Long Grinder Poems
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Written: June 26, 2023
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The morning's rising sun looms above the hills.
My breath catches in my throat and fulfills.
Warblers are an attractive bonus to the garden.
Their delicate melodies offer a lovely lyrical pardon.
The oak vine is adorned with crimson clematis.
Its aromatic splendor is a sight that grabs us.
A waltz in the breeze, with feathers fluttering.
As butterflies cope with a wind dance spluttering.
Yet, alas, it's late, and my task needs to start.
I reluctantly step away from the natural art.
I find comfort in the morning serenade.
Calm before the time of the promenade.
The sun's golden rays kiss my face,
Guiding me forward with gentle grace
In the day's tasks that lie ahead,
But in my heart, nature's song is still spread.
Though my steps may be heavy, my spirit is light.
The morning symphony will carry me through the fight.
The melodies of birds linger in my ears.
Their harmonies calm any fears.
The beauty of nature is a constant reminder.
That there's much into life than merely a grinder.
So as I start my work with a cumbrous heart,
I'll hold onto the morning symphony's art.
Father is a stump grinder,
a heavy planter. Shovel fingers
bulling through onions and leeks.
Truck-hands lashed to maroon suspenders.
Head in the dirt, a blue exhaust
trailing from grub-working teeth,
hefting clumps and yellow ***-ends,
raising clammy clay blooms.
Mother is a house,
most of it closed.
Sometimes an upper window opens.
net-curtains fly out of gray eyes.
A girl-ghost
not yet locked in a bottle,
waves above my head.
She lifts me up on a rope
of sunshine, to her bedroom.
A mahogany night-dresser
tucks away secret hugs.
She has closets, drawers
where lovers doze.
She whispers, less we all awaken.
Outside father crashes through turnips.
Mother bleeds moss
from nub bitten fingernails.
She pushes a child into rooms
called buried-lost, buried-found.
The dead are everything –
she copes not with the living.
She is a draining board.
I am a basin.
Mother scrubs with red knuckles,
until I pour and curl
by her porcelain sink.
Later I listen to father grunt over her,
as he spades
a reluctant moon
between broken roots.
She thinks in exotic colours
that drip off her tongue
like sharp shining jewels
formed somewhere deep
in the permafrost of her,
the grey matter thrives
in the lava somewhere
rising inside the
lux velvet crimson
pulsing at the core of her,
and births diamonds
that drip off her tongue
like icicles
that could pierce and shatter
a heart or could melt them
just the same
He is like a rhesus monkey
quite short in mind,
small in sound, oh,
but never sound,
the expression on his face,
wanting, eternally perplexed,
the value of his thoughts jumbled,
his darting hirsute mind
running zealous riots around
invisible conquests in
neverending schizoid circles,
rattling the bars of his cage
just for attention,
his words form strangely
for a species trapped
in his own dark age,
each day hardly speaking
but his mind screaming,
passing his hand through
his thinning hair
he is time poor
holding a cup
out for love
to the monkey grinder
all seems lost in poetic translation
yet, it ferments in the daily conditioning,
the small ritualistic routines
regularly delivered in bed before sleep
and upon waking
for one cannot survive without the other;
it’s in the feeding, not in the taking
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Today I will
Think of love,
Speak of love
As I have not
Spoken before-
A time in the park
Just west of the Village,
As we often did
On a
Sunday afternoon,
Talked balance
With the jugglers,
Breath with
The balloon clown
Exhaling you a white poodle-
Sang in my best
Lyric voice
An Old Italian Favorite
Vibrantly
With a bright striped mandolin
And a
Wine-faced maestro
Pressing ethnic sunshine
From the gray New York Air-
Remember the Organ Grinder
And his monkey
With outstretched hand
And expectant eyes?
We were not ashamed
To ask of each other
Anything,
And to give
Until our palms were empty
And our heart-
I say one
Shared-
An omnipotent
Helium of joy!
So much so
It's been twenty years
Since I dared
Go back,
Think of you this way
Vivid in my mind-
I dreamt of you once-
And grabbed and held
You
As if all the earth
Depended on my grip
And the staying
Power of my love-
The angel scolded
Me,
Shouting,
"You must let go!
You must let go!"
I hated that angel
At the moment,
And hated
All of Heaven
And probably would have embraced hell
Had you
Not faded from my arms-
Though I know
He wept with me,
Even He
Unable to lift
Such deeply felt
Sorrow-
Tomorrow
I will be new again-
Productive
And cheerful;
Not allow myself
To really think
Really feel-
For life sometimes
Must simply go on
Without life…
And Death
A living compromise of faceless lovers…
Meritorious lessons, verily memorable
meant by organ grinder or street musician I virtually met
move me to mention my meditations…
Midst his marvelous music
my momentous milestones are filled with hymns*
magnifying the majesty of the Supreme Almighty…
Musing about his magic
my mind is mesmerized with charm of melodious
minutes meandering toward merriment-mirth…
Marked by his impact along what his messages impart
my mentality seems to murmur against
mistakes human nature succumbs to as
my spirit melts toward meekness-moist
mending for magnanimity while aiming for God’s
mercy of faith's flame and truth's frame-merging.
Mentored on functional management
my ministry pursuits never minimize
mighty miracles of the Lord against
mysteries lurking and mockingly
mounting over the last organ grinder’s
monkey business matters.
*Ephesians 5:19 “Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord.”
November 4, 2023
2nd place, "The Last Organ Grinder" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Silent One; judged on 11/22/2023
"Book Worms" Posted 1 Feb 2021
i'm reading a book about anti-gravity I can't put it down
that bio of Led Zeppelin's guitarist is a real Page turner
don't miss this: "Dummies For Dummies" by Charlie McCarthy and Lamb Chop
i'll admit there is a time and place for books in my hand and right now
in one college course we read books about candy the class was Choc Lit
today I got hit on the head by a book I have my shelf to blame
[humor attribution: all humor found online of unknown origin]
"But Weight, There's More" Posted 8 Feb 2021
for some of us during COVID overeating is a weigh of life
when i feel plump i tell myself i'm not overweight, i'm undertall
those who sell books on dieting are living off the fat of the land
darwin's theory of sumo wrestling the survival of the fattest
during lockdown, i'm on the seafood diet i see food, i eat it
i saw my doctor and asked him what kind of shape i'm in he said "pear"
[humor attribution - all were found online, of unknown origin]
"Groucho Marx Edition" Posted 15 Feb 2021
if i said you had a gorgeous body would you hold it against me?
i would never belong to a club that would have me as a member
be open minded but not so open minded that your brains fall out
i never forget a face but in your case, i'll make an exception
i have had a perfectly wonderful evening but this wasn't it
those are my principles and if you don't like them, well, I have others
All humor attributed to the inimitable Groucho Marx
"Occupational Hazards" Posted 22 Feb 2021
my dentist's motto be true to your teeth or they will be false to you
bakers trade recipes with each other on a knead to know basis
I called a budget exterminator he came with a flyswatter
the butcher backed into the meat grinder and got behind in his work
a back- and neck-straightener in Egypt is called a Cairo practer
don't call me a plumber I am a "broker in new and used water"
[Humor attribution - all humor found online, attribution unknown]
Who would’ve thought that
the rain tapping the window
would harmonize so well
with the rude honesty of my morning alarm
.
My brain negotiates with the day
and I stagger forward,
faithless and naked,
toward the coffee maker,
sliding my small ceramic cup
beneath the steaming spout of joy,
waiting for something warm to arrive.
The grinder growls through its duty,
as the scent of a French roast
slowly threads its way
into my fogged-up thoughts,
I sit and I sip and i smile
until the day, slowly and unbothered,
finally comes into focus.
There is nothing in life
so plain, so unassuming,
that inspires my senses quite like
a morning cup of coffee.
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.
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.
life had written an etude in D minor and barely gave him a pass
D for defeat denial disintegration dour reprise of the inevitable
bottom of the class for society sang to its dominant song book
while he was tone deaf and kept quiet hiding a coarse inner voice
his internal melodies sounded like a rusty cheese grinder on arrest
detained him after school hours to punish his apparent shortcomings
but it is difficult to make fine parmesan from blue veined fromage
and the blues of his childhood suffered under cruel constant assault
´the boy has got no sense´ and the child was never spared the rod
when all he wanted was a bit of cane sugar yet he did not suck up
to their blows which knocked out a few teeth in the long process
that laid the cruel basis for his trademark cheeky and sardonic smile
´when you have grown you will show gratitude for our kind efforts
to change your attitude and give thanks to our shaping your mould´
as it came to writing music-sheets he scripted them in lemon juice
secret messages because when life gives acidity you have a choice
one teacher was gentle with him and gifted him sour boiled sweets
for every time he hit a note from his own repertoire of aspirations
he almost chocked on such a gesture of compassion and novelty
breathed out slowly and poured out his heart in cacophonic sorrow
‘I might never become a tambourine major or master of ceremonies
no choral conductor or symphonic regent in other's marching bands
my choir will be a small ensemble and quality strikes vocal-chords
right where they need caressing and cradling but not false elocution’
‘if I can wipe the cheesy grimaces off the face of my crude tormentors
so be it then´ but this is in truth not about a vicious viscous fondue
gratitude has to be earned and thanksgiving follows genuine kindness
attitudes meanwhile may change or strengthen ´for this is my music´
A composition in Roquefort major with walnut crumble and cherries
on my cake and some can see clearly the grinder has its own purpose
when pungent milk turns into custard and some have egg on their faces
‘Its not about perfection but progress is built on effort and appreciation´
26th August 2020