The sailor didn't know
much about the sea. In fact,
he knew nothing at all. But when
his little boy looked up at him with
admiration, how could he speak of
his failure to know his own profession?

With his son propped up on his lap,
he began to tell a tale of the vast seas
and the heavy gusts of wind that were
strong enough to throw a grown man
overboard. And as his boy oohed
and ahed, the sailor felt something
akin to guilty pride.

It's a shame he didn't
listen to his own storytelling, for
one day, it was his turn to be blown
away by the wind and swallowed up
by the sea.

I wish I had an arrow to befriend
A slender beauty with veinlets etched
in gold
In which tales flowed
of battles unresolved— songs of wars
that it had never fought
Bearing a blade forged from flames
envied by the crescent that rips its way
through the dark

I would choose it out the nameless others
patient in the quiver
and show it off to the winds
Watch the sly sun kiss it’s carvings
her nimble fingers swirling about
—it’s rich purple sepals
and their unwavering grace
I would let it touch the worn-out bow
that, voiceless, had words to scream
in vales, and in dens

levelling its fletching with the callous string
I would pull
— oh, moors ahed, and moors behind
moors beneath, and all inside—
It’s unblemished tip smirking up the yonder
Slaying all voids in the way
— oh, born an icy weapon
unborn still
I wish I had an arrow to befriend

I would let free the trapped string
impatient, always, to flea
and watch the moon lurking beneath the day
Watch him brutal,
— watch him cold
As if expecting lightening to
sprout out of my eyes
Utter a silent curse I would
Knowing I could not add to his bruises

I would feel a star burning
by the edge of my eye
My bird soaring towards its doom
and into the moors,
I would sublime
—

I close my eyes against the sun
grasping
for the bright of my blood
that lurks, lurks
beneath the shadows
of my gaze—

grasping,
and grasping still—

I wish I had an arrow to befriend

Circa - approximately early
to late nineteen sixties,
     where yours truly
found himself surly,
particularly compounded
     if my parents,

where Mister and
Missus Santa Claus
played by Boyce and
Harriet Harris respectively

     failed to purchase
     for this sole son,
thee latest trendy
     toy, sans whirly
gig, gizmo, or
     fuzzy electric doohickey,
     BUT NOTHING girly.

Translation: Inxs of
     severe (incurable) envy
     infected Matthew Scott
most pronounced, asper
   quantity of presents,

     the gratitude receiving gifts
     meant diddly squat
if I counted less goodies,
     than either eldest,
     and/or youngest sister got.

This rancor kept
     under (ahem) wraps
though ironically, either
     sibling oohed and ahed
     over some fancy shmancy
     garment with snaps,

which this lad
     feigned ambivalence,
     indifference, or
     repugnance toward getup
     for young chaps.

No sooner did the
     last, (and usually
     biggest) boxed surprise
found these then kiddie
     fingers tearing into,
     when thine irritating
     nasal voice didst rise

above the melee "That's all,"
     or some variation
     on said theme blurted out
     as "FAKE" real lies
already, eagerly, and impatiently
     anticipating same holiday
     three hundred and sixty

     five days, hence unaware
     how fast "time flies"
now this soon to be newly
     minted sexagenarian eyes,
those memories of innocent
     naiveté, and bliss

     with sentimental nostalgia
     (envision: slight moisture
     around tear ducts), and
     aye close this poem
     with reminiscence dabbed
     with tissue sadness dries.