Best Organist Poems
charcoal grey horizon~
on the rusty cast iron bench
my old self sits in pensive mood
beside the lake beneath December sky
the wayward wind as it teases my hair
whispers melodies from long ago~
that breath echo in the air
the echo reverberates ~
weaving fragments into vivid voices
and symphonies of yesteryears
my grandma's lullaby
our high-school graduation song
then tender laughters
of children at play fill the air
then comes the echo
of my father's sobbing voice
as he handed me to my groom
on that Saturday afternoon
whilst the organist played
the Wedding March by Mendelssohn
as the echo fades
and turns tenebrous twilight
into enchanting ebony evening
I look around ~
the coffee shop behind me
inviting for another cup
whilst the coffee on my lap
gets colder and colder
yet not as cold as the winter chill
perching inside of me
“The sounds of Earth is the music of my soul”
I remember the valley rolled with thunder
A section of tenors echoed from above
The sky was shredded, by forked lightning
Somehow that moment transcended love
Static electric rose up through the cloisters
The organist played like a demon inspired
Rooftop gargoyles overflowed with water
And eyes welled up, as if nature conspired
Rivers were swollen, the lake was heavy
A boy soprano, almost pierced the dome
Landslides rumbled away in the distance
High on ambivalence, I thought about Rome
The conductor was whipped into a frenzy
Fitfully pointing his wand in the air
As the tempest outside reached crescendo
Defiant altos, sang a hymnal prayer
Beyond the west window, storms fell silent
Shafts of light, shone through from space
Together the choir reached out in emotion
As they swayed stoically, to Amazing Grace
Originally penned 08/10/22
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Mark Toney
09/13/22
Sleigh bells jingle as o'er the crystal snow they glide,
To the little country church this Christmas Eventide.
Folks anticipate the fellowship that awaits them there,
As they celebrate His birth with carols, love and prayer!
Steeds were eased to hitching posts with a gentle "Whoa"!
Faithful and patient horses snort and paw the drifting snow.
Folks greet others with a special glow upon their faces,
With a "Merry Christmas to you" and unabashed embraces!
The old pastor had arrived about half-past five o'clock,
To stoke the potbellied stove to warm his faithful flock.
The organist who'd served nigh on fifty years in that capacity,
Was at her post pedaling the organ with strident tenancity!
The pastor with a short Christmas homily had his say,
Followed by the Sunday School's annual Nativity play.
A warming glow flooded the church with candlelight,
As the service closed with the singing of "Silent Night".
Though on this Holy Eve ,from cathedrals oratories occurred,
And ancient cantatas sung by thunderous choirs were heard,
The souls of this faithful, God-fearing congregation,
Were just as blessed by their simple Christmas celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
JEEZ LOUISE I DIN'T THINK I'D WIN, I HAVEN'T GOT A THING WRITTEN ON PAPE
OH WAIT, I THINK I HAVE A FEW SQUARES OF TOILET PAPER IN MY SOCKY-NICK
YUP ! HERE IT GOES LADIES AND GERMS.
'I WISH TO THANK ALL MY FAMILY MEMBERS AND MY POETRY SOUP FACULTY
FOR THEIR LOYAL READS AND BRAVO ,BRAVO, GIVE ME MORE, PLEADS...
I WISH TO THANK MY ORGANIST WHO PLAYED WHILE I PIPPED OUT IN PRIDE
MY VIOLINIST AS HE HELD MY LITTLE BOW IN PLACE AS I SANG POOR ME
MY DJ CARLOS CUZ HE ALWAYS KEPT ME HAPPY AS I SANG THE OLD SONG
I WISH TO THANK MY EYELASH TINTER, MY HAIRDRESSER AND MY COVEN OF
WITCHES. WITHOUT THEIR BROOMSTICK POWER I'D BE STILL IN A COWER
JEEZE PELEASE NO CLAPS TODAY, IT MAY WRINKLE MY BEAUTIFUL HAIR.
OH AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST I'D LIKE TO THANK ARTHUR VASO FOR STARTING THIS FIASCO. HE IS THE MAN, FOR THE HUUPA HOORA TOORA TOORA LI SONG WE ARE POETS WE ARE STRONG.
I SHOULD KNOW CUZ WHEN IT COMES TO HUMOR, MY MY HE IS "KING" OK
NOW, ONTO REAL POETRY !!!
FROM YOUR BELOVED PIXIE
XOXO
Only three of us now who knew
both sets of our grandparents.
The three of us, 96, 94 and 88,
how much time have we left?
There are sepia photos from the
old, first Brownie cameras, a few
portraits of some from a bit later,
all still, silent, as they were not in life.
Being the oldest, I recall two great-
grandmothers, albeit vaguely,
one only in a darkened bedroom,
the other short, chubby, with the
horn she put to her ear to listen.
My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones,
studied his Bible lessons every day, but
he died when Dan and I were little.
Who but we three now remember the
stern but kindly mother of my dad?
Grandma Pope had endless patience
teaching my small hands to make jam,
can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread.
She had an infectious laugh which sent
tears rolling down her cheeks.
She let me go alone to
the bakery to buy penny rolls.
Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard
and named the keys. An accomplished
pianist and organist, who had worked
for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play
often any more, as he had toughened his hands
in the factory where he worked during
the Depression, but when he played
everyone was completely entranced.
My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones,
was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress
and seemingly stern, but very loving.
I often would crawl into her bed at night.
When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate.
She would be sure I had hat and gloves
and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh.
We did endless puzzles in her sitting room.
So much more to these people than
ever can be seen in a photograph.
Even this poem only scratches the surface.
The love, quirks, personalities are missing.
I suppose, some day, my descendants
will look at pictures of Doug and me
and wonder what kind of people WE were
and what WE really were like.
Accordin' to my totally unbiased and very detailed research,
Jerimiah Flood pastored the Happy Valley Baptist Church.
From the pulpit he flailed his arms as if fightin' a hive of bees,
Elicitin' "Hallelujahs" and bringin' sinners fallin' to their knees!
His boomin' voice disturbed the peace of those who chose to sleep.
Interminable two-hour sermons were tolerated by his faithful flock of sheep.
He preached hellfire and damnation and the dire results of sin.
He was a'gin any form of gamblin' or dancin' and drinkin' moonshine gin!
An all-day meetin' with dinner on the grounds was an annual tradition,
A time to repent for sins of commission and omission in order to avoid perdition!
Dinner was held under the spreadin' sycamores if the weather allowed.
A half-hour blessin' by Jerimiah was normal as hungry stomachs growled!
Tables groaned 'neath heaps of fried chicken, baked beans and pertaters,
Green bean casseroles and garden fresh stuff includin' beefsteak termaters.
Most disturbin' and unknown to the reverend, there was a little tad of booze,
Snuck into the gatherin' and surreptitiously shared by old Deacon Hughes!
Pastor Flood served the faithful congregation for nigh on forty years,
Baptisin', marryin' and buryin' through many happy times and tears.
Oh, I failed to mention Sister Lois, ancient organist and director of the choir.
Her tea was spiked and she became so inebriated she was invited to retire!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
In da Big Easy
sipping on our Hurricanes
wandering to who-cares-where
Pass an old court-yard
Meters playing 'Cissy Strut'
Funk echoes down Bourbon Street...
*Art Neville (The Neville Brothers) was the organist and founder of the Meters. 'Cissy Strut' was their biggest hit. They reunited for a Katrina benefit concert with Aaron Neville as a guest vocalist
Below are are the links to the song and ‘They All Axed (Asked) For You’ which has become a Mardi Gras classic
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4_iC0MyIykM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S1Vi795Wduc
What's the theme this week?
Songs of faith, hope, love; Jesus Christ?
---Sunday Organist---
Squeaky and his buddies resided somewhere deep within the church's organ.
That elusive rodent was the bane of the pastor, The Reverend Doctor Morgan!
The reverend almost lost his religion a time or two dealing with sneaky Squeaky,
Since he and his troublesome pals at inopportune times could be rather cheeky!
The doughty Ladies Aid Committee "religiously" prepared the communion bread.
There were 500 saints at The First Baptist Church whose souls must be fed.
For Communion Sunday, each Saturday they stored the bread on kitchen shelves.
'Twas an invitation for Squeaky and his squad to "commune" and gorge themselves!
The formidable Miss Freda Wringerhands had been the organist for forty years.
Hitting a wrong note on the old pump organ was one of her greatest fears!
She was puzzled by a strange "mousy" squeak that was occasionally heard.
The reverend doctor gave her a very reproving glare whenever that occurred!
Just as the reverend doctor finished his prayer and prepared to preach,
A screech awoke Mr. Clyde Backslider who shouted, "son uvva beech!"
His wife Grace fled down the aisle screaming, "Lord, have mercy on me!"
Squeaky had abruptly scaled her panty hose and was playing about her knee!
The Reverend Doctor Morgan did all he could to bring about Squeaky's demise,
But his kith and kin multiplied and produced generations of impish mice!
With the antics of Squeaky the tolerant congregation was somewhat bemused,
But the long-suffering Reverend Doctor Morgan was not at all amused!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Sleigh bells jingle as o'er the snow they glide,
To the little country church this Christmas Eventide.
Folks anticipate the fellowship that awaits them there,
As they celebrate His Birth with carols, love and prayer.
Steeds were eased to the hitching posts with a gentle "Whoa!"
Faithful and patient horses snort and paw the drifting snow.
Folks greet others with a special glow upon their faces,
With a hearty "Merry Christmas" and unabashed embraces!
The old pastor had arrived about half-past five o'clock
To stoke the potbellied stove to warm his faithful flock.
The organist who'd served nigh on fifty years in that capacity,
Was at her post pedaling the organ with strident tenacity!
The pastor with a short Christmas homily had his say,
Followed by the Sunday School's annual Nativity play.
A warming glow flooded the old church with candlelight,
As the service closed with the singing of "Silent Night!"
Tho' on this Holy Night from cathedrals, great oratories occurred,
And ancient cantatas sung by thunderous choirs were heard,
The souls of this faithful, God-fearing congregation,
Were just as blessed by their simple Yuletide celebration!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
That Hammond B3 can spit and growl,
Any other organ will throw in the towel...
Add a nice Rhodes piano to the mix,
And you have a sound that you'll never need to fix
Ah, a chance at a pipe organ would be ecstasy,
And likely the highlight of my life,
But a hot jam with good musicians,
Is more orgasmic than the most beautiful a wife.
As the heavy wooden door creaked open
I could hear the church bell chime
All heads turned to witness your arrival
Tears filled my eyes as the organist played ‘our’ song…
Whitney Houston’s I will always love you
The sweet scent of gardenias filled the air as you passed by
Your coffin was covered with your favourite flowers
I followed behind you and took my place in the pew
My darling … I will always love you
Submitted to best sad poem ever II
sponsored by Laura Loo
15th September 2015
Wedding director perplexed.
Running around in a stew!
No one knows what they should do!
Bride in a tizzy!
"Everyone take your place please!"
Organist plays Wedding March.
Everything will turn out right!
Groom is very calm.
*By Jimmy Anderson
*For Dr. Ram Mehta's "Wedding Rehearsal" Dodoitsu contest
Our Church Organist
All of this truly happened.
I am writing this haiku to
explain what had happened.
Last week was a fire
And the whole entire house,
Burned down to the ground.
Never again same;
Does feel sorry for herself;
Has guilty Conscience.
Luckily no one
Did die or had been injured;
This we thank God for.
Prayed for her today;
A sweet person is always;
Our church organist.
Jim Horn
yogi under the banyan tree
yogi under the bodhi tree
bikku under the banyan tree
waiting for release
bikku in blissful nibbhana
yogi in extinguishing moksha
Penniless poet under the tenement roof
Jazz organist under the pavement sky
Struggling novelist under the Riviera blue
Russian ballerina under the American umbrella
Apprentice painter under the Sistine Chapel
Sculptor Underground
waiting for the agent’s call
burning Anne Frank manuscripts in an air-raid fire
singular melodies drowned in the descending drone
Kafka writing without a morrow
van Gogh dabbing his tormented palette under the Arles sun
Sartre turning the Nobel Prize down for teenage girls
Siddhartha abandoning his body’s palace for the people’s pain
the common man unable to abandon his workload family
bikku under the bodhi tree
his body shrivelled under the saffron robe
his begging bowl filled by karma-earning hands
the last trichinosis-filled moksha meal
bikku rising on a thousand-petalled flower
bikku piercing through the cakras’ splendrous colours
bikku on a burning pyre
©T.Wignesan 1992
April 29, 1997
Paris
[from the collection : longhand notes (a binding of poems), 1999]