Scatterhatter
Jun 01, 2017

Whistler

Whistling spills out
flows
into mine
the sound
groans
rumbling
like in preparation of a storm

this whistling entwines
with a writhing wild wind
that tears through years
and tears spring
into the warmth of a heart aching glow

this river of whistling
winding it's way
to depths unseen and unheard before

'Yes' whispers the whistler 's wild wind of home
I'll climb into this chamber of known

About This Poem

Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back

Editing Stage: Editing - rough draft

About the Author

Region, Country: Tasmania, Australia

Favorite Poets: Teresa Hooley

More from this author

Comments

lovedly

I can't get my tongue in pose
O what can I do
I hardly whistle

you have a whistling tone
all gals would love to follow
like the kids once did
hearing the flute of
THE PIED PIPER OF
Hamlin....

wesley snow

The language is clean, but unorganized. Is there a whistler? Or is the wind whistling? Or both? I felt confused throughout and I'm not sure that's what you intended for me.

Esker

Esker

7 years 10 months ago

my ten days in 'special' in jail....NOT 'P.C' that was for the
pedos...special was those whose family were guards...
or other...I whistled...my chum told me that whistling in
incarceration was frowned...it was the song of birds
free....I liked him...he was showing me the ropes so I
PAID my due and let him have my meal that evening
Guards were like...'u sure' and I was like 'yah man'
dude was a wealth of knowledge..female guards brought
in jugs of tea..and I sat back on the concrete bed
letting her know...im not at the bars...Im not hungry
but careful...but she told me...with body language
squatting...right too the bars..pouring the tea slowly
and looking in to the cage..looking into my eyes
that she understood....and when i padded slowly
in those horse blanket 'baby dolls' they make u
wear..she stood but one pace from bars

funny cause there is a sky hill to the north of
the site....i could see my old place when i went
to the showers...or in the van all of us chained
together for court..
i took no lawyers...pled guilty....and was re accepted
by all upon release..making friends with the younger
homies...and the system of containment
PSY OPS ..
that was me man..

Whistlers mother....
a fantastic painting
a profile
i was a head hunter
full on is not as
intimate as the profile
ask those who crafted
coins in roman times

but I know this is about
a breezy thing
we have a privacy fence
on the welding shoppe huge
company next door to the
housing here
where I once lived
the wind blows through the
chain link...through the plastic
slats....it shrieks and moans
magnificent and primitive
....I like that there is reference to
the auld classics...
in the day..wires and midmasts
winds...ghosts and beasties
.oh..what about me

I whistle...beautiful
warbling....in tune..
it is a political message
as resounding as a bugle
call...

as any pertinent bird song
is from the mourning dove
to the common robin
and the complex cuckoo
...

S

Thank you Esker...
Your replies are wonderful - full of stories and life.
I love your imagery. It must have been weird to see your house from your shower room. Two worlds. Sometimes both have bars. Or bars in the mind.... you could be freer in mind behind bars, dreaming of a world beyond. Than outside in the real world with fake freedoms.
I love the wind. I love wild weather.
Thanks again for your time in reading.

S

Thanks Jess.
It's great having you go back through my poems and comment and read. It makes you revisit yourself again.
I've realised in the last few weeks my concentration for poetry has been compromised. Which I will endeavour to change this if I can. And thank you for the recording!
Cheers, Stevie