Best Organ 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.
Sam Ebenezer
a sad ol' geezer
was lamenting his shrinkage of late:
my worthless ding-a-ling
is a bell without ring
my manhood in diminishing state
From whence I salute
is thin as a flute
and soft to the touch as cashmere
I search with persistence
it offers resistance
on nature's call to appear
On heeding that call
no waterfall
a few errant droplets at best
where once from the middle
I gushed, now I piddle
and half of my load veers west
Both feet on the urn
pushing forth from astern
I chant 'emerge hocus-pocus'
with my punctured esteem
watch the pitiful stream
dwindle to drops as Limp loses focus
Our wee-membered friend
wished his size to amend
the stiffness rerouted from his joints
have it rise to occasion
and stand to attention
consulted ol' Doc for his viewpoint:
My snake is dead
no flesh; just head
lies comatose and useless
my garden hose
once warmed my toes
now wrinkled, dry and juiceless
The senile old doctor
by name Alfred Proctor
had most of his wit in absentia
his breath smelt cheesy
Ebenezer felt queasy
Doc clearly suffered from senile dementia
Doc's hand took a dip
to just 'neath his ribs
as Ebenezer voiced his concern
Doc smiled all the while
said: your hopes are futile
there's no cure for your vanishing organ
I lost my virility
before my senility
long mourned my lost pride-and-joy
put my plight to rest
on realizing I'm blessed
to have in hand my own built-in toy
**************************************
When I die
I won't need my eyes.
L’orgue de la mer - The Sea Organ
Née à l’horizon
Born on the horizon
où se meurt le soleil
where the sun dies
ses grandes vagues pleurent
her large waves weep
et s’écrasent sur les marches
and crash on the steps
où l’orgue de la mer chante
where the sea organ sings
le va et vient des marées
the coming and goings of her tides
plein d’accords mystérieux d’air et d’eau
filled with mysterious chords of air and water.
The Sea Organ is located in Zadar, Croatia. Below the steps you see in the above picture there's a system of tubes and a resonating cavity that turn the site into a musical instrument when the waves come crashing in.
The brain is an incredibly efficient computer
Compressing trillions of bytes of information,
Registering every impression we encounter,
Analyzing concepts from formation to causation.
Compressing trillions of bytes of information
In milliseconds without hesitation, unrelentingly,
Analyzing concepts from formation to causation
Remarkably, it even functions unconsciously.
In milliseconds without hesitation, unrelentingly,
It processes the continual intake of our senses
Remarkably, it even functions unconsciously,
Outlining proposals, formulating our defenses.
It processes the continual intake of our senses,
All while regulating our involuntary responses
Outlines our proposals, formulates our defenses
Even evaluating the most complicated nuances.
All while regulating our involuntary responses
Registering every impression we encounter,
Even evaluating the most complicated nuances
The brain is an incredibly efficient computer.
Written May 9, 2022
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.
“You need a disposable organ
Said his glum doctor Guten Morgan
"I need meditative piss"
"I hate oil and amber-grease"
"You can use cheese into the bargain"
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.
I’m not sure how you feel about this
But it’s an extremely important decision
That you may choose or choose not to make
Which is the gift of life for someone
Through the gift of organ donation.
Just think if you do decide to be an organ donor
You may have the chance to live again
Although not in the physical sense
But just think a small piece of you
Might be helping someone else to live.
It’s not a definite that they’ll live
But if they do you can feel a sense of pride
In knowing that it’s your organs that’s helping them to live
Because the risks sure do outweigh the reality
After all isn’t that what you should do help preserve life.
There is a little young girl
Or if you prefer a helpless young boy
Lying in a hospital bed
To sick to raise there weary head
For whom without an organ
They are destined to die
Begging the question
Why are we all not donors
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.
"The heart is deceitful above all things"
But nursing the strongest connection amongst human beings
Evil resides, individually suppressed but begins from the heart
From the heavens he says "I the Lord search the heart"
As I keep it bottled in, a heart attack is inevitable amongst all things.
Jeremiah 17: 9-10