The Whistler

August 7, 2015 admin No comments exist

The Whistler

At daybreak on Saturdays
the enchanted music rose
to my bedroom window.
Deep and melodious,
its origin, mysterious.

One morning I leaned
out as the whistler
walked up the driveway.
I spied an older black man
and thought it my secret.

Then I was a boy unbeaten.
Though Selma and Montgomery
had rocked a nation’s conscience,
and Newark fell in flames,
I still didn’t know a thing.

Nothing I’d ever heard
in church or our grand piano
approached its power.
Whistled by a tall thin man
stopping to pick up our trash.

Decades later the memory
of the whistler continues
to inspire me: how the soul
insists on making great song,
even in hatred, even at war.


#### Poet’s Notes ####

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The Whistler 1

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