Whistle Poems | Examples

a wheeze and a whistle

every breath was a wheeze
sometimes it sounded more like a whistle
who was making this sound?

I stilled myself the best I could
my nose was whistling
my mouth was wheezing

two perks of being an asthmatic
add the perk of having to struggle to breathe
and you are part of this party

train whistle blues

train whistle blues
reflecting my saddest moods
there she blows again
sounds like she’s lost a friend

for what does she lament?
her wail sounds heaven-sent
Is it a who or a lost love?
she sounds fragile as a turtle dove

longing of train whistle

such longing in a long sad, drawn-out train whistle
do metal objects have feelings?
this sound makes the idea plausible

train whistle thoughts

train whistle,
 a seldom heard sound, long and low this morning
I wonder if this train is transporting people or cattle
or people treated like cattle
or cattle dressed like people

train whistle thoughts

Train whistle of desperation
Speaks of others travels
Is it hauling people or cattle?
One big difference
People wear tennis shoes

Blew Her Whistle

Knew a young chickie named Joan
Had a full body erogenous zone
Just shaking her hand
Blew her whistle and
Her face turned a deep crimson tone

The Whistlepig Jig

The Whistlepig Jig

I sat upon my porch one day
my pennywhistle for to play.
When out stepped Mr. Whistle-pig,
I thought to dance a jig.
“I left the comfort of my den,”
says he,”to satisfy my yen.  I hear
this high-pitched trilling noise,
emanating from your little toy.”
“This is no little toy”, says I,
“so what do you imply?”
“I do not like this sound,
that pulled me out from underground.”
“Too bad” says I and played on still,
I will not quit until you‘ve had your fill.”
He chuckled in his ground hog way, and
said he, “I intend now to stay,
to laugh at you while you play.”
I took umbrage at his cheek
and said he had no right to speak.
With careful aim I raised my whistle
and flung it at him like a missile.
He caught it with his little paws
and placed its reed in his jaws.
As he played, he grinned a grin,
for we both now know
that he is the real musician.

Oak the Birdwhistle

I have a broken birdwhistle.
It sits on my desk
Underneath the harsh lamplight.

Its end is chipped
And I don't know if it still works.
I've been too scared to try it,
Cause if it doesn't
That means I wasted my money.
According to my parents, anyway;
They gave me that money after all.

He's really pretty though.
I named him Oak,
Because when I got him,
All I could think about was my girlfriend
Who's last name is [related to trees].

I want to hear his call again.
It reminds me of her.

Wee Winnie Whistle

[Picture prompt#2:]

Wee Winnie Whistle, arms full of thistle, 
To welcome the town's Garden Officials. 
Come here to honor Wee Winnie,
For helping so many, 
Bring gardens to life from artificial!

Before Winnie Wee came initially, 
All gardens were artificial, you see?
So with her green thumb, 
She changed every one, 
To living gardens that bring so much glee!

Writer from Within

The less
I move my lips at my 4:00 am Saturday morning sessions
The more
These words are trees standing still beside a racing river

A long way away
Freight train bores the night
Moon without light

Its alto horn
Projects from nowhere entangles everywhere

Uninhibited
By barren maples and icy roads
Abandoned homes and snowdrifts
A shadow walking his dog under planets of street lights
All powerless against the elk’s forlorn cry

The long sigh reaches me in my living room
Like a rope
Or an armored snake
That takes its slithering life with such mangled ease

Iron bolts
Shackles jolt and shudder to the lumber spindles

I have no name but I am story

Clack clack
Clack clack
Clack clack

I count the halved steps of thunder from the mysterious miles
Waning afar

As the Rolling Stones once sang Love is like our music
It’s here and then it’s gone

I am magician
Make things appear and disappear
Conjure things to move
Erase the past and future with Bastami’s ink baton

I am startled back to life

Perfect quiet

Train absent if it ever was.

The Whistle

I waited for the day to come 
When the whistle will blow 
For it to let me know 
That the time was now 

It never happened 
Do it now the time is now 
For there is never a whistle nor a blower 
To tell you to do

Train whistle blowing

Smoke bellows in sky 
chugging uphill whistle blows 
sending birds flying

Penny Whistle Blues

He sold penny whistles
From inside the little sack
Slung over one shoulder
And hanging down his back
And he filled them full of magic
So for one whole day
Anyone who bought one
Learned how to play

And he taught them to dance
And he taught them to sing
And he taught them jazz
And he taught them to swing
And each penny whistle knew
One hundred tunes and songs
So each whistle player 
Never got a note wrong

And when they were happy 
And had their timing right
He’d pick up his sack
And disappear into the night
And not one of them remembered
What they had seen
And not one of them remembered 
That he’d ever been
 
But they kept the music
Though they didn’t understand
When or where or why or how
Each held a penny whistle in his hand
And he’d walk away unnoticed
Still carrying on his back
One million penny whistles
Loaded carefully in his sack

Obeying the Whistle

A thin-lipped nun blows her whistle.
An acre of concrete ground
stops playing, acting-out
our brief make-believe lives.

Reality is a cold wind
chewing at pale knees, gray shorts
and blue skirts.

Catholic children forget their names,
their made-up names as well.
as they march into the bricked block
where classrooms are already
shouting instructions.

Old now, we forget how it felt,
as we filed into the bare-boned halls
of a bickered religiosity.

How we had to study by rote,
like our times-tables,
how angry God would forever be
with us kids.

Female Football and Commentary

Passionate watcher of Female Football:
A voice shrill pitched high in the viewing hall;
Others should here and now spot its credits!
He's been spending rich words on its merits.
"Good female striker can beat the Bad Male
And just be sure of it - it's no blackmail."

But he has, too, pictures of its lapses:
Not that the Female Defender collapses,
Rather, a sport with no pity for the waist
And should a woman feel free to waist waste?

From opening whistle to final whistle
Man's Helper freely takes up Male Wrestle:
Neat mimicry of male temperament
Sports Analysts don't touch  in their comment.
Perfect use of all parts of the body!
One keeps gazing at it: worthwhile study.
Fearless ones trap the ball with their chests
While to the eyes it just landed on breasts!
Long in it, problems of magnetism:
She can't proudly discuss feminism!

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