~the whistle
the whistle sings in lyric note,
beckons the lady follow, to lay down upon its rifts
lost in the swirl and twirl of melody
drifting,
bound for yesterday’s memory, drunk on love
and bent with laughter
a breath leaves a sigh within the whistle
to call upon desire unspent,
to sing … to sing
come, lady rest upon my song,
so pale, worn your dreams,
that I may wrap you in gowns of sweet, sorrowful crescendo
come, drape regret around my music
and I will carry your name to the warbler’s nest
the whistle lifts its poem,
in ribbons of voice sharp and shrill,
and the lady rides aside her loneliness
above the barren path, above the gentle brush of grain
along the silhouette of hill and precipice
lost in the billow of passing clouds
jeannerene 02.08
composed while listening to Songs of the Irish Whistle
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Be always safe,
Karen
Beautiful write!
Cryssa
Somewheres there's a song in that whistle and hopefully a gait to match. Your poem flows so perfectly and sure pleasure to read. Peace, Love and Blessings Always, Paul.
My great grandfather came to America with few posessions, one of them being a tin whistle from the "old country". He was quite good with it. My mother would always hum those old tunes, doodle-y-dooing them as she bounced us on her knee, washed dishes, prepared meals, knitted, bounced our babies on her knees... .. . The ghost notes evaporate in and out of walls where she lived and visited. There's something holding about those old tunes. There tuly is.
I'm glad to see them eulogized. --Charlie