The reasons why ink’s sometimes bled
do not always have to be said,
but here is the gist:
this helps climb the list
of grinders, some live and some dead.
Some feel that last line’s in poor taste,
would likely prefer it erased.
But it’s really quite stellar
for a crusty old feller
whose childhood ’twas spent eating paste.
~ To the tune of:
'Where Have All the Flowers Gone?' ~
Where have all the comics gone
Long time passing
Milton Berle and Alan King
Long time did their thing
Where have all their insults gone
Long time passing
Don Rickles and Groucho Marx
Echo in empty parks
Where has all the slapstick gone
Long time passing
Larry, Moe, and Curly Joe
Gave way to milquetoast shows
Where have all the tap dancers gone
Sammy Davis, Donald O’Connor
Bumpers and grinders of today
Do the greats a dishonor
Where have all the comics gone
Georgie Jessel and George Burns
Gone the way of Romantic poets’ poems
~ Like Keats’ ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’
Like puppeteers
organ grinders will always exist;
there can never be a last;
there’s an endless supply of monkeys,
and sheep.
In New York City- Nineteen thirty-six,
the crowds had gathered for a final show;
none playing the next day- no more to see
of organ grinders coming to their streets.
Throughout the city, all those places where
they came around to play- silent would be.
The citizens protested- with no win;
Mayor LaGuardia- ruled they must leave.
Renew their licenses, he would not do-
that radio and concerts were enough.
A nuisance, these musicians he declared;
he did not want them on the city streets.
As poor Italian immigrants, for them
their talent was the means to live and earn
a pittance from the coins left in their tins;
as songs, the sadness of their lives, unveiled.
On this last day, the organ grinders came
to greet their waiting fans and play for them.
When done, all waved goodbye with teary eyes
as the musicians gathered up their things.
With monkeys in their arms, they walked away
to leave their lifetime art of playing songs-
as each last organ grinder bid farewell;
to dwell as history from New York's past.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers listen
through touch,
they become deeper, more blunted,
a vibration of mallets.
Frown the brow,
push the plow
make music drive a steamroller.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders, and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
comes a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing a blunt pathway
into cramped 19th century streets,
where in the absence of safety barriers,
all but one turns a deaf ear.
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
Come enjoy our whole bean bliss;
where bean-sky-lifts
flavored dreams, sky high
or pick your own beans
on your way up;
yes, we grow it all
on one mega-bush.
Saucer dining jettison’s
flavors into stellar space-brews,
captivating to the senses,
tantalizing the taste buds,
teasing the palate into
sheer mocha-toffee delight.
Cinnamon-ginger-spiced-cherry,
will ring karmic bells;
go ahead, hum-happy.
Luxuriate in our eleven-bean wrap
take a seaside meditation lesson
with, Yogi-Bean-nanda.
We’ve got the world’s only
pin-wheel-driven bean grinders;
drink it,
wear it,
swim in it,
we’ve also got the world’s only
tea-cup boats.
Now, how’s that for a
unique adventure?
Beethoven smashes one piano after another.
He shears through keyboards,
a peasant scything hay.
The composer's fingers don't grow deaf,
they become deeper, more blunted,
like mallets.
His apartment is disorderly,
tools and equipment
are hidden in Dresden figurines,
in elderly Delftware,
ball-peen hammers crammed
into the whittled stems of goose quills.
Augers, grinders and rotary tillers
are rendered into themes and motifs.
Wrecking crews hum and stamp,
tables thump out allegro dissonance.
Into this din and demolition
plows a heavy sonata
the hard-nosed 'Hammerklavier'
bulldozing its trenchant path
into the cramped streets;
where in the absence of safety barriers,
a defiant deconstruction
has begun.
Puppy nappers are on the rise in Kansas City the TV said.
I moaned. I did not even know the TV set was on!
Roses are being stolen out of the Presidential flower garden.
I shut my eyes tighter, not listening, and not caring.
Organ grinders are reporting an increase in monkey dementia.
What?
I roll over and pull my pillow down over my ears hard.
“Rainbow elves take Brownie Scouts hostage in Omaha.”
Now I know who it is.
Shut up Trixie, I say. I am not in the mood to write poetry. I want to sleep.
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.
Invisible Footprint
My words reverberate,
I must pause before I say.
They have impact and meaning,
they crystalize in shape.
People act on those words,
behaving a certain way.
Powerful and challenging,
they ripple like the waves.
I reach out to touch,
making senses come to life.
Hands are actually organ grinders,
a multitude of tasks they perform.
The world’s greatest movies,
as many an actor is born.
Our deeds are always noticed,
intangibly they entwine.
One random act another moulds,
in life cannot be denied.
We all take the same path,
leading from cradle to grave.
Those impressions left behind,
as an invisible footprint is made.
Copyright Elle Smith 2018
The mill wheel would not turn until the spring,
the ice, springtime, thawing, now showing bling.
The mill, now in motion, mill pond, full spate!
Hark, the grinders grind flour for bread, can't wait.
Fickle the weather, the water freezes,
hard frost, the mill and pond, motion ceases!
What grain was ground, sold, fresh bread, cakes baking!
Rumour has it, the mill, now old, shaking.
Whispers ran through the town from door to door,
their mill, it's state, condition, bad, yes poor!
The bank was made aware and did declare,
with help, it would contribute, help repair.
All helped, a vast sum did accrue, delight!
Work started twenty-four hours, day and night.
Ice melts revealing secrets, the wheel creaks.
Across pond, two otters swam, leaving streaks.
The wheel was stopped, for one whole year, no bread.
To the delight of all, the otters bred.
Soon left, the wheel, their home, fixed, mill started!
Fesh ground flour to all homes was carted!
One, nine, sixteen v3.0 Poetry Contest - Sponsored by Viv Wigley
6/25/18
Let the kinks and oddities remain esoteric
to herald that special uniqueness
that makes you, just you, as you are.
Resist the shapers and conformity grinders
that would smooth out the crumples,
iron out the creases and wrinkles.
Your texture becomes you when gripped,
Your spikes and bumps adorn, when worn displayed
tryen find words to find me
find i in myself
help me
find
we
these stale glimpses
what have you given me but taken
swollen poetry paragraphs
the toenails
of
love
what
have you
clipped from me
that my wing are gliding over glaciers
frozen tips on my feathered joy
that I have been dropped upon
branches from roots deceit
drop another tree
claw me
10,000
generations deep
find me here in loss
sink your teeth
in
my
love
show me your surrender
blend me in your
call just blender
meet
of
me
tryen find me
here
try
an
find me
branded stars
galloping glaciers
of
time
stranded stars
created
stone glaciers
now find grinders edges
crying blind heards
try
an
find words
?
hello lunacy
hello lunacy
hello lunacy
catch me in that dogs hair
smoke ringing alibis
make my time
turn
to
care
catch me
in
that dogs hair
changed my name
forgotten my smile
wording fame
cautions
denial
my poetry lips wet
dripping on my lovers throat
here he takes me
stranded
am
i
never stranded
only stranded stars
branded stars
no
only stranded stars are branded stars
we sorted through all the misfit stars
stranded stars over stone glaciers
flavored grinders edges
edges
of
life
what is this
count my fingers
as
penetrating
my fingertips exploit myself
here he found me searching
for
him
his shadows
more than mine
darkest of night
shadows feather flight
seduce me in this nightingale mascarade
find me sculpted under plans your bed never made
shove me back in the closet gifted as your pet
bend me over in your passion i dream to forget
nightmares that peel my flesh to breathe
each breath without you is one i take
in
regret
help me
touch
myself
before
you say goodbye
hello lunacy
?
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