Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Inter-woven themes still manifest in my life.

    One is the solitary cowboy riding the range
    in rugged synchronicity with the earth below
    & the heavens above.
    Two is the child-king with mystic skills
    felling great goliaths with slingshots
    maniacal monarchs with music & song.

    I am not (entirely) responsible for the distortion
    or prejudice these influences have wrought.
    2-parts fantasy to 1-part namesake
    they dug deep into impressionable folds of early wonder & joy.

    As we’d tricycle-by with our clamour & cuts
    or in a scramble to hide & seek
    from his porch seat ol' mister Wiggins would chime:
    “There goes Davy Crockett, king of the wild frontier!”
    His alternate version of grandeur would go:
    “O King David, won’t you play on your harp!”

    Runt of the neighbourhood litter, secretly I smiled every time.

    But that was the thing perhaps. The part that stuck.
    Wiggins didn’t just say them out-loud. He sang them.
    Like TV jingles, he belted them out with confidence
    borrowing from lore that was beyond my years.

    I had no idea of course
    who either of these Davids were in fact
    two syllables-in-common we shared
    the music of our name.

    So you see dear reader
    when I was but a bundle of verve
    & laughter a cohort of glee
    (when homemade toys enthralled us
    launched wide-eyed feats of reverie)
    two adult monikers I gladly did deign
    kingly ones you see:
    one was a farm-boy musician
    the other a buck-skinned pioneer.

    These august historical namesakes
    came to life in tarpaulin castles
    strung over mother’s clothesline
    or in tree-forts down by the creek.

    As the 1970s dawned & these themes held sway
    I discovered my cowboy-Crockett had an outlaw streak.
    Not to be out-done it seems, the Judaic regent
    had a down-fall debility for beautiful girls.

    Later on I was told I was neither
    just David, my parents’ son.
    But slyly something still swells-up
    traces of glory on-the-run.

    Forty years later we still get together
    three of us circling a fire
    battles recounted & quests re-assigned
    all for one & one for all
    keeping the porch-light lit.




    Post scriptum: an earlier piece entitled A is a word is a whimsical reference to what is here, more fleshed-out.
    Though partly generational (there are many baby-boomer Davids), I find it deeply satisfying that my dearest surviving alma-mater friendships are two namesake brothers.
    Lastly, though no crown is visible in the "kingly" photo on the left, imagination assures me it's there.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.