It started with a bamboo pipe
from Karly, a sweet lass…
But when she went to her own way,
the pipe, too, went into the past.
And so I got a catalog
of toys and music stuff
Behold, two Clarkes in C and D–
“I’ll get just two. 'Twill be enough.”
My Clarkes! A source of endless joy
and so unto this day!
What cost for such joy? Sixteen bucks
seems a miniscule price to pay.
A new career, new town, new scene
a new chance to perform
for someone besides my close friends–
and how the butterflies did swarm!
The coffee shop, the open stage
(well I recall the day)
The M.C. smiled and gave a nod,
and timidly I stood to play.
This is Wyoming, after all,
this isn’t what they’ve come to see.
But an old slow air siezed my heart
and out it came in spite of me.
But wait, the conversations die,
all gazes turned this way.
A tear in that old lady’s eye?
I close my eyes, and start to PLAY.
A reel, a jig, Amazing Grace,
more confident, I play
The patrons try to “River Dance”
as bass and banjo join the fray
And many campsfires come and gone
and many nights with friends
those tin companions shared with me:
the memories that do not end.
Ah, many other whistles
have I added to my stash,
much time well-spent in learning,
and more than a little hard-earned cash:
Four Generations, one Feadog,
a Dixon much beloved,
Susato I don’t care for much,
my Hoover D enshrined above…
But lend a bamboo pipe to me
and Karly’s back again;
Give me my old, worn-out Clark D
and I am with my long, lost friends.
“The Perfect Whistle” still eludes.
That search will always last
but if “perfection” means pure joy,
I’ll choose the ghosts of whistles past.
TW