Grinder Poems - Poems about Grinder

The last organ grinder played a blinder Intending to leave folk a reminder To music upbeat All those in the street Did a conga to “Eye of the Tiger.” It was the close of a splendid career The organ grinder shed many a tear As the music died He swelled up with pride For the crowd gave him uproarious cheer....

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You can always hear the jangling sound, Of the organ grinder as he makes his way around. He's out there in the rain or sun, And everyone looks and seems to have fun. He is a funny looking man with an old battered hat, Which he holds out for people to put their pennies in, but sometimes there are buttons...

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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...

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Tripe, sweetbreads, entrails, offal, some people spell them awful. Scottish chefs can do them right Haggis, a meal, out of sight. Making a proper meatball sandwich is virtual what-not-who and which needing perhaps some extra spice supply it with a bit of Scotch hype. The last, best organ 'grinder' that I got was on Panera Bread’s French baguette, hot. Barrel-shaped bread held tight as...

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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...

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In a quiet street, his music would play, The last organ grinder, day after day. Under the moon's soft and silvery gleam, He lived his life like a fading dream. No crowd gathered 'round, no applause or cheer, Just the sound of his organ, crystal clear. With weathered hands and a knowing gaze,...

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Bright tune rings on the streets below Lovers sing and old feelings glow On the corner stands an old man Playing an old barrel organ Old hearts exult in deep delight With the gleam of the broad daylight The dying feelings lived again Like nurtured by some drops of rain In his eyes are the...

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Mine dad in the 1940’s was an organ grinder huh!, in the high seas in the Navy. In the 1940’s Lo, the clanging, bopping, banging of prepare containers foods. Large coppers pans and pots. Put together meals by combining and heating the ingredients in various ways. Prepared bake fix knock up grub rustle up...

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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...

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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...

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The Last Organ Grinder Paris the city of lovers with its promenade of love ...

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Bedraggled the old man sat, monkey on his lap. However could he recover from this mishap? Louts took his organ and attacked him with a bat. Monkey on his lap, bedraggled the old man sat. His old heart gutted, his mind totally wrenched. Rain yesterday had left him quite drenched. We are OK my darlin, to his monkey he muttered. His mind...

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The silence stream cascades in the alien alley, sonata of stillness resonates in the concrete, dances with the music of the barrel organ, his weathered calloused fingers produce. The nostalgic notes play a melancholic melody, echo the tune of the tantalizing times long-gone. The sigh of the old organ scatters on the street, bemoans bittersweet echo of the sound of music. From the...

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Like puppeteers organ grinders will always exist; there can never be a last; there’s an endless supply of monkeys, and sheep....

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I'm the last organ grinder And how my arm aches My back is broken My legs have the shakes I'm the last organ grinder Desparately needing to eat Playing for pennies Out here in the streets I'm the last organ grinder Weary and old In threadbare clothing Wet and cold I'm the last organ grinder I...

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