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Six Flowers Oct 2017
Capture my love with a harp and a bow
Sing high for my heart
but to shoot me, aim low.
Lunar Jan 2017
Depth doesn't scare her.
In fact, it's the one thing she looks for in almost everything.
She was a swimmer, one who floated face-up in deep waters-- in the pool, sea, and metaphorically, life.
Depth to her, was a symbol of freedom and significance.
She wasn't afraid of it or getting lost in it. If she let the tides carry her of their will and to the shore, she knows she wouldn't drown. In the end, she was at home in waters and their uncertain depths. She didn't always need to see the bottom or what is waiting for her. This was life to her.

The same applies to the winds of the night sky, where she was a light cloud with a fleeting presence. She would be here today, and the next moment she would be gone with the wind, swept up in the dark skies above, far off into the deep atmosphere.

All the more has she fallen deep for this certain person in her life, a descendant of Orion.
His eyes were as bright as Betelgeuse and were deeper than the darkest parts of the ocean. ****** into the whirlpools of his eyes, and into the windows of his soul, did she get a glimpse of how he was like.
She would give anything in exchange for a long soak: she was deep in her love for him.

On afternoons she finished her swimming regimen in the sea and headed to the hilltop sports complex before sundown.
There, she watched him shoot arrows with his long bow embraced by his long arms. His deft fingers positioned to hold the arrow in place, and she almost felt her heart stop like the way a criminal froze in surrender before a policeman pointing a gun at him.
Only in her case, he wasn't a policeman nor was she a criminal (unless watching him without him knowing would be considered stalking, therefore an offense), he held a bow, not a gun and that he was not aiming at her.

But the way his slender body heaved with every deep breath spurred a similar memory in her: steady, balanced and clear as the skies above and the waters beneath her body and surf board.
Just before the board and her arms slice through the water's surface tension; just before he releases the arrow which pierces through the light air around him. Staying still for so long to get the perfect posture puts a pressure on one's body. To see him let go with one eye shut for focus was a relieving sight to her.
She knew that familiar tension and expectation that surrounded him.
To her, watching him was like star gazing as always; he was, after all what she called a "descendant of Orion". He was the only thing she saw so bright and clear in that dim archery room and only the sunset casted soft shadows on his face.

She wondered if he would ever find out about the way she felt for him. Every time an arrow slipped through his fingers faster than a time-slip, she felt as if a part of him departed along with it.
Why was it so, she thought, that it seems like I'm loving the impossible; a night dream which won't be carried off and fulfilled by dawn? As if he was a dream too deep in my sea of memories, anchored to the bottom of improbability and unable to rise to the surface to make itself known to him.
A fresh salty breeze filled the air. This happened whenever the winds blew over the waves or when she didn't notice her own tears fall.

His life had a sense of leaving in it. It was either the way his arrows left him and his bow or when he left the sports complex; and in the future, leaves the town and leaves her life. It was more than decided that he was bound to leave the place and head back to the metropolis where he came from.
He belonged to the city of bright lights.
Nothing can ever compare to the way he shines, though, she said to no one but the winds and waves that build up her life.
He was a rocket fueled for takeoff. Ready anytime to leave, to return to the sky, back in the home of the stars.

And she was a mere girl who sought depth in her life:
the water, the sky,
their existence and his eyes.
when i saw wjh hold a bow and arrow
and given my circumstance of being a swimmer
i thought of 5 centimeters per second !

Chapter 7 of Finding You.
The Fire Burns Sep 2016
Knock to field point
carbon fiber weave
two blue and one white fletch
core muscles engaged

Pulled back on a string
cams broken over
energy ready to be freed
peering through black peep

Fiber optic pins
glow in the sun
judge the right distance
pick the right one

Finger on the trigger
let the arrow fly
watch it home
ten ring, target, good shot
Viseract Feb 2016
Archers stance, breath held
Sighting along the arrow
The calm then the storm
Love archery, pretty fun :)
Apollo, Apollo
The God of poetry
I'd also like to learn archery
And a song or two
On the lyre from you
XD lawl...
Kitts Apr 2015
Light weight, black glossy, perfection
You must hold such a weapon with confidence
Slender black arrows with green feathers
Bundled in the fine homemade black leather quiver
The silver steel tips made to ****
Sunlight playing peak a boo
With the shadows all around you
The ancient trees look down upon you
The wind picks up and gently plays with your hair
You breathe in the familiar smell
Of the ancient forest you call home
You haven't caught an a-wi in days
What will the hungry little ones do?
You see a flash of movement and you freeze
Draw a single arrow from the quiver on your back
Without a sound you take your position
Silently with practiced ease you aim and fire
You hear the death cry of the animal you have shot
Swiftly you run to were the cry came
There lays the plumpest most beautiful a-wi you have seen in moons
Thanking the a-wi with the words you were taught as a child
"Thank you dear sister/brother for giving your life so that my family could continue to live theirs"
With the sacred whisper you end the a-wi's pain with a quick slice from your blade
Smiling and whispering you’re thanks to the Great Spirit
You run as fast as you can to get the villages warrior braves
You are small but you are part of the Tsa-la-gi
Therefore you are never alone
Kitts Apr 2015
I dream of the perfect
Man of Native blood
With hair to his shoulders
And skin tan as natural leather

I thought he didn't exist
Until I met him in a store
He was my dream man
Everything I ever wanted

I know only of his heritage
For that is what we discussed
We talked about tradition
And how most of it is lost

He kept my focus which is hard to do
He made me feel accepted,
Which is even a harder feat
With his Native looks and attitude

I couldn't help but fall a little
But it was just a conversation
About Native American things
And whole lot of talk about archery

I hope the world ends someday
So that I can go to the blue mountains
And find my native man
He made a promise that few would make to a stranger

He promised if the world ended
Like we both know it will
He would meet me in the Blue Mountains
And make sure I'd survive

Who makes a promise like that anyway?
Certainty not anyone I know
For everyone cares about themselves
And forget the unmade friend..
Wrote this about a Stranger I met in a store...
Matt Jan 2015
Master archer
Lars Andersen
Fires with such accuracy and speed
It is truly amazing!
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
what is more gentle,
than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,
where no one ever goes.

I know days,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
you in me.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
on these same two feet again.

four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I never may forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as you, in me.
In Response to a Poem by Leila R.
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