The walking men

They are walking. They have been walking so long by now that they could not stop doing it, just like one cannot stop breathing. Among them there is him, the new one, the one that does not understand exactly why he is doing it and has to trust blindly in the word of the older, wiser in the art, of the group.

He carries a big, heavy backpack, by this time it is a part of him just like his heart, brain or other organ, and not an extra weight. It really is a part of him, it is the thing that maintains him alive in that harsh environment. He could survive the journey without an arm, but not without a backpack. Before they started the walking one of the wiser men of the group told him: “watch out very carefully your backpack, up there anyone can do anything to take it from you”.

Now they are walking through a straight, very clear trail that goes beyond sight. He is kind of surprise, they have not going through a road like this, surely they have not lost the track until now but the trails had always been sort of wavy and not totally clear. He thought they had lost the track a couple of times because of the conditions of the road. So this new situation gives him something to think about.

They continue walking and suddenly the straight, very clear path vanishes away and just a series of tight, unorganized bushes is left. A feeling of fear and insecurity empowers him. “Great, what nature gives nature takes, why does this surprise me?”, he thinks. He is expecting for someone to speak up and tell that everything is going to be okay, but no one speaks or even moves they are all freeze. Short after, one of the wise men of the group takes methodically out a compass from a compartment of his backpack and uses it. Then he says calmly and with a soft voice: “is to the north”, and points in that direction. No one denies the instruction, and all of them start walking at the instant.

He is amazed, no one protests even though that is the steeper, least clear direction of all. “I surely would have said something if I was an older member of the group and knew more”, he thinks. But he does not have time to think deeper on what has happened because the group has started to walk again and he was started to being left back.

They keep going but it is hard. They have to push the bushes´ branches to be able to continue going in the right direction. Sometimes when he is pushing the braches they scratch the cloth of his clothes. He knows that under the clothes his skin might be bleeding; he can feel the pain. But he cannot stop, he must continue going with the group, loosing distance with the group in this place is dangerous, he can end up lost very easily.

Night starts falling over them and little by little each member of the group starts to turn on their head lamps. First the less experience of the group that are afraid to stumble with the loosey rocks and sticks of wood of the ground. Of course he was among them and his head lamp is turn on when there is still some daylight left. At the end when darkness occupies everywhere still can be seen some head lamps turning on of the more experience of the club.

The night passes and at the dawn he wonders when if ever they are going to get wherever they are going if even there is a destination. Not much time after this they reach a kind of old cabin in what seems to be the top of the mountain they were climbing. Outside the cabin the older of the group stop what makes all the group to stop. Then one of them says: “Here it is, we have arrived.” He cannot believe it. He feels a mixture of joy and surprise. By first time a smile is drawn in his face. He is so excited that he asks very loudly: “Now, what is next?” to one of the wise men of the group without thinking. “Now, …, now we go back”, he answer.



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My Grandfather's baseball card's Collection

My grandfather is one of the biggest fan of baseball game that I ever known, when he came to Monterrey to visit us, he always find time to go to the ball game from his favorite baseball team, Sultanes de Monterrey; he talks always about the things that are happening in the MLB. Throughout his whole life, he started to collect cards about everything that refers baseball; he has all types of cards, from the Major League Baseball, from the Mexican League and some stadiums. The cards are storage really well protected inside his security box, such cards have been part of our talks since I remember; my grandfather started to talk about his famous treasure; he told me that when he was young, he and his brother decided to play baseball in some type minor league team, he told us that he was one the worst players in his baseball team but my uncle Jorge played pretty well; yeah, my grandfather was bad at baseball, however he decided to continue in the game as a coach during a period of time, and then he discovers this special thing that full his life of happiness, when he get his first baseball card; a Yogi Berra card from the New York Yankees, his favorite US baseball team. In that moment he discovers his real passion and started to collect all kind of cards. He was really focused on getting each card he wanted. Then it came the time for the Christmas trip in 2010, when my family and I went to Aguascalientes, Mexico to celebrate the holidays with my grandfather and uncle. When we arrived, he started talking about the sports and of course his famous card collection; he went for his cards and shown them to all the family, the cards looked like new, like if time had not passed. I have the opportunity to touch and see them, at first, it was like there are only baseball cards, and they have no value. Until I discover that everyone in their life have something special that you feel identified. My grandfather is a really happy person as he described himself, because even though he was bad at baseball, he discovered the things that makes him feel special; finally he told me that he will give me his baseball cards collection when he passes away, because I am the only one that have the same feeling when speak about the ball game; in such particular moment I really understood how special things can be if you do it with real passion.

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Watching the words play on the page,

he begins to learn the rules of thier game.

He converses with the referees and officials,

known to most as grammar and punctuation.

He is introduced to the all the players,

but noun, verb, and adjective are the starters.

Eventually, he is confident enough to coach

his own team and becomes an author.

He develops his tactics and strategy,

and slowly his playbook thickens.

He wonders if one day he and his players can go

the distance and together become champions.

Such a wonder, that such a wondrous

world arose from twenty six scribbles

and a few meager symbols in between.




Author's Notes/Comments: 

A few thoughts on poetry.

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Hinting at greatness,

The young boy hurls

That ball, with blue flame

And fire chasing it.

In his exacting delivery,

He is surgically precise.

Like a cornered viper

In momentous moments,

Under preposterous pressure,

He is at his deadliest.

Anyone with knowledge

Of the game can see

His gift and potential.

The boy himself will

Soon realize his talent and,

Already his heart holds

The game in a vise like grip.

That combination, is his

And his family’s ticket

Out of their meager home.

He is a desolate spark of hope

In the pitch blackness.

Like a struck match he will

Illuminate the night.

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The Art of Swimming


An art.

Every muscle working together perfectly.

The timing is precise.

You anxiously wait on the starting block,

Every muscle tensed,

Blocking out all other sound and movement

Except for that one bang

That will release you from your prison.

The gun goes off

And you have a split second to react.

Too late,

Too bad.

Too early

And the race is already over for you.

You’re in the water.


Stroke, stroke.


Stroke, stroke.

Your lungs are burning

And your muscles are on fire.

The final lap.

You give it everything you have.

You fly through the water, barely breathing;

Your arms and legs moving out of control,

Yet perfectly timed.

You stretch towards the wall and surface.

Weak and gasping for breath

You pull your body out of the water

And wait for your next race

To start the art of swimming

Over again.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I wrote this poem when I was in high school.

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Ali! Ali! The air went wild,
After more than three years 'The Greatest' smiled.

Robbed of his right to box and beat challengers,
Muhammad Ali was wronged by 'law makers'.

After beating Zora Folley in 1967,
Muhammad Ali was betrayed and shaken...

...Up to the October of 1970,
When he was allowed to face Jerry Quarry.

Ali was the champion and everyone knew that,
Even though clumsy Frazier was wearing 'the hat'.

Thus the atmosphere on that October night,
Was full of boxing frenzy, very tense and tight.

Quarry was then the contendor number one,
To the throne of which was once Ali's kingdom.

With breaths held in awe, the first bell clanged,
Jerry Quarry charged, Ali laughed and danced.

Before Quarry could even land a blow,
Ali had ripped the defence of his foe.

Jabs and crosses, straight rights and lefts,
Followed by combinations made it a fistic fest.

Ali was supremely in command of the bout,
While Quarry knew that which was to come about.

From rounds one to three it was all Ali...Ali!
As rapier like fists opened a gash in Quarry.

His left eye was cut by Ali's barrage of punches,
Circling and taunting with Quarry on hunches.

Blood was pouring out like a red gushing stream,
Quarry's handlers were at last forced to scream.

As the third round ended the fight was stopped,
Quarry was whipped by the best man he fought!

And that memorable moment of October 1970,
Revived the legend of the great Muhammad Ali.

He was the "People's Champion", everyone knew that,
And in the coming times he proved the truth as a fact.

Whenever I watch the fights of Muhammad Ali,
I know a boxer like him wasn't and wouldn't be.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a poetic description of the first clash between boxers Muhammad Ali and Jerry Quarry which took place in October, 1970, in Atlanta, ending Ali's three years and eight months of forced, unfair expulsion from professional boxing.

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Toe to Toe

Face to face,
Toe to toe,
Neck to neck,
The whistle sounds go,
Head to head,
1 to nil,
Man to man,
Everything seems still.
He takes a shot,
Ball flies in air,
Corner of the net,
Cheer and despair.
60 seconds to go,
1 to 1,
Ball is passed,
Down the pitch they run.
A pass then shot,
Will the keeper fall?
The crowd cheers,
The game is called.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a poem about the sport I love (Soccer) written with English terminology. Comment please :)

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A Poem About Wrestling

Every day I pour out my heart and soul,
Working hard to achieve my goal.
My mind says go, but my body screams STOP!
And I find myself up against the rock.

I tell myself "just gotta push through."
Then reach deep down inside and somehow, I do.
But my mind soon betrays me, saying "please, no more!"
"It could all be over, there's the door."

Thinking the whole time "You're no good, just quit."
I summon the will to get out of this pit.
When it's finally over, when the whistle blows,
I look back with pride and my face, it glows.

I soon shower up and say "Let's get out of here!"
And then I leave, less some blood, sweat, and tear.

I'm often asked my motivation, they say "Why?"
"Why do a sport where you feel to die?"
"Why do a sport, filled with so much pain?"
"A sport where you give so much, but see little gain."

I shake my head, for they can't understand,
Why I think this is all so grand,
Well let me tell you, just why I train,
When my body is so sore, when my energy is drained.

I do it for the lessons that I may learn,
For the discipline I get, and the respect I earn.
For the people I meet both far, and near.
Though many poke fun and say "dude, that's queer."

It's an internal drive, one I can't explain,
That causes me to work through all the pain.
Though my body aches and my muscles burn,
When I must not eat, and my stomach twists and turns.

These words I always say to myself,
"Get back up" or "Almost done, keep working."
Working towards things, both physical and not.
Because even if I lose, at least I fought.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

First off I've never been the poetic type, I just got the urge to write about what was on my mind, and it rhymed. But feel free to critique (or maybe if I'm lucky, compliment) my work.

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Volleyball to a Born and Fed Player

The ball is passed,
Whether it's a clean pass,
Or a horrible shank,
You will see me sore after it.

I get a hand on the ball,
Standing, sprawling, mid-air, or in goofy stances.
I would dive into a wall, bleachers, or even my own bench,
Just to try and get that set.

When the ball leaves my hands,
Flying down Setter Lane to the hitter's sure swing!
When the flow is right,
And the perfect set gets up,
Right to the strong hitter,
Down to the solid floor.

The beautiful, yet simple movements,
Of a team working as a whole.
When the three touches come together.
The magic of the perfect play!

I have jammed my wrists, fingers, and even elbows and knees,
Sprung my ankles,
Slammed to the ground and bleachers,
All for the sake of that one perfect play.
The one that means everything to me.

When a clean pass reaches the setter spot,
Greated by controled setter hands,
Pushed to a hitter's line of fire,
And finally slammed to the ground,
Or shanked to Mexico.

The voices we've lost,
The skin that's no longer connected,
The water we chug,
The tears we cry,
The chants we scream,
The brain cells we've given up.

Every moment of it was worth it,
Just to be on the court,
To have that ball in my hands,
To hear the crowd's screams.

Just thoughts of my beloved volleyball,
Sends chills and excitement down my body.
The urge to be seen,
To show off,
To be a star,
And prove I'm the best,
Fill my dreams,
With both old and future game film replays in my head.

I await the next chance,
The chance to have that power,
That glory,
The love!
Til I am on the court again,
I dream of plays and moves.

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