Half-faded memories, they flutter round the bed
Like butterflies over the garden flowers
How come that I’m living to forget
While it seems worth to save the happy hours?
Why did they disappear rather soon
Don’t ask, there is no answer I can share
All efforts drown in a merry whistling tune
That plays until I fall asleep in my armchair
And through the darkened glass I see the land
I've never walked upon and I won’t do
But where were you, the one, who understands?
Sounds rhetorical, though I didn’t mean it to…
Well it doesn’t take someone from Harvard
To get the metaphor of whistling past the graveyard
As Dr. Luke states it and rather obviously
You walk over an unmarked grave obliviously*
The naturalist walks over The Foundation for reason
In an attempt to ridicule that very Foundation
But why as a naturalistic behaviorist
Would you grind when there’s a mill but no grist
You are borrowing the Christian’s capital (yeah I said it)
The ability to reason, but you don't give God the credit
Reason doesn’t grow on trees
Do you need more empirical clarification?
Generalizations can’t be seen with binoculars?
See the truth is something unseen or un-ocular
I don’t say in jest or jocular
Or appeal to Private Monocular
“We can’t give up God because we have laws of grammar”
See! The nut job Nietzsche gets the frustration
Asleep in the bottom drawer
A place I now call home
I hear a voice call my name
"Sockie, Sockie" where are you
I am here
I seem to yell
But my voice was muffled
By rolls of clothing hell
I listen to the frustrated grunts and growls
Doors slam
The smell of brewed coffee
I guess it's early in the morning
I try to stand
Alas,held by the cuffs of clothes
A wretched ordeal
That I could not foresee
Till I had an idea
So mad it's genius
I used my little lips
And I began to whistle
Till at last it got to you
And then you brought me out
I'm here to rescue you Sockie
Was the last word you said
Another whistling train speeds by in midnoon,
the jeering lad waves at pensive passengers
absorbed in serene, not adverse feelings;
his youth is vibrant and ready to lampoon!
Daises, jasmines and violets are gently lulled
in their wild and lush meadows as it rushes by;
ravens disperse in pervasive fear so unequaled;
what was too calm turns into chaos: a pitiful cry!
Is it nostalgia he clings to, or something else?
That landscape is as vivid as his happy yesterday;
he hears the shrieking horn, its sound is not terse:
crossing the tracks can be fatal in mischievous play!
The adventurous boy climbs the breezily and balmy hills,
and excited by the spectacular view, he begins to hum;
all sonorous canaries start warbling to accompany him:
they echo in the valley below to awaken church bells!
Another whistling train speeds by in midnoon,
he describes this scenery in an evocative poem;
no tears go to waste, they're precious to him:
it's nighttime, even darkness will grant his boon!
From the hued thicket of dawn
flies the musical bird
in the sunburst sky,
on the rhythm of its own song,
the whistling crescendo
of the nocturnal nightingale.
The Scent of summer on my skin
golden hues of remembrances
The rushing river moves quietly
into the hours of the day
Autumn steams by in fired shades
amber oranges yellows and red
The whistling winds subside
and I feel winter's chide
January shivers homsie brews
rainy days that end with snow
Wet leaves cling to the pavement
tangerine smells of home
come follow me to the island called home. Welcome black sinners to the rainbow dome. spider queen feeds on the wacky clowns.
wizened widows wink
when winsome women wiggle...
while workmen whistle
(Alliterku)
02/28/2023
Alliterku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Charles Messina
winter trees naked
spring trees cloaked with snug green leaves ~
birds’ whistling season
4/1/2022
Nature in Spring
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
HMS 5/7/5
Wind whistling through the trees
Reminds me of the tiny piccolo,
High-pitched obbligatos, ranging free
Wind whistling through the trees, blow
The subtle sounds of spring’s arrival.
Wavering tremolo, shimmering limbs
Marked by winter storms for survival,
Voices of ten-thousand sacred hymns
Humming like soft Gregorian chants,
Lingering briefly in the crown’s apse
To gather all its sacred sycophants,
Trembling in rapt reverence, perhaps,
Until the breathy calm reverberates
And moves beyond the sycamore
While I pause alone to contemplate
The crystalline tones, wanting more.
Written March 8, 2022
Whatever is wrong
with whistling a song
every day at work, all year long
It's like nodding your head to the beat
when at school in your seat
you've no intention to cheat
Or shoveling snow with a spoon
humming a merry tune
who cares if it takes 'til June
But the world says you'd better not
you might start to smoke pot
and all of that other rot
Even as wind, horrid whistling
Met with, leaves us then
Shivering for, hours later
As affrighted men
So does a torment, traced from down
Some hall, historical
Produce numbness. Only Time-blown.
If out of recall.
YOUTH
Mouthing a tunnel
of ringing memories
A young boy whistles
Whistling wind plays the flute mystique
in symphony of air,
flying with the tune of music
singing birds in blue share.
Rippling melody flows
in ripped heart of sorrow,
sublime bliss it then knows.
Make the mind
whistling wind.
_________________
September : 12, 2021
For Brian Strand's Contest A Strand (1061)
Rain that slowly pelts
on the roses in sorrow,
don't make them weep any longer,
instead whisper the last melody
that they learned from the merry lark
that helped them through their agony!
Thousands are the warm raindrops
that fall from swollen clouds
effecting the words I'm writing
on the lines of this notebook;
rain of the happiest of seasons,
keep these tears from falling and save
this poem from disappearing:
everybody must know of my legacy!
Cliff swallows gathered
under the dripping gutters,
raise your soft churs
to the immense space
and supplicate the unstoppable rain
to cease and make you sing
more harmoniously than ever!
Lilies of delicate aspect, don't erase the candor
which made me unique in all emotions
and thoughts, leave it intact as my character;
o flowers chosen by me for their purity:
adorn my grave until November arrives
and gelid wind will disperse them!
How much joy it would offer me, beyond relief,
if strangers who appreciate my humane poetry
brought flowers from a near meadow
and lied them down gently and whistling
the last melody, so cheerfully, recognized
what I heartedly gave to all of Humanity!
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