Widor's Toccata, fr.
Symphony for Organ No. 5,
generally lasts around 6 minutes.
Longer than it takes
to
read
this
poem (I promise)
A well- worn
Recessional
featured at
Royal weddings,
Funerals n-such -it
speaks to
the vitality-
some might say-
freneticism of walking
into the light.
Go forth, it says.
Be brilliance,
stamina,
be the ordered
repetition
and deep bass
pulse of life
Celebrate.
It’s a showcase
for organists and,
I hear, not
an insurmountable
task to learn. Still.
To my ears, I’d consider it
pretty advanced.
It was a stretch
for the young man
at my Mother’s small
Midwestern church
asked to play this
at my father’s
Funeral.
The solemnity with
which the minister
asked the gathered
mourners to stay
seated until the end
of the piece
before recessing,
tugged against
my rising
flop sweat horror
and inner awfulness
that day as
the poor guy
tripped, pedaled &
stoppered his
way through
my tears which
were a mix of grief
and inappropriate
humiliating hilarity.
Mom’s intention
in choosing this
music was pure.
The execution
was a mud-spewn
train wreck.
My father would
have cared less.
I carried his
ashes down
the narrow red carpet
aisle, between
pews, my black
dress snagged
on someone’s
cane sticking out.
We stood in a receiving line,
ate deviled eggs
and little cupcakes
in the church basement
afterward.
Early Morning Poems 