"whistles" poems
Let it be grey.
It has never rained like this before,
I like it this way.
I don't care if it is night or day.
For all the times I have felt sore,
Let it be grey.
They will not come today.
No one will knock on the door,
I like it this way.
There is nothing for me to say.
I want to listen to the clouds roar,
Let it be grey.
The wind whistles my stress away.
And I have nothing to cry for,
I like it this way.
My mind wanders away.
My eyes marvel at the downpour,
Let it be grey.
I like it this way.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 4:04 PM UTC
You cause
a break inside my organs
Pointing out my flaws
our differences.
You are at peace.
I sit jittering, worrying
what everyone will think
of when I didn’t care
you made me laugh at
everything
Changes. You’re not right for me
Nor I for you, but I can’t help
Thinking
What if? Then I remember
you’re not what nor
Everything I want.
You are an intellectual snob you
have a depth about you
I would love to delve in,
a psychological study
that even the best critics would praise,
but I don’t want anyone else to have been there
or ever go there.
I cannot hold on to you
tear me away while
You’re haphazardly gluing us together
We’re a kindergarten art project
messy, trying to see
Beauty within the confusion,
unfinished
You asked me
Where am I most at peace
4 years old.
I could be anything
No fears
I hadn’t been ripped apart.
I was the girl that said everything,
until I felt the need to screen my thoughts,
like the filter you use to make your coffee
each morning. I wish that’s where I was,
having you tell me
that you like your women like your coffee
Dark and bitter.
I can look past your chauvinistic ways,
not giving a **** about anyone.
You’re not really closed minded
You just act like it,
which annoys the hell out of me
Sometimes. I wish life was simple.
But then
I would never know your complexities nor
Feel the things you help me feel,
like hate for train whistles
or the burn of gin hitting my throat.
Music
you introduce me to
offstage trumpets, bad movies. Your politics,
your brown eyes
and how you can hear frequencies
that most everyone else can’t. I worry
that you hear
the fear in my voice and heartbreak
With every word I speak.
When were you going to tell me?
Or was that your plan all along?
To throw me out
like yesterday’s coffee grounds
or cut up scraps
Used and unwanted.
I wish I could tell you
to tell her you don’t want her
but me instead,
you don’t, I don’t want you to.
I want holding hands, laughter
comfort, personality, humor, intellect.
You want that plus things
I can’t give
But you always take.
You are your coffee
disgusting, caffeinated,
addicting
the only patch that helps is
comforting words you never spoke.
We had many conversations
of your desires, lusts, mistakes,
but I was burned,
by lies, distrust.
You left, like always,
a harsh, acidic aftertaste
on my tongue.
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 10:20 AM UTC
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
*that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"*
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Mumbai is rich, Mumbai is poor.
Mumbai is fast, Mumbai is slower.
Little bit sweet, and little bit sour,
Sometimes it’s hot but not too more….
Mornings are energetic and evenings are electric.
Noons are lazy but Nights are crazy
And any one you ask he always say “M busy”
Dude, life in Mumbai is not so easy
There is lot of Masti with little bit of Maska
Welcome to the city that can’t live, without Bollywood Chaska
From cooker whistles to the traffic jam horns,
From steaming tea kettles to breaking nut-betels
From telephone rings and doorbell brings.
There are people connecting through Blackberry pings
Where there’s little time to spare for kids
People here spend their lives on bids
Here you actually pay your travel fare by meter
But milkman mixing water is not a cheater!
Sev puri and bhel puri are all Mumbai chaat
Relishing it with spicy chutney is no easy art
From pop-corn to ice-cream, all sold on cart
Mumbai o Mumbai, you’re always close to my heart
Where local trains usually run on time
And violently rushing for a seat is not a crime
Here 3 PM for lunch and 12 AM to dine
People face hardships, but still say “it’s fine”
From Mt Mary in Bandra to Mumba Devi in Town
And ISKCON in Juhu to Haji Ali in Mumbai’s Crown
Faith runs deep as the Arabian Sea
But people don’t hesitate to pay early darshan fee.
Marathi, Punjabi, Gujarati and Bengali
Everyone forgather celebrate Id and Diwali
Holi is colourful and Christmas is cheerful
Spend some time here and your life will be un-forgetful
Billionaire to baggers, all found in this city
Be careful dude, this place is a bit witty.
Overall this dream-world is huge but pretty
Mumbai o Mumbai you’re wonderful city.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 1:15 AM UTC
Lush is the quietude
of the late Saturday afternoon,
rich are the silencing sounds,
as variegated as the shades of greens
of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn
rays reveal some bright,
some yellowed spots,
all a potent color palette
resting worry wearied eyes,
untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination,
that soon will disappear and seal officially,
another week gone by
the lawn,
acting as an ceiling acoustic tile,
absorbing and reflecting
the varied din of disharmonious
natural sounds orchestrated,
an ever present reminder
that true quiet
is not the absence of noise
I hear
the chill in the air,
insects debating vociferously
their Saturday evening plans,
the waves broom-swishing beach debris,
pretending to be young parents
putting away the children's toys for the eve
the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues,
chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks,
then going strangely silent as if all were
praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service,
with an intensity of the silent devotion
this moment, i cannot
well enough communicate,
this trump of light absolutes,
and animal maybes,
that are visually and aurally
presented in a living surround sound screen,
Dolby, of course,
all a plot of
ease and gentility,
in toto,
sweet serenity
here to cease,
no more tinkering,
leave well enough,
plenty well enough
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
The spring tide arrives
Dolphins dance on the water
visions of lovers
dipping into sun lit sky
speaking in whistles and clicks
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
"Tomorrow's Swan"
beautiful and proud
reflecting on nights water
is tomorrow's swan
"Motionless"
Gently flowing
the liquid mirrored quiet
motionless I cry
"Beautiful Swan"
a beautiful swan
the river makes no sound
in a timeless space
"Her Wings"
whistles of her wings
slicing through the cool waves
stillness of the swan
"Swan Attack"
I watch from the shore
her struggle to stay afloat
an attacking swan
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
Midnight
criminal metabolism of guilt forest
Rattlesnakes whistles castanets
Remove me from this hall of mirrors
This filthy glass
Are you her
Do you look like that
How could you be when
no one ever could
~~~
Poet of the call-girl storm
She left a note on the bedroom door.
“If I’m out, bring me to.”
~~~
I dropped by to see you
late last night
But you were out
like a light
Your head was on the floor
& rats played pool w/your eyes
Death is a good disguise
for late at night
Wrapping all games in its calm garden
But what happens
when the guests return
& all unmask
& you are asked
to leave
for want of a smile
I’ll still take you then
But I’m your friend
16.8k
Can I be graced by a kiss from your aura,
Does the same feeling reside deep down inside,
We’ve been separated for so long my friend,
It scares me to see you like this,
Abrupt erections long gone,
The insecurity of prolonged exposure,
Sequences of nausea,
Seek and destroy,
The sickening of the tunnel vision,
How strange it seems now,
To look back at you,
How amazing it is,
To be myself again,
Made different by time,
The same ****** hole,
The singular aspect of oneness,
The grand expanse seemed so small,
Ironically,
Now seems to drag on with the whistles and clangs,
The bangs the song the spiral never ends.
Somewhere a part of my innocence was left behind,
Left to wither in the shared tunnel,
The smell of the air expelled made the hairs
In my nostrils stand on end and dissolve.
Now that I think about where I came from,
What happened to me to this point,
I’m happy it didn’t end so soon,
That I’ve been reunited,
Drawing a conclusion doesn’t seem so difficult,
When the beginning is just around the corner.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:31 PM UTC
in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame baloonman
whistles far and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring
when the world is puddle-wonderful
the queer
old baloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing
from hop-scotch and jump-rope and
it’s
spring
and
the
goat-footed
baloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
16k
****
isn't always dark alleys
and whistles
and pepper spray.
It isn't always
a stranger,
they don't always
look dangerous.
Whether it is
your boyfriend
or your teacher
or your uncle,
they are no longer on your side.
This is your attacker.
Do not be silent.
Do not be afraid to make a scene.
Whether it is a movie theatre
or a street corner
or your bedroom,
yell,
scream,
curse,
bite,
spit,
let no resonate from your lungs
so they cannot say they didn't hear you.
Send him home,
tell your parents,
tell your friends,
tell the police.
****
is not always
drunk men outside bars
or keys clenched between white knuckles.
Sometimes **** is silent.
Do not be silenced.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
the thought of eye contact is faint,
Words are limited.
Silence is all you hear along with the shocks of the buses' wheels
I look around,
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
plugged in,
cookie cake in hand.
What are they thinking?!
A smile wouldn't hurt!
What is beauty?
The train whistles.
Eyes glued to tiny screens,
doors are open,
people get on and off the bus.
What journey are they on?
What part of the day am I getting to share with them?
A smile wouldn't hurt.
It's funny how I teach my students that eye contact is very important.
Am I setting them up for failure?
I look around.
It's like I am invisible.
Eyes, glued, to tiny screens.
I could probably sit here naked and no one would notice me.
A smile wouldn't hurt.
The breeze feels grand,
but who am I to judge?
Eyes glued to the screen.
I am just as bad as one of them.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Being a girl in my day and age,
you get used to all the horn honks,
the wolf whistles,
and the "hey baby's",
and the guys saying "you're too pretty not to smile",
as though not having a smile on my face at all times is a sin.
But why should I smile when harassment becomes normal,
when a girl can't report it because even the police thinks she should be flattered,
but why should I be flattered that a guy wants to see up my dress so much that he 'accidentally' pushes it up,
why should I be flattered when a guy can't even use words so he whistles at me like I'm a dog.
But I am not a *****
I cannot be won over by a whistle and sweet words,
no scratch behind my ears in the form of some misogynistic pick up line,
will give you a chance.
And if I laugh at your poor attempt,
it is not consent,
just because my lips curl into a smile,
does not mean you can come curl up with me.
My self worth does not exist on how fuckable I am in your perverted eyes,
it is not existent on if you want to 'hit that',
if you were to hit anything it should be your mindset that that is okay,
right out of your head.
Because I am not an object for your pleasure,
and I object to you treating me like I am.
I AM!
I AM!
I AM!
A WOMAN!
Built from all the things a man could never be.
And don't you ever ******* forget it.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 3:16 AM UTC
Enchanted by spring’s
rustling whispers
... whistles swirl
in the pungent springtime breeze;
steeped with a bedazzling
cadence
heart dancing
to a hummingbird’s
whirs
waves of breath,
of little wings waft,
whooshing throughout
twining honeysuckle lattice
a
tiny manger
beset of hidden gold
precious speckled eggs,
silver lining of smallest hopes
fruits of fruition
continuum beheld prize,
concealed in interwoven rootlets;
potently perfumed flowers
while away
the waning dark hours;
swollen full flower moon
waxing yellow,..
heavenly fragrance
sweetly-scented suckled nectar
the one with eyes of a child,
wonder ― hidden inside,
marvel in the light of grateful eyes
imbibing an unholdable moment's
spellbinding elixir
... poetry alive
air so poignantly perfumed
with blossom
moonstruck
by spring’s frolicking cadency
a reverent moment's
edifying intoxication
a sobering beauty that just is...
someone ... May 2017
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Fingers on the rails can feel
The pulse of steel and diesel engines,
The muscle and sinew of a continent.
Ten thousand horses throb the air
And bear down on a mile of freight.
It rolls by like thunder
Under a clear blue sky, stirs the soul
With memories of lonely whistles
In the night, a desert wind, mystery lights;
When little fingers at the open window
First felt the pulse of steel and diesel,
A few million miles ago.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 10:37 PM UTC
I'm afraid of what's coming
And it's approaching so fast
I don't have time to decide
And I don't have time to look back
I'm leaving soon
And hope it's not too late
To look around and say goodbye
Before I leave this state
Of being so dependent
Of wanting to be free
Of never realizing my freedom was only restrained by me
Change is in the air
And it's scattered on the ground
It whistles through the wind and tugs our happy smiles down
All the people I knew
Will no longer be the ones I know
I'll have to start again
When it's time for me to go
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 11:39 PM UTC
Each day with so much ceremony
begins, with birds, with bells,
with whistles from a factory;
such white-gold skies our eyes
first open on, such brilliant walls
that for a moment we wonder
"Where is the music coming from, the energy?
The day was meant for what ineffable creature
we must have missed?" Oh promptly he
appears and takes his earthly nature
instantly, instantly falls
victim of long intrigue,
assuming memory and mortal
mortal fatigue.
More slowly falling into sight
and showering into stippled faces,
darkening, condensing all his light;
in spite of all the dreaming
squandered upon him with that look,
suffers our uses and abuses,
sinks through the drift of bodies,
sinks through the drift of vlasses
to evening to the beggar in the park
who, weary, without lamp or book
prepares stupendous studies:
the fiery event
of every day in endless
endless assent.
11.1k
I stand here;
outside my balcony
amidst darkness
in the company
of loneliness
My soul impertaburbly
trapped between forlornness
and peacefulness
Yin and Yang perhaps,
Forlorn because the soul,
wounded and damaged perniciously by loneliness..
And peace;
because the herb...
well the herb heals
to some extent
My vessel the arena
On a forbidden course
Yang battles Yin
the odds are in his favor
THC to Yin is like aconite to wolves;
And so he weakens with every hit
The melee ends
like it was destined to
tranquil and pure bliss prevail
At that moment;
the wind starts to sing her song
Calling, whistling to his lover
the king of the night
she whistles a beautiful song
that sounds of a gentle breeze
zephyr like pushing aside clouds that
guard his majesty;
grandiosely his image is revealed
in the nightlife
Observe they all gather under the nightsky;
selenophiles
far away from each other
all in different worlds
but it's this energy that coheres them here
together
The wind starts to sing
the song of halcyon,
ogling at the moon
in veneration and exhilaration
selenophiles danced away into the night.
Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 7:39 AM UTC
..
Save from the hidden nests of birds,
it was the only one there...isolated,
like an isle...crested on the leveled
top of a gorge...its way down or up
was through a hand-carved series of
steps on its slope...at its front was a
curved gorge......one would think,
it was trying to cross over
the cottage was small, weather-beaten,
desolate......its wooden walls seemed to
have shrunk...its faded colors proclaimed
its age...its having survived past storms....
from its window, the stream was seen,
and heard, flowing on and on between
these two precipitous valleys.
light came from the sun...and moon,
music was provided by the murmurs of
the forceful wind, the continuous flow of
water on the stream, the stirring of the leaves,
the crackling of branches and twigs, the birds'
singing in the spring...the pounding of heavy
rains on its roof...and countless other hymns
of nature......the dweller had heard them all...
beneath a lonely moon glow,
when nights were cold,
there hovered low 'pon its aged roof,
rounds of layered fog...like a series of
steps....like a stairway to the sky...
fog slyly crept, and wilfully shrouded
the cottage.....it vanished from view,
the two gorges and the stream, hushed,
in the dark loneliness of that secluded
spot......their vulnerabilities, trapped
inside....misshapen silhouettes...
in light and in dark,
the whistles of nearing and departing
boats....were wailing, haunting calls,
piercing the peaceful calm of the valleys, or,
maybe, the stilled complacence of the cottage,
or...of the one living in that lonely cottage,
...lost, or gone astray, now weary and worn,
willing to be found...longing to be reunited
.......with the light and warmth of love...
the cottage, the gorges, and the stream
would be loneliest,
without the cottage dweller...
Sally
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 27th, 2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
The head losing itself
A rainforest
Lake in the heart
Hundred tombstones
Named Narcissus
They Echo
Icy, bluish lungs
Pallid violet nails
Lips still yet loving
Salty bamboos
Necrophilic whistles
Siren's footsteps
Illegal loggers
Burying selves alive
Love, love that is
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC
The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born
The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep
And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all
The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away
The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects
But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why
But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea
Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
We laughed as we watched,
We smiled as we played.
Then suddenly came a Romeo
to surprise my day.
He asked to play,
I nodded to agree.
Little did I know,
They set it up for me.
I spoke of numbers,
He moved the options,
I chose one paper,
there popped the question.
Go with me? He had written,
I sat staring, not saying a word.
Actually shocked and yet a bit smitten.
Jeers surfaced, wolf whistles released.
My cheeks' red however, somehow increased.
My heart was pounding,
was this really true?
I guess so,
since I said yes to you.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
It's time to enter a sleepless mind
The cogs and wheels spin and grind
I hear the whistles and the chimes
My head racing faster than a v8
Thoughts are larger than a U.S state
For my sleep I am ever so late
Clocks in my head, tick tocking
Side to side my head rocking
Chains pulling of the ship docking
Inside a war is going
Bullets and missiles a throwing
Explosions is all, lost for all knowing
Eternity lost in void of thought
Reminiscing on all I was taught
Consistent darkness you haunt
A sleepless mind is what I see
It is all I know how to be
So if don't you mind, come join me
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Gliding through the fog,
She comes to the clearing,
Bluebells, Bluebells everywhere,
Violets and bluebells,
You can almost hear them ringing,
Ding-a-ling, Ding-a-ling,
The breeze whistles through,
The newly sprouting trees and seedlings,
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC