Showing posts with label aim. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aim. Show all posts

Friday, May 3, 2019

Namely


Archer is a good name for a poet.
Only someone intent on honing their craft
could sharpen any word,
with pro-
found in-difference that whispers
copper pennies of investment.

Whistling in the air,
important and pointed,
as it whirs across a perfect arc
the branches dance back
strobing light through
space.

There was infinite,
what did it all mean?
There were names of things,
there was the aim of
Things
and there was connection
with the target of meaning
Eros, all was Love.

 Archer is a pseudonym
for Anonymous, as far as arrows go.

Photograph taken by Julia Margaret Cameron of Lionel Tennyson with bow and arrow [Public domain].

Friday, September 7, 2018

Target practice


One of the most helpful things I have learned
(about myself) is my tendency to
Jump the Gun-

But I can't stand the thought of standing still
while others take aim
and bullets fly.



Image By Ronald N. Keam (awm.gov.au) Austrailian Women's Army Service, Queensland c. 1942 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

The Art of Archery


The goal is the pursuit
The aim is pointed at the → means
As an arrow whose tip says-go forward →
>>>My tail feathers drag you down<<<
                                         If freedom was voice
                                             let it fly with motive,
                                                   words from the quiver,
                                        speech is aimed at your heart
                               shot from the bow of pliable opinion
                                             and if the goal were freedom
                                  there can be no aim, a shot in the dark
                      seeking a warm body, swimming through cold air
               hangs on your breath, steady, waiting for you to be ready
                               to let your grip go, open palms, holding hymns
                  held afloat by a lofty timeline,  gravity holds her weight
                                                                           in parabolic perpetuity
                                                                      ↔ arrows chasing despair ↔
                                                                        releasing boomerangs in air
                                                                                  aimed at freedom
                                                                         hunting down happiness,
                                                             caught by one’s own loud trap
                                                                        the pursuit perishes,
                                                                  passion plummets
                              blue dried blood on the tip
     of your sharp tongue.


Image of Archery competitor at the 1900 Olympic Games via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain. 

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...