Best Grinder Poems
He can turn the crank, to tunes of happy song,
One that his crowd has cherished for long,
But something has so terribly gone wrong
For someone has declared: you don’t belong,
O, you don’t belong; no, you do not belong,
As organ music on streets is forever banned
Dismantling livelihood, so long he planned.
So today he turns the crank to words forlorn
As emotions torn, in wistful rhythms mourn,
This miserable morning of a beauteous day,
Oh, the heavens know why the sky is gray,
And the organ blares missives that betray:
Nothing can unsay ~today is that final day.
They watch him grooving as if in festive dance
Feigning happiness, hiding dolorous glance,
Decrying audacity of fate, eerily gone awry,
As he accepts reality, uttering a silent sigh,
Watching the crowd clap, as spirits amplify
His reason for being, reluctant to bid goodbye.
From street to street, he will endeavor to go
Visiting every place familiar, despite angst of woe,
For one last act of songs and music they know,
Collect what he can, past goodwill will bestow;
Turning the crank, to tunes of happy song,
One that his crowd has cherished for long,
Though something has so terribly gone wrong
For someone has declared: you don’t belong,
O, you don’t belong; no, you do not belong.
Between paper-soft
worlds of fragile
imaginations,
I float upon those
gossamer tulips
that split every
second of saccharine
musings and
eclipsed confessions,
distinguishing all
photoelectric synonyms
of lachrymose
stimuli towards
glassy manipulations
of blood-fragranced sun.
Everything that is
sown in sweetened
textures of afterglow-soil,
always blossoms upon
decayed fossils of
frivolous fates, as
balanced bullets have
forever pierced
through the pulpy
sheaths of nature's
rainbow-blankets,
but their aged roots
always adorn nourishing
gemstones of
ephemeral healing,
to spread their wise
branches across earth's
mirrors, as the thin
veil disappears.
What is the raven-spade
-hearted impulse
without its nascent yet
succulently flowing
snow-white mist?
What if, reality speaks
of those skies smitten with
hypnotic illusions of
chess-shaped horizons?
Have yin and yang ever
repelled each other's
rusty-maroon notes
that they whisper in
immortal prelude?
We have remained
skillfully blindfolded to
the isles of inceptions,
swirling amidst ripples
of diamond-kismet
estuaries, washing away
consciences with
diplomatic dewdrops
of frosty maple fog.
Tending to forget that,
we are mere syzygy knights,
crawling along
slanting seesaws as
bioluminescent bishops.
Our schizophrenic
threads have been
tied to the aroma of
poisoned satin within
these final alphabets of
enchante´ epitaphs,
where life will be
the last organ grinder
of karma, playing
an evanescent checkmate
which shall ascend
every soulful spirit
beyond Persephone's
penumbral embrace.
The young mother died,
before she could hold her newborn child
Paternity was unknown
the secret his mother had never shared
The boy was cradled in the arms of his grandmother
they were aged poor people in the countryside
a few chickens and four cows in the barn were all they had
no prosperity
gossiping at the child's birth -
bite thy sinful tongue
Characterized by tight finances and little food
The grandfather found hope in the hopeless
The economy needed a boost
In the wood shed he found the antique organ grinder
Polished it shiny and gave it fresh colors
Life was not meant to be lived in wealth
the organ pipes were still breathing …
gave hope for a simpler everyday life
Every afternoon he took it on his back
and went his way with heavy steps
it was jingling coin that drew him
... a shame to live on alms
daily health and toil
the poor man's pride and honour -
hope in his tired eyes
Reincarnated, I will come back as a mustached and bearded Italian organ grinder,
I will live in Rome, Italy and play my home-made barrel organ in the streets,
My pet spider monkey, Shark, will happily grab up silver coins, as a reminder.
And we will make the beautifully-dressed Roma gypsies jump and laugh and squeak.
I will grind out the best songs, and Ellen will discover us and want to put us on TV.
Shark and I will be flown to America, where we will be applauded and approved.
We will play romantic music for everyone, and be as obnoxious as we can be.
We will be a hit with no one on that plane, people who are boring, and not easily moved.
We will be offered millions of dollars, to leave our wonderful streets of Rome.
But we will make our escape, not caring about the fame or the money,
For spider monkeys and organ grinders know the beauty of being in their home,
And we have a cozy nest, with our llamas and our elephant, named Honey.
He walks through murky puddles cobble stone
City full of busy sounds and movements
Time advancing enhancing improvements.
Passer-byers in the youthful sunny' hours
Social complexity of daily life
Yearning at the hand's fundamental strife.
With his organ strapped over his shoulder,
Brightly coloured, moving from place to place.
The cutest monkey, large grin on its face.
Round its neck a chain hooked to its collar.
It sits wearing a red little outfit
Trimmed in white, fancied its spirited wit.
Swishing its long tail, holding a tin cup
Dancing to music, a spark in its eye
Collecting coins from giving passersby.
While the organ grinder cranks his organ
He moves from place to place, to avoid arrest.
Laws obtain change, loitering, hard expressed.
I can still remember visiting a small musical town,
a young boy holding his hat and singing his heart out for money.
His love for music was heart warming,
John was this little fellow's names.
He wore a big smile with big blue eyes,
as he walked and greeted each visitors.
A few years later I went back to that small musical town,
John had gown into a teen.
He was still singing his heart out,
but now he played a flute.
Over the years I traveled to many towns,
some how John was always on my mind.
One day a friend asked me about John,
then we decided to take a trip.
Could we even find John she asked?
The town had not changed,
but John had.
John was much older with gray in his hair,
playing an organ grinder and singing away.
He realized me right away,
we hugged like old times.
I see you have a different musical instrument,
John's face light up with pride.
His dad was the last organ grinder in town,
when he died~John had to carry on.
John and his dog Blue carry on for his dad,
the town and visitors still enjoy his musical talents.
To All Mothers Everywhere
To all mothers
everywhere
Why do you part your legs
toward
the 21st Centaury
Didn’t you know
That the future is our final station
Where the monkey sits and waits
To collect
For a debt that has long been owed?
And he will never be denied
payment.
That fateful stop is close now.
Didn’t you know that this train will never be slowed?
Maybe we should have planned our escape
Before the monkey smiled
Instead of wandering like dumb beasts
That serve as an exhibit on some distant safari
Under the burning glow of industry.
Yes
it gave us the TV and black lung.
And
Yes
we should be grateful
What other system allows you to own a Statesman?
Or
Pay for the right to soil your water
Or
Blacken someone else’s?
How else can you explain the water’s
And this century’s
Taste of curdled milk
That sits in some hoarder’s fridge
Waiting for the next great war.
Why do you offer your babes the fire?
Everything that blooms
In the forest where we once played
Is consumed
Immediately
Now a days.
On America
Which is the land of the disposable hero
And disposable victim
Where do you think your babes will land?
The hoarder?
The fool with a loser’s dream?
The second storey man
Or the industrialist who wallows in his moneyed slop
Or grows fat feeding on the blue collar?
Maybe the hero
Who will be torn apart for touching the wrong ass?
Only to fade into the gutter?
And did you think you could
Swim in this ocean of equations?
This is elemental my dear.
The only end is the shore of a negative.
The only outcome when you try to defy these waters
Is a riptide that will pull you under?
What role do you really think you have?
2
Finally
Under the sour winds
That blow in the coming shadow
Of the kakocracy
Nothing grows
But the desert
That brings
dry dreams of your children.
But at least their sheets are clean.
If it's just the organ grinder
with his little pet monkey
give him a penny
and send him on.
If it's just the organ grinder
coming around to tell me
what time it is,
tell him I bought a clock.
I had a tolerance for the old man
and his little dressed up monkey,
but day after day the same old tune,
I grow bored. He was quaint once
but now I'm seated comfortably.
If it's just the organ grinder,
give him a penny, or two cents,
send him on to the next house.
Old wooden pepper grinder’s
thinking of the past.
Dreaming ‘bout its days of glory,
now collecting dust.
It’s got stories, it’s got wisdom
but no one’s there to listen.
It’s feeling rusty, useless and lonely
somewhere in the kitchen.
Wanting to retell old anecdotes,
just to be taken into warm hands.
Instead Alzheimer’ s at the door,
saying he wants to be friends.
Old wooden pepper grinder’s
thinking of the past.
Praying to be used again
before the journey’s end.
Mothers everywhere
Listen
The grinder box is growing louder
In the voice of antiquity.
Don’t you hear it over the gears of the midnight carousel.
The monkey won’t be moving from window ceil
To window ceil collecting change
So, you better teach your babes to dance
And dance well
And forget their names
Or perish by them.
The role of the new grinder monkeys
Is for those born into an already spent life.
Didn’t you know things tend to unravel at the worst time?
But when is there a good time?
After all
All the celebrations have ended.
The holidays have been cancelled this year
According to the 12 O’ clock news.
The president claims we can’t afford them
And he suggests flagellation
As a replacement to a day off.
After all we have to save for the war effort.
What war effort?
Sorry
I mean
The war swindle.
This is what happens when the doors to
Bellevue swing open
The lunatics claim this a Christian nation.
Even Christ would cringe
from such serrated adoration.
And this is why the birth you now endure
Is a celebration itself
Of turning
Your sacrifice to the mad hour
To a generation of martyrs.
Emboldened metal torso dusts her in pink Himalayan flecks
Her mahogany neck persuaded to turn in his grip
Rendering fragrant dark bite from her deep spice chest
The two infused together perfect a harmonious marriage
Her mahogany neck persuaded to turn in his grip
Seasoning lamb's tendered flesh, in a glistening delight
The two infused together perfect a harmonious marriage
Chef, shaker, and grinder bow in sumptuous applause
Seasoning lamb's tendered flesh, in a glistening delight
Refined palate and palisades of sharpened cutlery adorn
Chef, shaker, and grinder bow in sumptuous applause
The curtains drawn, lights hushed in reverie and sighs
Refined palate and palisades of sharpened cutlery adorn
Rendering fragrant dark bite from her deep spice chest
The curtains drawn, lights hushed in reverie and sighs
Emboldened metal torso dusts her in pink Himalayan flecks
I often have dreams in which my teeth fall
Out of my skull and onto the ground in
Shattered fragments of yellow enamel
Fragile remnants of bone and blood coagulated.
Through so much drudgery I do trudge onward
Unaware of the trail of despair in my wake
I can only be concerned in what provides comfort
In whatever form most convenient to take.
I fail basic tests of this tumultuous world,
A standardized failure for all the complacent,
I’m waiting to see what compulsions unfurl,
What evidence causes the slow dark descent?
The faint sound of breathing
is heard in the silence of darkness
where eyes gaze into the sky
with tear-stained thoughts
how still the moment
the smallness of being
reliving each sorrow from yesterday
as a metaphor
that stands on the edge of emotion
looking into an abyss, feeling nothing
awakened by a mirror of reflections
that flutter in the background
like the last organ grinder
pulling his worn-out cart into the shadows
on an empty cobbled street
playing, though no one hears
beneath the last lamplight
as a quiet death of echos
fade into the dim-lit realm
to leave an after-image in the swollen eyes
and a haunting sound of sadness
that endures through the calamity of loneliness
The last organ grinder (I’ve been told)
hailed from Boston and died very old.
When his barrel organ
got played by his son,
in his grave the dead Fred must have rolled.
Echoes of despair swirled in my head
as I inhaled the crisp autumn air
My relationship was hanging by a thread
I knew the breakup was near
As i walked through the streets that afternoon
I heard the organ grinder's familiar tune
My heart churned out its own sad refrain
Wondering if we would get back together again
By the time autumn faded to winter snow
I had met someone new
Snowflakes swirled to and fro
As the north wind blew
Seasons rolled around, then autumn returned, knocking on the door
But I never saw the organ grinder anymore