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
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.
Sshhh! I'm still listening to my walls. They hold a little of the old tunes too.
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
Reviewed by G Bergeron (Reader)
Reviewed on February 13, 2008
beautifully done. this flowed very smoothly like the melodies of an orchestra. good write.
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
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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