This is the first "commissioned" poem, as it were, I've ever done.Seems an older cousin of mine is about to get married, and when she is her name will be Annie Oakley. My Mom asked for a poem about that. This was the best I could do.
Little Miss Sure Shot Gains A Namesake Rhinestones and rawhide Prancing horses and the dream Of the Old Wild West; Dazzling the Old World crowd: 6 shots through a card tossed in the air, Ash shot off the Kaiser's cigarette - These things made the old, defeated Chief smile; "Little Miss Sure Shot" wowed the rubes and the Crowned Heads Alike. Thus the spangled life of Phoebe Ann Moses, Ohioan farmgirl, Winner of a Thanksgiving shooting competition. She took her gift And rode it into History; The common clay of her Molded itself into myth. As may we all, If we find our gift - Shaping it with faithful patience Breathing a bit of our souls into it, Becoming Mythic, If only to our inner eyes. And the myths sometimes come back around, Wandering, unsettled spirits that they are; To return as memories, dreams or namesakes. Somewhere in the skies, Riding a silver steed The likes of which she could've never imagined, The namesake meets a woman Who lands him before they land, As neat a trick as nailing That falling, flipping card. Her aim true as ever. The ghost crowd roars, The rhinestones blaze, The old Chief smiles - "Little Miss Sure Shot" hits her mark again!
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