Long Whistling Poems
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Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
Times were hard in Grandma's day
No electrical appliances had she
A ringer washing machine for washing the clothes
And a whistling gas kettle for making the tea
No electric lighting
Just a lamp filled with gas
That's what I remember
When I was a lass
Kneeling down, scrubbing steps
And not just her own
With a bucket of hot water
And a block of donkey stone
I remember on a Tuesday
Grandma used to make
In a willow pattern bowl
A pineapple upside-down cake
Sunday was trifle day
With custard, cream and jelly
Then at twenty to four we'd settle down
To watch ‘The Golden Shot' on the telly
Grandma used to take washing in
For all the neighbours in the street
Then when it was clean and dry
I’d fold it in piles so neat
We were very poor
And didn’t have much to boast
But we were happier then than people are now
The ones who deserve the least have the most
Milieu iconography with flashing lights
Smokey gambling rooms—gang wars
Flashy suits and fedora hats in the fights
Neon signs flashing—this world is yours
Hey, get a name with the next phone call
Surely, he can’t really be all that rough
While hanging out in a flower shop stall
Like bowling pins fall he wasn’t tough
Whistling “Chi Me Frena?” surreal assassin
As Shamrock night club they all shot up
Coin flipping henchman hell risky brazen
Bang—he won’t sip St. Peter’s golden cup
Crosses on bodies from iconic gun blast
Even barking dog can’t stop the tragedy
Tony’s sister like a baby’s toy dances at last
Just seems like a wild circle of comedy
Wearing a scar as one from the war
Nation’s shame 1932 gangsters shown
Killing people to take over, what for?
Whistling assassin your life is blown
© Joseph, 5/29/08
© All Rights Reserved
Honorable Mention
Super Slueth Contest
Fun Free verse on Movies
Sponsor: John Heck
Powerful forces reign over our world
some forces are evil, but some good
they have a power beyond our lives
if you could strip them bare as nude
Then maybe their power would defuse
but here you have wind and rain
two great forces, when combined so lethal
that they cause trouble to leave a stain
Last evening, lying sleepless until early morn
these two were shouting in full voice
makes one ponder to think so vivid
can cause much damage, like broken joists
In the small hours, listening so clearly
within the whistling wind in tune
joining rain's wetness running down outside
devastation ruling brings so much ruin
These powerful forces are beyond us
reigning outwith our feeble frames
be sure never to forget their venom
catching like wildfire into full flames
Ambivalence, fascination, hesitation,
the whistling whine swirls about my ears
and in the blink of an eye
images flit and flutter around me
engulfed, swarmed and mesmerized by the sounds apparition
blue skies float in, tossed upon a foamy wintry clouded sea
and then in an unexpected flash
a brilliant glow streams along the outer edges of time
and breath chills cling to the frosty air
rising steam, foaming in exhilaration
suddenly, abruptly, complete.
Rendering experiences of Flight of the Bumblebee
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vtAu7xkwNjQ
For Line Gauthier's
Creativity in Visual Arts
2/15/19
When the summer breeze comes along my way,
It freshens me up and makes me to sway,
Gently, I feel like dancing and swinging,
Soft, this summer breeze makes me go singing...
Chorus:
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
All my languishing flees,
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
Brings me joy, brings me peace.
When the summer breeze blows its cool incense,
It lightens me up and calms every sense,
Children around me feeling a tingling,
With summer comes the ice cream man jingling...
Chorus:
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
All my languishing flees,
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
Brings me joy, brings me peace.
Bridge:
Feel the whistling summer breeze
Rustling through the verdant leaves,
Feel the breeze gently singing
Summer's here - good news bringing...
Chorus:
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
All my languishing flees,
Summer breeze, gentle breeze,
Brings me joy, brings me peace.
Deep white fluffy flakes** ** *
on a downward spiral fall* * * *
spitting cold icy pellets *
as the storm crept in * * *
increasing in speed * * *
whistling around corners * **
blinding eyesight * * * *
creating a whirlwind * * * *
of white rotating fluff * * * *
those brave enough * * ** **
to face the outdoors * * * **
were bombarded by ** * ** *
frigid darting weaponry. *
Look at my magnificent man.
So sweet and sultry and always has a plan.
Every lovely layer I pull back I find gold
When God gave me this glorious man He broke the mold.
Walking and whistling is what he does with ease.
He's always so sweet and satisfying to please.
Taking a bite out of him and take a trip to the dentist.
Any girl would be lucky to be on his love list.
However, this heavenly dream has become just mine.
He's a walking dish---so delicious and divine!
He became such a special surprise on those sultry summer days.
So refreshingly refining that he put me in a haze.
Others I find ogling at my oh so original man.
It used to brutally bother me but, now I understand---
Not many have such a sweet man to go home to.
But ladies, I'll let you look just once, and that's all I can do.
Ladies, I'll give a little advice on landing a good man.
Appreciate all his attributes, even the ones you can't stand.
His sweetness and his smile will always satisfy you.
Bumps and bruises in life will come, so learn to appreciate them too.
A whistling wheezing hamlet, whispering and emanating, tunes euphonic,
In a remote isolated valley, far-flung from the abode of the temporal,
Warbling quietly to whistle scads of tranquil cryptic songs;
Lying spasmodic, a sparsely inhabited mellifluous hamlet, Kongthong!
Not to hyperbole, a singing utopia, uncustomary to the core!
Where innate and mellow are the naive dwellers' rustic tinkling timbres!
A rover's riddle, the natives' pride, a unique heritage, their blissful strains!
Ringing with an ancient tradition of tune-giving in honour of the root ancestress,
Customary to the matrilineal surviving unknown folk of the thorp!
The chirping region's dispositions and practices outlandish, vague and obscure,
Primitive and bizarre, mere to merge with nature's absolute accord!
Voices buzzing in whistles, murmuring and chattering, lilting,
Arcane, pervading the virgin thicket of the sacred thorpe!
To entangle, passerby and wanderers in dream like metaphors!
Those magical murmurs in quirky tunes, mingling the breeze of the secluded hamlet, intoning own tinkles!
Blessed are the tuning terrain's offsprings, nameless!
Rared by ditties, hailed sacred by the clan's conviction!
Outlying, by the uninhabited enchanting wilderness of East Khasi Hills,
Sleeping quietly the untrodden, nature's lulling lullaby, the whistling Kongthong!
Yell! Immaculate and serene, the saga of their undeciphered airs, mumbling in exquisite ethos!
Inimitable and gripping to eye, how the denizens of the tribe,
Are crooning to dub and call each other by indigenous intonations!
Pitching and whooshing, to tune their melodic identities unique!
Whew! The picturesque terrain is tweeting, whooping, and whizzing!
Heaven! Bless anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
The ringing Kongthong, God's own whistling hamlet!
STORMING OVER LOVER’S LANE
lightning, streaked bare-naked, across the nighttime sky.
free form
full on
freedom
a roar of thunder-adulation along the lune’s running path.
hearty
pounding
handstorm
the stars blushed, twinkling out whistling tunes.
woot woot
go on
woot woot
exposed in magnificent display of albino cheeks.
zigzag
zoom
muscleman
the lampooning lamppost likewise exposes cherub kisses.
far below
locked
in cars
tears of laughter rain down on lover’s lane, uplifting life on earth.
9/5/2017
light poetry