Poem About Chronic Pain After Bull and Bronco Riding | The Ringer
He rode bulls and he rode bronc’s
He battled rain, hail, hot sun, drought & snow.
His work, his passion, his chosen life.
He climbed mountains, swam rivers, hiked ranges and ran races.
Slept in a swag under the stars, made damper and Billie tea.
Around the camp fire shared stories with mates, around the camp fire laughed uproariously, and around the camp fire dreamt his dreams.
The ringer looks back as the memories flow.
How the animal beneath him changed direction, stood still or sped up. With his slightest touch, a shift, a muscle flex. The beast could not deny the ringers control.
Those idealic days have passed and it’s the ringer who’s now rode.
As he enters the shute his last and longest 8 seconds yet.
The ringer wraps the rope around his hand and let’s his spurs grab hard into the beasts skin, sitting central, up off his pockets. Man and beast wait together for the bell to start their dual.
The beast stands quiet and still. Hushed tension laced with undeniable anticipation drips from every pore like cold sweat.
Suddenly the shute opens and the rush of loud noise goes unheard by both.
The beast is unrelenting and control is it with him?
Each buck, each rise and slap down the ringer feels, His limbs disjointed as a puppet performing on strings.
Crack like a whip is heard and a sharp cry follows, argh…His shoulder, elbow, hand, spine arthritic body opens wide and exposed to every sickness, an unknown future he’s been told.
Place your bets, a bookie lays good odds, not for the rider, but on the beast.
This is the ringers new reality, truly his last ride. He shifts to compensate for the beasts jumping, bumping, back wrenching, turning swiftly left, right, right, left, up, down, down, up, head jerking, gut pulling, tongue and teeth biting.
The audience yells and screams.
The conclusion fast approaching.
The illusion is the fear, it grips tight your buttocks, chest, abdomen. A sickening sense that makes you want to vomit.
Again so quick, so sudden man versus beast. On the arena floor heavy droplets of blood sweat and tears are spewed out. Hooves stomp, clowns rush in darting here darting there, trying to grab the beasts attention.
A gasp and silence no more. Praise worthy exploding eruption!
The winner rises haughty in his victory. The unvictorious no longer enduring the suffering of agony, no longer enduring the suffering of pain, no longer lost in struggles of indifference, no more running on empty.
Nothing makes sense insidious deadly
Who is the true winner when the sign reads….
Ringer Gone Fishing
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