WHISTLER

[jim turner]

Oh, he could whistle! Could
he ever! If lyricists wrote
tunes he’d pucker up
and give them to you true,
note for note, plus music
they wept for leaving out.

His whistling was the bane of birds,
bringing tears to their hard eyes;
or they would tuck their heads
under their wings, not to hear.
Warblers, even mockingbirds,
began to doubt their skills.

Whenever he whistled under trees,
trees stopped doing whatever they do,
stood rooted, stilled their leaves
to listen, and old unhappy houses
opened all their doors and windows
when he came whistling down their street.

Once we were children, remember?
We heard him every day. Before
we ever learned to dance we danced;
before we learned to sing we sang.

Where on earth do you suppose he is?
I haven’t heard him for a long time now.

Jim 11/09

[dadio]

Delightful poem.

[Sue Littleton]

What a lovely, nostalgic poem, Jim! By the way, I changed the ending of "Family Heirloom" ... Sue♥

[mnaz]

good stuff, jim! musing on the child within. many good lines and thoughts. "before
we ever learned to dance we danced; before we learned to sing we sang." exactly.

and loved the parts about trees and unhappy houses transforming. and when your whistling can give even the maestro mockingbird pause, well...