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the whistle
by
jeanne rene watson
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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~the whistle
the whistle sings in lyric note,
beckons the lady follow, to lay down upon its rifts
lost in the swirl and twirl of melody
drifting,
bound for yesterday’s memory, drunk on love
and bent with laughter
a breathe leaves a sigh within the whistle
to call upon desire unspent,
to sing … to sing
come, lady rest upon my song,
so pale, worn your dreams,
that I may wrap you in gowns of sweet, sorrowful crescendo
come, drape regret around my music
and I will carry your name to the warbler’s nest
the whistle lifts its poem,
in ribbons of voice sharp and shrill,
and the lady rides aside her loneliness
above the barren path, above the gentle brush of grain
along the silhouette of hill and precipice
lost in the billow of passing clouds
jeannerené 02.08
composed while listening to Songs of the Irish Whistle
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| Reviewed by MaryGrace Patterson |
5/11/2008 |
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| Vivid images are in tune with this timely write!....M |
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| Reviewed by Michelle Mead |
2/15/2008 |
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| Well-written, you can hear the music within it, this shows a love for your craft. Blessings, Michelle |
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| Reviewed by Karen Palumbo |
2/14/2008 |
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So very beautiful and words so serene and pure.....
Be always safe,
Karen |
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| Reviewed by Cryssa C |
2/14/2008 |
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The cadence of the whistle as it's tune slowly melts away...I'm listening still...
Beautiful write!
Cryssa |
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| Reviewed by Paul Berube |
2/14/2008 |
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jeanne rené,
Somewheres there's a song in that whistle and hopefully a gait to match. Your poem flows so perfectly and sure pleasure to read. Peace, Love and Blessings Always, Paul. |
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| Reviewed by Charlie |
2/13/2008 |
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Sshhh! I'm still listening to my walls. They hold a little of the old tunes too.
My great grandfather came to America with few posessions, one of them being a tin whistle from the "old country". He was quite good with it. My mother would always hum those old tunes, doodle-y-dooing them as she bounced us on her knee, washed dishes, prepared meals, knitted, bounced our babies on her knees... .. . The ghost notes evaporate in and out of walls where she lived and visited. There's something holding about those old tunes. There tuly is.
I'm glad to see them eulogized. --Charlie
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| Reviewed by G Bergeron |
2/13/2008 |
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| beautifully done. this flowed very smoothly like the melodies of an orchestra. good write. |
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