you feel me?
i'm talking living rooms, offices, kitchens
who knows when a moment of inspiration;
bent red; an american bullfrog ingenuity
too much murmuring;
so when you ask to hold that thought
in a meeting, you tip-toe over
to the organ, turn up the volume,
sit and play that sound that melts
away the furniture; there's a shift
and a pulling away of the tiles.
"play it... loud." tears on the subway
give me twenty-five pedals
and i'll carry church organ pipes
under my arm through the town
unimaginable sonic hand grenade
to make the wibblies fall out
It's way beyond the time for the human race to reflect
and rectify the organ in the head, situated between the right and left ear lobe
Existing there are tumours cause destruction of the human cell,
we do ourselves behave as the largest cancer growth, running rampant,
cause destruction of this planetary globe
He weeps, assigned to mourn for others who
Had none to mourn them, none to say goodbye,
Those whose harm medicine can’t undo,
Whose bodies he takes apart each passing night.
He scrubs, a cleansing ritual, to keep
Away the microscopic things unseen
The rite distracts from tears he wants to weep,
The tears a spell for spirits in between.
The spirits who pass on under his knife,
Though now are still and silent, him remind
Of another who once left this life,
Whose spirit longed for, tried for, peace to find.
But now is not the time to cry and mourn,
For there’s a job, as reason is to rhyme
For some, still from this life, who, not yet torn,
Without these gifts, would soon run out of time.
The necromancer’s tears are never shown,
But what he does has ripples far and wide.
Now for his former acts he can atone,
His magic helping those on either side.
1
my body is too aged to be of much use now
but when I was young I signed to be an organ donor
I was healthy then, no arthritis, great eyesight
one organ donor can save up to eight lives
and restore sight to two people
I think this is amazing
Got myself a donor card.
One day I will depart.
Donating all my organs
but you can keep my heart.
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.
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 and other bits of this and that.
He seems very old and is stooped and bent,
Pulling that old organ around just to get enough to pay his rent.
He hasn't been around lately, perhaps he is to old to turn the stiff organ winder,
It's been a long time now, so it seems we have seen the last of that old organ grinder.
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 back together again
By the time autumn faded to winter snow
I had met someone new
Snowflakes swirled to and fro
As the north wind blew
Seasons rolled around, then autumn returned, knocking on the door
But I never saw the organ grinder anymore
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 treasure
the tin cup for the drink of my pleasure.
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,
He played for himself in those dim-lit days.
No family, no friends, just his trusty machine,
He lived and he played in a world unseen.
As the stars above blinked out one by one,
The Last Organ Grinder's song was done.
Alone in the silence, he quietly passed,
No one to mourn him, no words that would last.
In the empty streets where memories wane,
The last organ grinder found his final lane.
His story untold, a life obscure,
In the heart of the city, he'd endure.
His music still lingers in the city's hum,
The last organ grinder, in the city's memory, drums.
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 memories
Of precious times through centuries
But the wrinkles on his forehead
Give hints on his few days ahead
The organ grinder waves goodbye
May his precious tunes never die
May his mem'ries live forever
On hearts sparked by his bright ember
3rd place
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 his organ strapped over his shoulder,
Brightly coloured, moving from place to place.
The cutest monkey, large grin on its face.
Round its neck a chain hooked to its collar.
It sits wearing a red little outfit
Trimmed in white, fancied its spirited wit.
Swishing its long tail, holding a tin cup
Dancing to music, a spark in its eye
Collecting coins from giving passersby.
While the organ grinder cranks his organ
He moves from place to place, to avoid arrest.
Laws obtain change, loitering, hard expressed.
The Last Organ Grinder
Paris the city of lovers with its promenade of love
Where young men whisper words of whimsy
Whilst she searches clouds above.
My cap sits upon the floor a short way from the art
Where a red haired man cleans his brush
In a jar propped on his cart.
I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
For I have lost my own true love amongst the years I share
Now stand alone with memories, my self-ness showing bare.
For all the nights of passion, for all the heartbeat play
I could not cease my loving need to love them all the day
Each one that shone, shone for me and in its light I too could be
An artisan, a poet, a well shod gallantee
So I turn the wheel until the sound of music fills the air
A carousel of chords dance out I pray they give a care.
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 totally wrenched, his old heart gutted.
The rooftop a safe haven, for he and his pet.
Not much chance of another organ, he will get.
He was an expert on the organ, a regular Maven.
For he and his pet, the rooftop was a safe haven.
He can still sing, dance and tap the old soft shoe.
He was the best organ grinder New York ever knew.
Shoes are worn, organ gone, his monkey is everything.
Dance and tap the old soft shoe, he can still sing.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.