The Archer Robin Hood
The
archer
Robin Hood
from Nottingham
Shire aligns himself
perpendicularly
to the target whilst notching
the drawn arrow from the quiver,
and draws the longbow’s bowstring to the
anchor point, aims, and then lets loose the shaft.
That flies through the air, hitting the bull’s-eye
to the cheers and jeers of foresters
in the English countryside, where
they have challenged him to an
archery contest, but
folly beguiles them,
rendering him
the outlaw,
Robin
Hood.
***
At dawn, a heron
stands
stitched to the reeds;
one leg folded
beneath its body
it's neck and body
drawn poised and taut
on a bowstring.
The marsh
has remembered
how to carve birds
from mist;
how to balance
feather against reflection;
how to hang
a morning
between heartbeats.
Beneath the mirrored
frozen sky,
where clouds drift
whenever it looks away
the currents comb the roots
minnows flash silver
a fly flits its wings
and sedges bow their stems
in brief
eye-to-side glances
unnoticed.
For a moment
everything seems
to have stopped:
the bird,
the water,
the breath,
the moment,
are paused
to say:
Touché! Olé!
Touché! Olé!
on borrowed time.
From within, I seek
Bowstring hums, wisdom whispers
Peace reveals the truth
Twilight awakens
Through still branches, quiet glow
Clarity unfolds
A gentle breeze stirs
Thoughts settle like soft petals
Harmony remains
Heart-shaped box of chocolates, late Winter surprise.
See sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
She knows him now, all too well, every inch of him.
This sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
A straight and narrow arrow flew from Cupid’s bowstring.
Struck sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
He had to open them then - cause and effect of love.
This sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
She was unexpected, for his fancy was charming.
Grins sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
On the date set, another sailor came to make claim.
Shocked sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
Oh poor boy…poor, poor sailor boy was a contestant.
Watch sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
Wouldn’t you know it…yes…his heart, branded by a poet.
Her sailor, in a dark uniform, hiding his eyes.
No (where) Now
I don't want to write about it
but my pen keeps circling
hungry near the wounded
hidden tall grass metaphor of decay
any small movement snaps
the bowstring free
lies like arrows arc across
the fallen trees
iambic missing everything
the zero that I'm seeing
moon there just rising
Sarah's
looks down full not smiling
poetry stops when the living get too close
I've lost my bag of sins
signed off the last appraisal
I've nowhere left to be
silence locks each metered word
third stanza just for you
easy to rewrite the first
not so much the view
(homage to S.T.)
i pull the bowstring
back to the quivering past
into the future
THINGS WITH STRINGS
Spider's web, strings of stars,
a weaver's loom, and old guitars.
Balls of yarn, and DNA,
string bikini, and crochet.
Cats cradle, spools of thread,
Tails on kites, and hairs on head.
Theory in music, or in science,
together making a string alliance.
Yo-yo, and Pinocchio,
harp, violin and cello.
Catgut bow, and strings of cheese,
or whiskers on a prized Siamese.
Silly String, and G-string,
an strings of birds on wing.
Math strings, "No strings attached,"
a roof that's been heather thatched.
String quilts, strings of pearls,
strings that tie to locks of curls.
Music staff, and balls of twine,
and tendrils from a sweet pea vine.
Heart, balloon, and aprons too,
and laced up in a tennis shoe.
Garland, hamstring, and quartet,
strings on fingers to not forget.
Braided rings, and strings of lights,
pulling strings, and fishnet tights.
Telephone string through tin cans,
woven blankets and knit afghans.
Brown paper packages tied up in string,
needle, lanterns, and wind chimes that sing.
Drawstring, bowstring, and baby's pull toy,
string, strung, and stringing, we're all overjoyed.
By Edlynn Nau
© January 25, 2015
America’s greatness…
we don’t have to agree
In freedom of dissension,
a strong harmony
Each voice draws a bowstring
whose arrow flies high
Carrying a message
—that liberty buys
(Philadelphia Pennsylvania: April, 2020)
Words That Inspire Me
By Miracle Man
3/7/2020
Obstacles were not intended to be stop signs,
but encumbrances to induce thought
Character, is displayed by continuance beyond
where others thought we’d finish
Think of words as arrows;
Once a poison arrow has left its quiver, there remains time,
but once released from the bowstring,
there remains only remorse.
Our legacy will be measured by what we brought to the table,
not in what we carried away.
Don’t let pride hinder help,
A solitary spoke won’t hold up a wheel!
And a lonely life is a kissing cousin
To a fisherman’s empty creel.
I'm sitting still.
Like a statue.
Indifferent to everything around me.
I'm just an element of the scenery.
It’s like I’m not even there.
So come out! There’s no danger!
Just a couple of steps. A few more.
Yes! Almost there.
I'm sitting.
Tense as a bowstring.
Focused on my mission.
I’m judging the distance.
Soon I’ll be off.
Instantly.
Like a bullet. A stone shot from a sling.
This ain’t shopping at the market.
Clipping coupons or fighting for discounts.
Life is at stake!
My offspring’s and mine.
So I’m still sitting only for
three, two, one,
Now!
Frosty Words
Written: by Tom Wright
4/7/2018
I allot time to past words frosty in flight,
They’re like chains or a promise unbroken.
By vacated words I frequently feel contrite,
But vociferous words cannot be unspoken.
Words are like arrows departed from quiver,
Once released from a bowstring can’t return.
Whatever the intended message, they deliver,
And the recipient cannot your heart discern.
Once frosty words are released on a course,
And settled in on their intended quarry;
Though we seek forgiveness and feel remorse,
These same spent words return to inventory.
Much like the force of gravity
Love surrounds you attracting everything to its core,
The more you pull towards you
like a bowstring further it shoots the arrow.
~08/07/18
~"What is Love" contest by Faraz Ajmal
There once was an Archer, divine
He created a love as zealous as yours and mine
Hewn from a strong and sturdy branch He fashioned a bow
From dust He created a bowstring as supple as a piece of dough
This Archer set out with bow and arrow in hand
He desired to set love’s fire to the land
With the strength of the bow, the flaming arrow sent forth
With the docility of the string, it's projectile was birthed
Neither the bow nor the string took claim
To the arrow's path, success, or shame
For they both knew, the two made one,
That, in the Archer, the victory had been won
Therefore they neither fret nor frown
And through this they have won the martyr’s crown
Resting in their Master’s hands
They had hope in their unknown plans
I take my bow in hand
One arrow from the quiver, too.
The target is one I understand
My arrow is straight and true.
I know the direction and distance,
Yet the distance I'll ignore,
'Cause if I undershoot for instance
What am I shooting for?
So back the bowstring goes
'Til the bow's about to break,
And the speeding arrow shows
The path that I must take.
This path I'll never deviate,
Nor will I ever quit-
Until I find that arrow;
Even though I may not find it.
And should I find that arrow,
My purpose will not end.
By taking in hand my bow,
The arrow is sent again.
SONNET IN THE WIND
(The Archer)
Hark! What wind doth blow in yonder forest
Stirring the spirit of a long dead archer
In his endless search for the unwary doe
He stealthily lifts his bow – aiming hurriedly
His shot misses – his prey flees – frightened
Alas! He trudges onward – eyes peering intently
A huge buck with antlers like a tree
Suddenly looms on the horizon
He sniffs – testing the wind for signs
Is danger lurking near
The twang of the bowstring alerts his keen senses
He pivots swiftly – his white tail flashing
He bounds away – snorting contemptuously
The archer – stirred by the wind – is seeking still
God, in His infinite wisdom gave animals instinct
Given also to man, but man fails to embrace it
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