Whistlers Poems - Poems about Whistlers

It should by now be evident Whistler’s mother is very patient. For two hundred years, or close, she’s been profiled in that pose. And, as far as any expert knows, she’s never changed to other clothes much less never took a break for nature’s sake. (Did her artist son plan it that way?) And – as artless as it is to say – are we...

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I can't, whistle I, wish I could. When I hear folk whistle, it sounds good I'm like a kettle without a spout, I purse my lips but, no sound comes out. Blow girl, blow, the sound will come, Whistling comes easy to everyone, Says my husband gleefully, As he whistles merrily. I am starting to bristle, Eighty-four, and still can't whistle. My father could not...

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He whistled away For most of the day We sat in the mud, bored half to death. Smoking and joking, Coughing and choking, We'd get over this bloody war yet. Then in dark As if for a lark Fritz sent up a display, I say a beautiful bloody display. Whizz went the bang As the hot metal sang A withering ballad of death. He'd not whistle again Most annoying of...

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She thought she had nothing to gain and posing for it would be a pain but son insisted against her wishes her portrait gaining a lot of fame Women would look at it and bristle holding tight onto their epistles but not their men they loved the new trend her long black dress making them whistle. 10-24-17...

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The lifeguard is whistling again- Pretending not to hear i dive in headlong He approaches me from the shore's end Stating words that rhyme like seagulls in my head Walking further through the crowdy mass i'm wondering how many people rushed in traffic So they could finally relax in sand For me life is beating hard with every breath A newlywed is struggling...

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