Twiglet #65

A twiglet is a short phrase. Or a word. Its aim is to “prompt” a flow. A thought. A memory. If something comes to mind, write. A polished piece isn’t the goal; creativity is. Leave a link, if you’d like your work read, but comments should not be expected. Twiglets are posted on Tuesdays.

18 thoughts on “Twiglet #65”


    An engineer in wings plows his black-silver train,
    screaming down old tracks,
    those spent moments on the rails.

    The whistle sound of a passing train
    is a portent of the final farewell.
    It reminds us to be waiting at the station.

    I love the flirting bursts of wordless song
    from younger lips, whistling “ooh la la’s”
    at passing untouchables.

    When they sang and danced and whistled
    on Vaudeville stages, joy filled the hall,
    but did those tunes sail on hidden tears?

    How patiently from my sickbed
    I wait for the whistled warble
    of cardinals bearing spring gifts
    on their bright red wings!

    A human canary sings The Whistle Blow.
    Cells creak open; con feet shuffle in.
    “Hey!” says the whistle blower, “I gotta live!”

    Page 2

    When Mama’s teapot whistled
    or the pipes of our flat
    rattled whistle songs
    or when Anna learned with two fingers
    to whistle home our dog,
    we kids piled away memories.

    Uncle Edsel wet his whistle
    when he should have left it dry.
    There’s nothing worse that sour notes
    that bubble up from rye.

    Maybe it’s Gabriel’s horn
    or a distant strain of a patriotic flute.
    Perhaps the labored whistle
    of a wheezing distressed lung
    or a fervent call for prayer.

    I cannot whistle “Dixie,”
    nor “Suwanee River” of the South.
    A small voice whispers “Nixie,”
    so, I’d better shut my mouth.


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  2. sorry for the typos: POMES, whistledo, black silver. They should read POEMS, WHISTLE, AND BLACK-SILVER.


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