John Lennon: Thirty-Five Years Later

When he was shot that fateful day in December 1980, Beatles’ fans everywhere felt that the life of their “Working Class Hero” had been cut short, in his prime, and his voice was silenced, forever.

The Death of John Lennon

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John Lennon 1940-1980

“John Lennon was an English musician who gained worldwide fame as one of the founder members of The Beatles, for his subsequent solo career, and for his political activism and pacifism. He was shot to death by Mark David Chapman at the entrance to the building where he lived, The Dakota, in New York City on Monday 8 December 1980. Lennon had just returned from Record Plant Studio with his wife, Yoko Ono.

“Lennon was pronounced dead on arrival at Roosevelt Hospital. He was 40 years old. At the hospital, it was stated that nobody could have lived for more than a few minutes after sustaining such injuries. Shortly after local news stations reported Lennon’s death, crowds gathered at Roosevelt Hospital and in front of the Dakota. Lennon was cremated on 10 December 1980 at the Ferncliff Cemetery in Hartsdale, New York; the ashes were given to Ono, who chose not to hold a funeral for him.”(Wkipedia)

The Day John Lennon Died

In 2010, on the 30th anniversary of his death, ITV aired a documentary.

(And I have deleted the link since the video is no longer available.)

The fact that so many people had their lives changed by his death on that day will forever be his legacy.

Personal Note

In 1980, we were living in Vancouver, BC. On the 8th of December, my friend Evelyn rang to tell me that she’d heard on the radio that John Lennon had been shot and killed that evening in New York City.

I was devastated, having been a lifelong fan of The Beatles. We had lost our hero, and the world would never be the same. The world has never been the same since that day.

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An Interesting Attempt

In an attempt to be interesting, I wrote a poem that analyzed my relationship with my wife.

An Interesting Attempt

Once upon a time, there was a girl-child,
Unto whom was given a very mild
Romantic interest in masculine
Subjects, so things that were considered wild

Interested her not, nor did she sin:
So the needs of the flesh could never win

Against her gentleness and kind regard;

Giving was her greatest asset, a thin
Little matter in the face of all hard
Organizations which, trying to guard
Righteous living, attempted to prevent
Interesting rewards and to retard
Occupational situations sent
Under different intentions meant,
So that all her hopes seem to come to naught;

Learning that his interest had been bent
Into an attempt to have her love bought
For purposes other than those she ought
Everytime she tried to turn around,

Frustration set in, as if she’d been caught
Under the table, her hand on the ground
Like a criminal who’d nearly been found
Lying through her teeth about what she said:

Only the truth passed through her lips, a sound
Faintly able to awaken the dead,

Until his interest got out of bed,
Now that all things have not gone his way,
Especially when in his silly head
X-rated thoughts were still holding their sway,
Pushing his good sense much farther away,
Except when his temper could not obtain
Control over what he tried on that day;
The fact that he’s attempting to maintain
Ev’ryone in his care, but not restrain
Deeds which could hinder worker usefulness

Leaves me the thought that his sexual pain
Often overrides logic to express
Very fruitful interests he may possess
Either in the world or the undefiled:
Such is the sin which can a man obsess.

Picture credit: Interesting definition courtesy of shirtoid.com

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Another

Love poems may be tedious for others, but have so much meaning for the ones involved.

Another

Another

Another
Another word
Another old phrase
Another new sentence
Another full paragraph
Another complete conception.

I sit here at home,
And write out my heart:
It hurts not to be near Amy’s mother.

I’d much rather roam,
Though never depart,
Just to talk to someone or another.

I love you, dear,
And when you’re near,
I feel at ease in my mind.

But when you’re gone,
I seem to long
To discover and to find.

But in the end of all good things,
Which happens when we die,
I want to be the one who sings
And floats and soars and flies.

Be with me, Sue,
Please love me, true,
And help me to
Understand you.

I want to be
Just what you see
And try to free
The soul in me.

But what good can all these thoughts
Do for those who cannot read them?

If I were to say more than what I’ve written,
Those who should listen would never heed them.

Another complete conception (is still not enough to say)
Another full paragraph (still gets in the way)
Another new sentence (yet we may)
Another old phrase (play)
Another word

Another.

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Suffer

Mistakes happen. Choices can be made that cause undue suffering to others. Why must this be so?

Suffer

 

Last April’s major parting of our ways
Is still something I’m quite upset about:
To end our supposedly selfish phase,
The other partners’ hurts filled us with doubt;

Lonely, depressed, we searched for a clear choice,
Expecting nothing, getting only pain.
Can’t we take inner thoughts and give them voice?
How did it happen? Was our loss their gain?

In the end, I saw that the child would be
Left in the middle, a pawn on the board:
Does one let a child bear the penalty
Regardless of how much it is adored?

Even now I feel guilt: the injustice
Never compensates for such cowardice…

Picture credit: The Heart Suffer courtesy of www.deviantart.com

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You Trusted Me

Love can expose one to rejection by another. But what happens when the risk is so worth it? Happiness…

You Trusted Me

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Trust

With words which warmed this heart of mine,
You spoke and told me of your life,
Your hopes, your fears, your daily strife
And gave to me this loving sign:
You really trusted me,
You Trusted Me.

Through minds we let the feelings flow,
The joy of peak experience,
From which there came a special sense
Of how to help each other grow:
I now can trust the way
You Trusted Me.

Is this what life is all about?
Please trust me, there must be no doubt.

I’d never hoped it possible
To delve below the shallow view
When talking face-to-face with you
But now it’s all so visible:
You’d always trusted me,
You Trusted Me.

With no regrets to hedge us in,
We gave each other the respect
Which others may, in retrospect,
Learn as the way in which to win
A trusting friend to love:
You Trusted Me.

Is this what love is all about?
Damn right, of this I have no doubt!

I want to sleep within your heart,
To know the pleasure of your love;
A gift that’s fated from above
To keep us friends while we’re apart.
I’ll always trust in you:
You Trusted Me.

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Regard for Spirit

Native culture is one of spiritual awareness and at-one-ment with nature. We could learn a lot by adopting their ways.

Regard for Spirit

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Native American Paper Sculpture

 

Regarding spiritual truth and light
Elevates a perception to a new
Distinctive Indian avenue:
Makes my old roadway seem narrow, uptight
And a bit too insincere. That I’m white,
Not to mention tepid, makes me review
Oppression: for out of a need to rue
Foreign actions, freedom becomes my right.

So what does this regard for spirit mean?
Perhaps I can help elucidate: one
Indian respects the doctrines others
Revere even though a man is obscene,
Inspiring respect and admiration;
Too bad we couldn’t be newborn brothers.

 

Picture credit: Native American Paper Sculpture courtesy of http://www.telegraph.co.uk

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Weighty Words

What can anyone do with leftovers? While the food is still on the table, the cook wants everything eaten. Is that even possible?

Weighty Words

 

She measured her words carefully before she spoke:

Eat up, there’s only about a scoop,
Very little left from the pot of soup…

Eat up, there’s only about a dollop,
Nothing else left from the potato scallop…

Pass your plate, there’s only a speck
Of food left — it won’t stuff your neck…

Unless you’ve no room left, there’s a chunk,
Not much at all, left from this hunk…

Don’t you want this last itty bit,
So no space is left in your hollow armpit?

Picture credit: Weighty Words courtesy of angelaclues.com

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Mid-Love Crisis

This is a poem about writing poetry about love. It can be very confusing, for sure.

Mid-Love Crisis

 

If I could place my inner thought upon this empty page
Would you read something which is not or something which is sage?

I play with words, like toys, for fun to exercise my mind
But when I’m through, and when they’re done, what is it I will find?

Mid-phrase is not the place to stop, to take a halting breath
For should the world then close up shop. would that mean instant death?

I question all about myself up to the verge of tears
Without a secret dwarf or elf to take away my fears.

I read about the way to win perfection in this life
And wonder why I’m mired in sin while overfilled with strife.

Mid-thought can break the train in half and grind it to a halt
But when I choose instead to laugh, will it be all my fault?

I love with all my heart and soul and mind and spirit, too
So if you’re sure about my goal, you know I’ll be with you.

 

Picture credit: Mid-Life Crisis courtesy of http://www.theothersideoftheequation.cm

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The Struggle

Sometimes, the one helping others gets caught up in their machinations. But how does one solve their anger issues?

The Struggle

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Last night you rang me with an angry air:
Ev’ryone was on your case and you’d had
The most that you could take; so you were mad,
Mad, mad
at the world with all its despair
.

Even though you can see it isn’t fair,
Heroic deeds are expected of you: glad
Up ’til now you’ve been, to help; but now sad
Gentle folk have become wasps in your hair.

Good gracious, girl! Don’t you know when enough
Light has been let in to see them through their
Emotional darkness? What more must
You accomplish for them?
It may be rough
Operating alone, but if they share
Useless egotism with you, you’ll go bust!

Picture credit: Angry Wasps courtesy of www.dailymail.co.uk

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London Bound

Faith in the future is a fleeting thing. When one has so much going on around them, there is a concern that negative thoughts will creep in.

London Bound

 

Because we cannot see what’s in the works,
Our lives seem full of chance, quite insecure:
Until the proper act is done quite pure,
No one could say we don’t seem like two jerks

Doing time; we do know just what we want
From each other, but no one else can see;
Our purpose seems to make each other free,
Regardless of how much the past may haunt.

London, the symbol of a life that’s full,
Ordains that nothing’s left, but human waste:
Nothing’s left, but worry from too much haste,

Dictated by our life’s push and pull.

One thought should be of help to overthrow
Negativity: there’re no bounds, let’s go!

 

Picture credit: London Bound courtesy of outlawnotahero.blogspot.com

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