Should have gotten myself a good
horse and a plow, some tangible
now to hold onto with both bold
hands,
instead of these waxen whims.
You’ll find me
flailing
as you’re sailing along,
perhaps a pirate song
on your tongue, or a twinkle
in your eye that says the sea
is your friend today.
Me,
notsomuch.
Say I wanted too much,
that I wanted to touch
the boldest light, the
brightest of all. Say I
called myself brave,
(you’ll call me a
fool)
say I’ve been schooled
and won’t do it again,
but
I
just
might.
(Do you have a candle
you can spare?)
See, I’ve still got
some small semblance
of wings,
and other dreams
that dare
to fly
just too close
to the sun.
..
Prompted by Poetic Asides.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
You sure do know Mister Icky well. (Oh no; I didn’t just say that, did I? Hee hee. I guess I did.) So now I’m thinking about Ichabod Crane. I love the headless horseman. Have you ever thought about how the story might change with just a few letters being shifted … the headlace horseman; that’s what I’m trying to get at. 😛 Ooh, or head-lice. Sooo many stories hidden inside a story.
Back to your poem (sorry; you know I get side-tracked) … I LOVE “some tangible now to hold onto.” Also, “both bold hands” (because of that line break) makes me think that if hands can be bold, then they can also be italic, et cetera.
I also like the way you set “flailing” off on its own line … which makes me think the sailor might also end up flailing … only then will he find “Mr. I.” Hey, that’s kind of like some sort of “Mystery Island.”
“Say I wanted too much” … You just have to walk away from these people … the ones who won’t give you every last thing they have, down to their organs, when you need it. At least, that’s what I’d have to do. 😉
This is my favorite part:
“say I’ve been schooled
and won’t do it again,
but
I
just
might.” … especially the “schooled” part. That really made me giggle.
I’m wondering why you italicized and parenthes(e)ized those two sections, but I’ve decided that they must be those italic hands we were talking about.
I wonder what he might fly close to next … he won’t stop, you know. But surely he’ll bypass the sun and sky this time, heading into outer space. I think there might be a few planets out there in the beyond that/who will gladly offer their organs on a platter for a wing-maker. (Now I’m picturing an Operation game, but outer space is the body being dissected.)
Anyway, sorry for going nutso. You know how I get.
Wow! Here’s to dreams and let’s keep on dreaming! I love this poem so much!
One of my favorite myths for all it teaches us. Love your treatment of it.