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].

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.