My Bow and Arrow
By John Herlihy

My weapon of choice,
The bow and arrow.
I am a marksman at heart;
I greet my destiny with bravery;
Any cowardice is unsavory.

The bow is made of burnished wood;
The arrowhead is made of polished stone;
The tip is made of minted gold;
The shaft is dressed with bird feathers;
The string is woven from catgut.

I give feathers to my arrows.
My plumes make myself known,
Adorned with beauty, my arrows fly.
They soar thru the heavens,
Without touching the sky.

I give tension to my bow.
Opa taught me many years ago.
My string is taut and single;
My nerves are primed to tingle;
My eye can see in the dark;
My aim is focused on the mark.

My arrows have sharp points;
They carry an incredible sting.
When they reach their mark,
The flint emits a winning spark,
A flaming bulls-eye that zings.

I give rhythm to my string.
Pluck me once to hear its ping.
Strung tightly and so I whine,
Strung loosely and so I pine,
Either way my strings sing.

In the mirror, I admire my bow and arrow;
It is the bone that surrounds my marrow.
The bow with string has an incredible ring,
The arrow with feathers is as regal as a king.
The arrowhead flies to its mark on extended wing.

Free will is my trusty bow,
Good works are my trusty strings,
The virtues are my colorful feathers,
Determination is the arrowhead
that flies through all weathers,
Surrender creates the rhythm
and vibration of my strings,
Composing a sacred melody
that my heart humbly sings.

Combined I have created a secret weapon,
That I have available every minute, every second.
Every day I turn myself into a bow and arrow,
Seeking the perfection of a work of art,
Perfection of form that becomes perfection of spirit.
I fly steadily inside the eye of the storm.
Behold, I soar like a flare through the empty air,
The soul’s arrow nears heaven, shining thru sunlight’s glare.