Long Whistle Poems
Long Whistle Poems. Below are the most popular long Whistle by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whistle poems by poem length and keyword.
RED DEVILS AND THE BLUES
Who dares to dare the dare devil
Or share the same insurmountable level
Than the deep blue sea?
To break the ledge
More than two lives will merge
After the whistle give 'em the Blues
Instead of a capacity filled with hues
Let them be mesmerized and see blues,
There's never a better time to be knocked so hard.
Hades is hushed as a graveyard,
Empty is the noise that gushes out.
Might wonder what this' all about?
Because all the devils are here:
From the frontline to the goalposts of De Gea,
Zlatan, Pogba, Lingard, Herrera,
All at the Bridge but on errand
By the superfluous acts of the Blues
Who have become the crown-jewels.
A heap of heartbreaking goals
Like the apocalypse rain of coals
To heat up the electric atmosphere,
Even Devils tremble in naked fear.
Tons of misery; magnify their pain
With a virtuoso performance again,
Still silent and handicapped, cripply
No lament until fourscore hit 'em briefly
Like a bolt of lightning,
Don't get flabbergasted even if it's frightening.
Devils of Manchester thumped,
They came, they saw but destroyed,
None survived the unslaught not one could try
Because no place for a Devil in the BLUE sky.
Up Blues!! KTFFH (Keep The Flag Flying High).
VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © Nov. 2nd, 2016.
(alternately titled: venerated
uber transcendent state haint give me no lyft)
Ultimate mission (ofttimes possible)
closed eyed insight courtesy meditation
ideally buoys state of consciousness
to naturally induced doze zen realm
disgruntlement arises if yours truly
unaware headstrong winds overtake helm
I invariably drift into light sleep
hours later jostle awake
(analogously experience self named
compressed Rip Van Winkle syndrome)
just smidgen fifty plus shades
gray grizzle coating chin
clumsily amble toward nearest sink
splash cold water across face
apply towel - daub cheeks
various sundry mucus loosened
thick globs phlegm
subsequently, significantly, satisfactorily
expel smallish secretion
out nostrils (pressing
one damned nostril closed
expelling repeating process
other nostril cleared) Semitic nose
clean as a whistle
don glasses to espy time
digitally printed white
within rectangular panel
courtesy electricity illuminating
Verizon set top box
reckon eyes clockface reads
what the ƒ*©* in dog's name...
of Sam Hill, Judas Priest, Matthew Scott...
dadgummit yikes, the time
way past bewitching hour
relaxation cast sleeping spell,
I awoke with a start
'curse saliva drooling and curdling
chin see? ole beastie boy body (mine)
aging baby boomer codger
don't be fooled by
boyish good looks (mine)
nevertheless feral, corporeal
being somewhat refreshed
particularly quaffing
CALIFIA COLD BREW MOCHA
to smooth edges jagged grogginess
thus set self able, eager,
ready, and willing to dash off
aforementioned poem at expense
handily deferred (furloughed)
exercise ma moose hills with
two fifteen pound dumbbells
least till complete literary task
which syrup rise ending snuck up
from outer limits of twilight zone.
Struggling
With carrying branches to dry for kindling,
Cursing
the seemingly extra long winter and those
who keep bringing it;
a shadow drifts over me like a primordial raven,
and a rush of unseen limbs streak past me.
Both alight before the barbed wire fence I keep meaning to repair
in the spring
in the summer
in the fall.
She turns her silhouette, robed in silver fur, towards me,
I cannot see her face.
Her white hand is on Cerberus
who has one brow furrowed, watching me.
One head is cocked, listening to the sharp whistle of wind
through withered boughs
the third is panting happily,
anticipating an unrestrained romp
through chaste snow.
I bend my knee in adoration
of Persephone.
A slight incline of the hooded cloak
acknowledges my presence
and my subservience;
I am what she once was
and will never be again.
She stretches out a pallid hand,
smooth and supple for a woman of 2000 years,
this Queen of the Underworld
who executes the curses men place
upon the souls of the dead.
In the cup of her hand
glows a red pomegranate
she no longer needs.
From beneath her hood
shine orbs of quartz crystal,
I see my reflection in them
and draw closer.
Cerebus lays at the feet of his Queen,
two heads stretched out on paws,
impassively watching my progress,
the third seeking my eyes, a low growl of warning
indicating that I know my place
as subject.
I reach out upturned palms in faith
and the hood inclines again
I close my eyes,
a furious flurry of shrieking wind
envelops me.
The fury subsides. I feel the warmth of the afternoon sun.
I open my eyes to snowdrops, crowding a carpet of green
and pregnant branches thrusting their limbs
towards the sky,
and in my hand
is a pomegranate.
I watch the steam, roll over the train,
as we round the bend.
It appears and disappears,
like the dark cloud that has imprisoned my heart,
since reading of your death.
The rattle from the windows keeps me in a hypnotic state,
as I'm still fifty miles away.
Received a letter three weeks after you departed,
now alone and dazed I've taken this train,
to your grave
This contraption moves ever slow,
and the noise from screeching wheels,
when we stop for water, awakens me.
There's nothing more timeless then motion,
that seems to stand still.
Steam engines...I should have taken a horse.
At least I wouldn't have all this time to remember.
Clickety Clack...Clickety Clack...
All aboard...Last stop
To never see you again, my final heartbreak.
If you don't mind I'm taking a horseback,
so I can forget the sadness, leave it on the train.
I'll visit your grave with a smile,
placing your favorite flowers against the headstone.
And watch the train roll past the graveyard,
while its whistle tries to awaken dad,
who lies next to you.
You'll never be alone again...
and me..you taught me to be strong,
I can do no less than honor your memory.
1/5/15
contest Railway Journeys
Fan spinning with an uneven blade
Frogs singing midnight serenades
Traffic stopping horns blowing
Drunks stagger
A man yells
Watch where your going
Horns playing jazz upbeat and in time
Smokers chit chatting on balconies with wine
The steel mill whistle sounds in the air
Pub screams loudly drinking on a dare
Coltrane plays on an old 45
Crackling and hissing aged perfect with time
Wind blowing across the old chimney pipe
Sink dripping not plumbed just right
TV just static
Pidgeons rustling in the attic
Once the city dies down
It reminds me it doesn't sleep
As the alarm clock sounds
I rise to my feet
A new day the same city
I hurry toward the door
Unsilenced silence greets me with a roar
flashing red lights
red and white stripes
crossing the road
where tracks are laid
whistle so loud
heard by the whole town
the warning the engineer played
steel wheels running on rails
pushing and pulling
staying on the trail
clu cluck clu cluck clu cluck
the heart beat of a living train
mixing with the whistle
and engine blair
from my car i saw the cars
that followed the engine
of the train
and started counting
one by one
as they whistled by
and into the plain
cars that carried coal
everyone the same
except the ones with graffiti
usually some ones name
there were cars that carried cars
and tanks with propain
boxes they could put on truck
and back on trains again
there were some old box cars
that were empty
doors slid open wide
so inviting to a hobo
who could just jump inside
i thought about the places
the bridges the train crossed
the places i'd like to see
before the time is lost
the mountains the rivers
and the plains the train crossed
then i saw the Eden men thought
they'd lost
spread out in the places
that very train crossed
My wife and I have spent a good deal of our lives living between the city limit signs of one metropolis or another. As urban dwellers, we were constantly bombarded with the rumble of noises drifting in and out as life moves along. The older we got, the more we found ourselves longing for the quiet country life we remembered from our childhood days. So, when we decided to retire, we wanted to move to a more peaceful setting. We searched the world over and chose this small house in the southern Missouri Ozarks and settled in for a quiet country way of life.
The sounds of nature
Solitude and peace at last
Breathe in the freshness
We were greeted on our first morning of blissful country life by the neighbor’s rooster telling us that 4 hours of sleep is enough. He was quickly joined by a chorus of dogs (at least one for every house within a five-mile radius) declaring their desire to have the rooster over for breakfast. Then it was time for every muffler less vehicle in the county to rev up their engines in preparation for the parade down our country lane. The whistle from a train crossing Hwy 248 mixed with a mooing of a hundred head of cattle, a couple dozen crows, and a few hundred other species of birds rounded out the orchestra. But as I sit here in my rocking chair on the porch. I sip my coffee and watch the sun rise above the oaks and maples. I raise my cup and give a smile. Because I know I’m home.
no horns or sirens
nature creating rhythms
calming symphony
I may not spend much time in the trenches,
Or at the coal face,
But that is OK.
I have chosen a different path to follow,
One with few signposts,
Lots of swing bridges to cross,
With upsetting people a real possibility,
And career opportunities spiked,
Should the whistle I carry in my pocket,
Be noticed by the boss,
But that is OK.
I get the pleasure of,
Relieving those in the trenches or at the coal face,
Even just for a few hours,
To recharge their batteries,
Spend some time in the sun,
See the flowers in full bloom,
Watch their children in their first stage performance,
Celebrate an anniversary or visit a friend,
Even just read a book or watch a movie.
And that is OK.
If I can make suggestions,
Speak to the right people,
Or make submissions that will improve conditions
In the trenches or at the coal face,
So much the better.
Seeing the gratefulness in some eyes,
Or hearing words that inflate my ego,
Is an extra bonus,
And that is OK.
I can also choose to avoid trenches that have been dug in haste,
And any coalface that could be a danger to my health.
I also get to learn new ways of doing things,
Toss new ideas into the trenches,
And bring new techniques to make working at the coalface easier.
All of which is OK with me.
Yes it is, OK,
For me to be often out of the trenches or absent from the coalface,
If I am no good at running marathons,
And better at running the gauntlet,
Or making guest appearances,
To support the star players.
Especially when I get the chance for an extra lie in, of a morning.
DNR
David J Walker
How is it that my friend
Knew it was the end
Was a cardinal singing
At his windowsill
Releasing a song on the wind
Or did a lonesome whippoorwill
Whistle its warning of
Impending snow
How did he know
Were there ravens and owls
And dogs howling nearby
Or did he find a feather from
An angels wing that
Caught his eye
Fluttering in the evening
Twilight
And knew that night would soon fall
Did he hear the call
From the sweet voice of his mother
Did he see the hand extended from
His father
Guiding him through the yonder
Fields of the abyss
How did he know after
The diagnosis of COVID
It would be his time to go
And he laid himself down
In the hospital bed
Signing the DNR
And in ten days my
Dear friend was dead
RIP Tom
As I sit here now to ponder and really start to wonder
Just what the world would be without a sound.
No noises to distract me, instead I find it could be
A quiet silence noticed all around.
No sound of children’s laughter when each other they’d run after
Brings squeals with such delight when they are caught.
Not to hear their happy chatter, on subjects that do matter
But silent conversation meaning naught.
Never hear that one word "Mum" from the lips of my dear son
Would be something that I really could not bear.
Not to hear when my child sings, and the joy to me that brings
Instead, I’d stand in silence and just stare.
Not the tweeting of a bird, and this sound be never heard
As it sits and chirps quite early in the morn.
Or the rooster as it crows, just because it really knows
It’s time to break night’s silence with each dawn.
Or the patter of the rain upon roofs tops once again
And loud thunder, then the lightning in a storm.
Not to hear the big waves smash, upon the rocks as they do crash
Without their sound could only watch them form.
Never hear the music play sweet melodies throughout the day
Or listen to the dialogue from the shows.
Nor hear some conversation, while waiting at a station
And miss the train’s high whistle when it blows.
And I would surely feel alone without my telephone
Its ring will make me run to take the call.
Just in time I would retrieve it, pick up and then receive
A friendly voice; disturb me not at all.
So, I won’t be beholden or say “Silence is so Golden”
I’d rather have this noisy world around.
Thank the Lord now for my hearing, such sounds that are endearing
A silent world I hope I never find.