuary
My little house on the prairie
Bike to ramp and from ramp to tree
In just a second you can feel the hit
Hanging midair is a time of glee
Adrenaline rush with teeth a’grit
Grasping his precious jewels
The tens unit clung
Crank that cruel switch to eleven so
His unborn kids will know he was stung
A blindfolded face, cigarette tastes,
Tighty-whities, and a Big Mac burger,
A boxing glove hits a fragile place
So he screamed that his meat was murdered
Hot sauce dares with a barren gut
The bottle beckons, its all for good fun
Capsaicin will rain hell upon his you know what
Chug the demon’s drizzle and the damage is done
Office chair races down a favorite hill
Speeding down through memory lane
On my way towards a hefty dentist bill but
Jackassery is always worth the pain
Rock fights in mud is a childish leisure
With a soundtrack of chuckles and thuds
Growing up simple and hollow is a pleasure
When your friends are a bundle of duds
No words to capture
elusive love.
Chased,
with boxing glove
laced to hand.
Attempt to catch
a feathered dove;
make a lasting stand.
Stalk
whispered wind
in noon-day traffic.
Place a collar on a flea.
This vessel spent, so suddenly
does seek repose.
Lord knows,
we do our part.
Patching daily hatred
with a beaten heart.
Hate
In civilized quarters, an outrageous obscenity:
Unwashed, perishing pant
And, for real, a dismaying insanity,
When a hater heatedly rants
At his subject of unusual dislike,
Whom he would’ve loved to strike:
His heart hammering vessel –damaging beats,
His head contending with an ache a doctor treats.
With hate, nothing is normal any more,
Haters best action, an unsightly sore,
With glances that like dagger stab
And fast breathing that would air grab
And reflections on hundreds of things
United by Death with wings!
Hate is the firmest shutting
Of the outlet to delicate love
And trust me - mortifying hitting
Of a non owner of even one boxing glove.
Knowledge of enemy’s demolishing fate
And serial number on Satan’s punitive slate
Comes with the Supreme Hate
Also, how long his success shall have to wait
Plus the exact date
Of the unlocking on his behalf of cemetery’s gate.
By Poet: "LOVE, just four letters makes a very powerful word."
Have you looked inside of a store?
Filled from the ceiling to the floor,
with pretty gifts on every shelf.
Every aisle has more and then some more.
I see red everywhere for myself,
a pretty rose red bedspread for the elf.
Valentine's Day is full of love.
I will make red cornbread for thyself.
I am looking for a card like a dove,
not one showing a boxing glove.
This one will make him really smile,
as it shows my fun and true love.
Valentine's shopping went on for awhile,
now get home and decorate in style.
Cooking and baking for a great dinner,
will make him happy and be all worthwhile.
A small bat was flying in my house
circling over the bed.
With a pole and a boxing glove
I struck it to the floor.
Rabies shots we would get
while the docs cracked open it's head.
25-September-2021
You were the man that was once my dream,
But now with you all I want to do is scream.
Today, in the mail, yet again I received your letter.
You asked how I was and was I better?
You pleaded and begged for yet another chance.
You said you were a changed man and are tired of this dance.
When did you begin to see,
That your so called love was exacting its toll on me?
Was it the first night that your so called love
Hit me in the face like a boxing glove?
Was it the day you did not come home?
For the woods called your name and there you said you had to roam?
Was it the first time after taking yet another beating,
You forced yourself on me and said it was to prove I was not cheating?
You ask for forgiveness and want to still be my friend.
All I want is for this nightmare to end!!!
I now see that to you this is not love but an obsession,
To you I am not your wife but only your posession.
I no longer wish to receive your emotional and physical pain,
I want a normal life, I want to be sane.
I am putting an end to me being your wife.
I want out of our marriage, I want a new life.
Our friendship is gone and for that I do mourn,
But you I now see were never torn.
To you it is your God-given right
To take what you want with force and might.
Oh, I do believe that once you are free,
That you will change for a month or maybe three.
I no longer want your love or our marriage.
This relationship has become something that I truly disparage.
Forget I exist, please forget about me,
In the past it was easy for you to let me be.
I am so very tired of you doing me wrong,
For my self respect I will be strong.
I hope the divorce papers give you the clue,
That I no longer need nor am in love with you!