Long Organist Poems
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I Dont Give A Fig About The Brouhaha...
of new year's eve,
yet yours truly does consider
at least one singular plum me facet by Jeeve
er...Robert (or Rabbie) Burns,
a profoundly poignant poem, he did conceive.
Anyway, this wordsmith fascinated
by historical lyricist whose unbelieve
hub bull lee brief life, nonetheless
made a lasting contribution,
a psalm burr tune folks across webbed
wide world sing to grieve
of recent sorrows past, plus pay
homage to joys summoned from
deep within core of soul bellowed
forth with an exultant heave
perhaps unbeknownst to most Robert Burns
(25 January 1759 – 21 July 1796) did leave
his lasting legacy, sans (as national poet
of Scotland celebrated worldwide)
particularly the classic traditional chestnut
auld lang syne rendered in many versions
waving white capping
New Year's eve celebration proud
accomplishments one did achieve.
Coincidentally, "Auld Lang Syne"
and "America the Beautiful"
at which juncture, I interject
a historical grace note to mull
how latter named above patriotic
song in the United States,
(lyrics written by Katharine Lee
Bates saw many occasions
after music composed by church organist
and choirmaster Samuel
A. Ward at Grace Episcopal Church
in Newark, New Jersey) dull
lighting oomph and pizazz, extant
since early 1900s, origin gin null
intent format arranged as poem,
"Pikes Peak first published
Fourth of July full
edition of the church periodical
The Congregationalist in 1895,
now sung by mull teat hoods at Super Bowl
every year since 2009, and appeared pull
say ting stadiums at some sports events
after the 9/11 terror attack hull
lob bell loo in 2001.
The song comprises four verses,
one of isung before kick-off
in NFL's showpiece game.
Just by giving cerebral activity free rein,
this inquisitive mind of mine
learned how twenty first century New Year's
celebration include auld lang syne
linkedin with feted mid eighteenth poet
laureate, whose death at thirty seven, his spine
tingling spirit issues forth to give
him immortality almost divine
everlasting longevity within the pantheon
of August artists who humanity did assign
an eternal place future generations will
revere such metrical design.
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
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]
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.
fumigated like stockade lice
you Wall St. cologne jockeys
would be 3rd World land fill
recall that consciousness is tunable
adjust your volume to a comfortable level
because Turette's plus Alzheimer's
is a nation destroying combo
I forgot what I was going to scream
wait oh yeah modernity is inherently outlaw
the chorus began to howl like cats in a shoe box
impressions create personality
there was barking and pulling of hair
their eyeballs spun like casino cameras
I am in your head forever he screamed
and collapsed like a cheeseburger chef
after football day at the griddle
well that was deep as an open manhole
but it hit me like a brakeless gravel truck
that once you admit the voices are yours
you are ripe for mascara tramp extortion
she'll kidnap your mind
and then bitmap your mind
for a little esoteric agenda indoctrination
into the holy tabloid of miracles
that radiate light all around and make
the organist pound like a jackhammer
it is our duty to create
hey categories exist before we name them
so let's try to name ones that actually exist
well how Phoenix rising can you get
how on your own can on your own really get
you gotta be educable to survive
that's Darwin plus Microsoft
or else the Army Psyops College
will unleash samurai population control
and you will die like a sex doll predicting
the end of the cro magnum world
the trick to attaining godhood
is to not try so silly hard
because adrenaline is a
reduced instruction set
with which high resolution reality
will rip your face off
worse than catching mommy
sucking off daddy
for life is short and duty long
drink its venom defiantly
drink it you are going to need it
there are a lot of good faces
to emulate out there
no need for instincts
in a world of plenty
Back in eighteen-eighteen upon Christmas Eve,
Father Joseph Mohr just baptized a child,
Oberndorf’s Parish Priest then walked on home
within peaceful silence he felt quite inspired,
so he wrote a poem about how he felt;
and organist friend Franz Gruber in town,
put a tune to the words sung to the children
behind a guitar; the organ had broken down.
The Oberndorf people at Christmas each year,
would join in together singing this song,
and many years later, since it was written,
at a Leipzig market a man walked along.
He heard the song by the voices of children;
impressed with the choir, and what he’d seen.
The Royal Conductor then asked the children
to sing this song before the king and the queen.
In the Cathedral their song book excluded,
the author, composer; unknown and unheard.
On a visit to Vienna the Cathedral choirmaster,
heard the very same tune sung by a cage bird
whose owner declared the bird came from Salzburg,
where the master met a choirboy who knew the song.
He was Felix Gruber, the composer’s son who’s amazed
that the tune for these words still at Christmas is strong.
But Father Joseph Mohr from that peaceful eve,
would never know that his powerful write
on his feeling for Christmas will be evermore …
So please join me and we’ll sing Silent Night.
Silent night holy night,
All is calm, all is bright,
‘round yon virgin mother and child,
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Sleep in heavenly peace.
Back in eighteen-eighteen upon Christmas Eve,
Father Joseph Mohr just baptized a child,
Oberndorf’s Parish Priest then walked on home,
within peaceful silence he felt quite inspired.
I found a letter from December 5 1865
The address was written to
Fleckez Fintezy
of Zist Kandia
we looked up the place and found it to be unknown.
It stated dear Sir: my name needs not to be spoken as to your obligation
in contract to meet me and concort as my partner in a contractaul aranggment.
as to this we must chose
a genre: discuss situation.
Contract woodwinds, brass sections: and percussionist.
I am a pianist and wish to
create first during dicsion
and then to record our sound
and then to compse and arrange the sounds before
we have a lyritist create the
rhythmn and then the rhymn.
The
flow of the arrangment
must be of importance as the Beat must
jive with the sounds and the need
of the people we are to workwith.
I shall make arrangements to sleep across town
as the excitment of a collabaration
might be such that would two people
see something that might
lead to being foolishly in love.
I will introduce myself, with my violen
might you will find it easier to recognize me.
We can meet at the Inn by the bridge.
There we will Swing, Jazz and Jewel!
A consortment of Fluffers might wish to
meet us: but we
are professional enough
to know the difference between indulgment and fun: right?
I will mneet you there and musixc can be created!
Be Prompt
Sincerly Yours
Mizzo Piano Songtra
From Whoompers Delicouness
Duration 18 minutes
69 seconds.
Men Knutez and Seakuntez speak with the Organist!
Only he knows the Bassoon. I find it interesting
that the flutist
and the oboist concorts
in private don't you?
Rather amusing until the sound
is created right?
He wishes to marry: pour: pour woman.
His muses must be fun!
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
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
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)