Long Organist Poems
Long Organist Poems. Below are the most popular long Organist by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Organist poems by poem length and keyword.
*Image of Mom Playing the Organ by My Family Pics.
Songstress Sings Songs
The Doxology chorus though widely sung owns a verse that
accompanies, although, beyond seasons past, ought of considerable
length be, my wholly FAVE song remained scarcely practiced by the
Christian congregations, albeit, my mother, a gospel composer,
having written many testaments accommodated songs citing
directly from the holy scriptures and being a multi-talented
player of musical instruments, such as; accordionist, pianist,
organist, guitarist, drummer, and ukelele extraordinaire, enriched
her abilities to create a fanfare of adored admirers long after her
passing. Sobeit, a tribute to my mother and her once upon a time,
kids of our former church who have perpetuated her visions in song
as grown adults.
His Name Is Jesus
"There's a name you can call when you're in trouble,
There's a name you can call when you're alone,
There's a name full of Grace,
There's a name to be praised,
There's a name you can call every day,
Je-sus,
Je-sus,
A name you can call every day,
There's a name full of Grace,
There's a name to be praised,
There's a name you can call every day."
*From a mom with Aloha...
2020 August 15
*1st Place*
A spiritual wisdom download
~~Unseeking Seeker: Judged 2023 January 16
I was sitting in a church filled with light and beauty
listening to an organist as he gently fused my soul
Even the flowers on the alter seemed to be entranced
in this ethereal place where hardened hearts erase ;
And as I offered prayers to the Savior Lord of hosts
I was saturated with karma and unnamable mystique
Faith became a foundling, much braver then my fears
as I touched His loneliness, everything disappeared
Pondering on the crucifix another door was opened
and it was the HOLY SPIRIT who finally dried my eyes
Soon the only thing I saw was a broken Jesus friend .
as I sat on a wooden pew the organist just played
until the sun fell and the stained glass turned to jade .
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
December 1st, 2019
Contest Name: Holy Spirit
The young and eager parson had completed his seminary education.
He girded his loins to battle sin and lead the wayward to salvation!
The pastoral selection committee after a long and deliberate search,
Invited him to pastor at their little Hoosier country church.
His pay was meager, the manse was dismal, the church a century old.
There were fifty crabby souls to be shepherded in that stalwart fold.
They were set in their ways, each as cantankerous as an army mule!
He was to face trying times that they didn't teach about in school!
His first sermon implied that each of them was destined for Hell!
Since is flock claimed to be saved and sanctified, that didn't go over well!
The formidable church board met with him and raked him over the coals.
How dare he affront with such blather, these charitable Christian souls!
He jazzed up the music, since they'd sung the same old hymns for years.
That upset the choir director and organist, causing a cascade of tears!
He changed the order of worship and the way Sunday School was to be run.
And discord arose when he changed the way communion was to be done!
As time went on he and his flock reached an amiable accommodation,
That led to growth and his forty years serving that faithful congregation.
As a young parson, to be a simple country preacher was all he aspired.
They honored him with the title "Pastor Emeritus" when he retired!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
Looming bells;
Celebrating marriage and love
Channelling flowers;
Overlooking for the bride;
From a distant you can smell her;
Aromatic like oracle flowers;
She walks softly and quietly;
Celebrating marriage and love
Flowers surround and hang surrounds them;
Bride to be and her groom;
Standing in a row the bride-man/groom alongside him his best man;
Flowers fold outside wedding blossoms claps;
Father of the bride sheds tears,
Celebrating marriage and love
He stumbles yet says something blew in his eyes;
As the organist plays here comes the bride...
8/13/19
written by James Edward Lee Sr.©2019
A dreamt event
for the newly-wed,
both looking sharp;
how many hand-written invitation cards
have they sent
with the reddest heart and lovely words?
Down the church isle they will go with a tight-sealed tounge;
an organist will play the famous wedding song...
be ready to greet them with wide smiles,
despite your approval or disapproval, don't show your intent!
Oh, never try to crash a dreamt event
for the newly-wed, you may get unpleasant surprises
from that priest or reverend performing the holy matrimony!
Be quite and listen, or don't bother to attend the cerimony!
Some envious eyes fix their manacing, inappropiate glances
on them...dreaming of what could have been;
why can't anyone openly admit their sin?
Don't be a pretender and continue the dance,
anyone can sense those thoughts of anger
and resentment...why are you looking so ghostly?
Let go of all stupidity and don't use puffery...
congratulate them with a cheerful toast and a hearty laughter!
A dreamt event
for the newly-wed,...
kissing passionately
without embarassment,
but as others watch with contentment...
the flower girls follow them gracefully
as they hear the wedding bells at twelve!
—after a remark attributed to Albert Einstein—
There are convictions hid beneath the skin
of every ordinary afternoon, whose proofs
arrive before the intellect can rise
to crown them with its late authority. Thus once
I watched a father, bearing broth upstairs,
halt midway where a child's thin coughing broke
the architecture of his practised tread;
one hand still held the bowl, the other reached
as though the stair itself required a pulse.
The soup grew cold. No ordinance was lost.
Yet something in the house had altered weight.
The mason laying stone while thinking still
of yesterday erects another wall
than he whose whole consent descends through wrist
into the waiting weight. The orchard knows
which hand arrived entire. The apple keeps
a season no inspection ever finds.
I saw two lovers at a crossing once.
The city's engines gathered in their throats;
red brake-lamps flowered beneath a lowering rain.
He bent to meet her mouth. Yet all the while
his glance kept reckonings with passing steel,
with painted lanes, with mirrors and with haste.
She smiled; perhaps she never marked the theft.
The kiss came back with less of itself in it,
like rain returning from a roof of slate.
The organist whose fingers found each chord
while counting hidden debts awakened wood,
but something left before the anthem breathed.
I know that absence. Many nights my own
guitar received obedient hands alone.
No string accused me. Still, one listening note
remained outside the music all evening,
as though the room had lent it other work.
The hawk descends with every feather sworn.
The river reaches sea without debate.
No flame consults another element.
Then something entered for which sight possessed
no elder tense.
Two candles stood apart.
Neither declined, nor leaned, nor touched the air.
Yet after they were lit, the darker one
began to cast the brighter one's shadow.
Nothing thereafter seemed to keep its name.
Years later I passed that same crossing.
Rain gathered where the traffic used to wait.
Upon the rail, one swallow settled first.
The second circled twice, then folded all
its sky into the space beside the first.
Neither of them looked anywhere else.
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 food meshing and mashing,
a preparing organ grinder hun!
See he tampered with seasonings and sauces interfere with manipulate forging, fiddling embossing be happening as to planned Navel foods.
Was an organ grinder
Most food was boiled in the and liquid was run out via taps sort of an Entertainer of meals
Clanging, clinging, metal spoons, forks, plates, pots and pans
Happen go on in the galley. Like he was a one who played a barrel organ in the streets. kinging and clanging pots and pans sounds.
An unimportant person who does what he is told to do would cook so the seamen could eat...
chef in the Navy
my dad was galley organ
grinder Navy Chef
Keeping the craft alive twas a Navy Chef Barrel organist.
Comes and gets it a handful of cooks wheel-turners are keeping the craft alive.
There was an open fire at the back for spit-roasting and seamen
So could apply to use it if they caught a fish three-legged pots were stood in the embers.
Navy dinner time be on sail onboard personnel three main meals per day
.Breakfast: *0600–0700 lunch: 1100– 1230; dinner: *1600–1800
Chef organ grinder played the galley
The galley food is cooked and prepared
It can also refer to a land-based kitchen on a naval base,
Point of view, gourmet to beef stew to a straight design of the kitchen layout.
(CS) with ranks
culinary Specialist
organ grinder chef
“Fair winds and following seas”, food prep and served seamen for those in the United States Navy. Where they have to say farewell to mommy’s and grands meals. In 1940’s World War 2 tolls. To those retiring or leaving for deployment to cut, munch, and eat now from the galley. Of the chefs in the Navy organ grinder manning. Said the galley a method of saluting rendering honors works in galleys the seaman Chef food prep.
My dad Galley organ grinder
11/01/23
The Last Organ Grinder Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
JILTED
He stood there at the altar,
The best man by his side,
Awaiting the arrival
Of his beautiful, blushing bride.
The vicar was getting anxious:
They should have started at four.
The organist extemporised,
Until she appeared at the door.
An usher kept a lookout
For the bridal limousine
But came back in and told them
It was nowhere to be seen
At five o’clock they gave up
And everyone filed from the church,
Leaving the groom to ponder
Why he’d been left in the lurch.
But she hadn’t meant to jilt him,
He found, after making some calls.
For he had been at St. Andrew’s
And she had gone to St’ Paul’s
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
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