#lennon
String,
A
thing
A
Song
From
The
Past it sing
What joy it could bring
If?
There was
one
change
Stop
that
December shot
so mean!
We lost
# 9 Dream.
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 9:02 AM UTC
By the by, we sit
to watch a week end, on television,
or your time's equivalent seefar-aparat.
Ignoring moon phaze, we count sevens,
under the generic mandate of God's Truth.
Submitted, bowing low on Friday, next day
Chosen, allowed through some revealed loop hole,
Called, day three, permitted by grace alone, undeserved or earned,
to wrestle with the liar calling war your duty to truth.
Long weekends for all, let us contend, we are biding time,
occupying our spaces, our bubbles of being, our guiding
principles leading us with peaceable nudging, this way…
Each cluster of monotheists insists the truth,
is for their own protection, a tested faith believed,
certain to eliminate each individual fake follower,
while allowing holiest of priestly classes work not a whit.
Call us the common sort. We less holy plain folk.
Each one, each bubble of speaking flesh,
given one guide, with constant comforting, this way, in
contact face to face with the great weaver of wind and seas.
Alerted become, some sense seems to say, lend an ear,
hear the conception let loose,
precept upon precept,
here some, there some,
line upon line, thought on thought, each a prayer,
an asking, an appraisal of the price prepaid called worth it.
On second glance.
Having many miles back submitted, bowed low
to a teacher who taught that tears are grace,
a heart softening remainder
from infancy,
when we are hard selfish takers, helplessly
weeping when confusion topples all balance
and we fall into serious wailing,
as snotty salty tears wrap us in
a core cushioning patience
on which pity for innocense rests,
self-pity, poor me, weeping prostrate
waiting for patience to function before I die.
And should we weep for some fool today,
seeing his zeal manifest to earn God's grace,
by any name, in any mind let be aware
that
madness
defies wisdom.
Should we not weep for the liars
who taught the child that the wisdom
which made us, rewards us for killing
other thinkers of the same crazy idea,
differing by no means significant to infants?
Ever, after time, or before, I've not a clue,
yet, now, I do assume
we all may, and often do, think wrong,
falling so safe within the lie fed us, to make us
willing to support the imprisoning of hungry us,
by forced mind molds earning the interest
on world debt for constant war readiness.
Our beloved lease on life is not sublet.
Any infant who survives the womb is entitled.
Each breather rebreathes, giving back received life.
Now, as an interstellar life raft, earth laughs,
when the lies about who owns the planet
ignor the approaching reaction to imbalance.
Free lunches for Gaza, and grassy football fields.
Stop hate, abhor the law that calls hate truth's will.
Watch truth lift the crippled conscience we share.
Make lying anathema,
and fearful hateful exclusion laws
auto morph into correctible knowledge,
each real empath sympathy blossoming
soothing all pain in scars nullift, so as we can
never bring a helpless child to tears for wars' reasons.
When war comes to excuse its expense, I must
laugh with life, call war to bring cause, prove worth,
sit with first Is-ai-ah, come, let us reason, together.
War rises on pride's haunches and calls me the fool,
I call pride's worshippers to count the cost.
If you made mankind, wombed and un,
for good reason, with a will to power,
a will to self control and rights,
by Nature,
and Nature's spir'tually discernible goodness and power,
would you use life of satisfaction, or desparate poverty
to teach the art of agape, charity and such?
- freedom of speech - say true, no lie.
- But why, can we not freely destroy,
- can we not freely force children to serve?
Better living by global ignorance reduction.
If the truth made minds like ours,
if the truth its anthropomorphized self,
made us pathetically spiritual enough to weep…
at the fruited fields cratered by artillery
to starve the enemy, back when the strategy,
left the scars on generation after generation
of poor, outside the class of chosen, by law,
which orders outsiders to submit, knowing
one's place, hewers of wood,
drawers of water, pickers of fruits,
plowers of fields, diggers of ditches,
washer of dishes and floors,
builders of shelters, dismantler of obsolete weapons.
Owners and renters, live in peace. Under holy order.
Oh, no? Call the message itself a lie,
say the truth does hate those who know otherwise.
Who holds the pledge for your share in this war debt?
When some side wins, whom shall we owe?
Oct 27, 2023
Oct 27, 2023 at 1:32 PM UTC
The day that John met Paul
There was a summer fete in the old church hall
And it was fate that day that came to play
As the powers that be had their way
Two young boys would come of age
They’d rock the world from a golden stage
The fates combined would all agree
And Mary whispered Let It Be.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 8:12 AM UTC
You say that all poetry is gobbledygook:
That Art's a waste of time
Elvis was just a Showman
And Freddie Mercury…
(Yes the same first name as you!)
…I’d better not say.
Where is your soul, Philistine Fred?
So many like you around.
Your mind cluttered with clinical facts,
Everything measured
And boxed –
Fastidious and precise.
Emotion killed
By setsquares
Set by Pythagoras
On a geometrical day.
You hate historical dramas
And all things learned.
Admitting any Education
Loses any street cred earned.
Yet you watch hours and hours
Of soaps.
You love supporting football teams
From places you’ve never been near.
But at least you like your pubs
For a lovely pint of beer.
I guess I’ll have to keep trying
To get through to you and your kind.
Yet I know some things ain’t possible
And you may never change your mind.
But yes I’ll keep on trying:
Keep banging out my poems –
Knowing that my pockets
Will never be lined with coins.
I know that you won’t read this,
But I will carry on.
For there are people out there
Who will listen to my song.
Paul Butters
© PB 3\7\2020.
Jul 3, 2020
Jul 3, 2020 at 9:54 AM UTC
Cold and clinging
Kind of evening
At the steps of
The Dakota archway
Are you banging your head
against a wall, Holden Caulfield?
Beautiful boy
(Darling boy)
But the limousine was waiting
Annie Leibovitz had the final image
"And I'm standing on the edge
of some crazy cliff.
That's all I do all day.
I'd just be
the catcher in the rye and all."
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 11:19 PM UTC
Dylan got it first, as he often did,
That American youth were ignorant kids,
Betrayed by the things our parents hid.
And we were insulted just a little bit
But we listened and took the plunge,
Determined to expunge
The poison and let out the Id.
It was up to us not heed the call up
And as one voice we stood up,
Saying, shouting NO!
Twenty or so legendary years for some;
While others sold out, we beat the drum.
Our peers oddly died around us but….
Even as we ‘felt those cold hands’ touch our skin,
As The Capitalists were closing in—
& Some of them were us…
We sounded the drum.
Later on some hippie-punks or is it the other way(?)
Sang about extraordinary girls & then took a fall.
Sometimes begged for Novocain
Which wouldn’t relieve psychic pain,
Like being Ramonely sedated in a concert hall.
Nobody knew what to do with them.
Except to give them fame.
(It was just as bad for them as for the Clash)…
Hell, they almost invented the mash-up.
And too many anti-hippie punks
Loaded on cheap ****** or always drunk,
Claimed all those heroes had sold out.
But Ziggy would’ve known Ash from Ash.
Then came their Blood on the Tracks;
They finally saw what Dylan saw,
Or, if they saw it before,
They got some Real Emotion back.
Nothing has changed and everything has changed,
Said The Heathen…and he should know.
But how do we see, stuck here ‘so far below’,
Not remotely in the know;
They might be on an intergalactic trip
Or as in “A.I”, nothing more than a binary blip?
But encased in virtual ice, how can we live?
Until the end…and even then…
As John wrote, we only get the love we give.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC
Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended,
she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her.
He was her first love. He would write love poems to her.
Sometimes they would hold hands.
Once they shared a kiss.
They were young and deeply in love.
But as the war finished, they moved on from each other.
The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America.
After they broke up, Thu would still think about him.
He was the one who dumped her.
The breakup crushed her heart.
But she didn’t let it mar her dignity.
Time passed, Thu moved to Virginia
and she went to high school in Fairfax County.
The letters started pouring in from the boy.
But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.
That was the day that John Lennon was murdered
in cold blood.
She was heartbroken like every other person in the world.
Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.
Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face
on the front page of the paper.
She took a pair of scissors
and cut a square around John’s face.
Then she wrote a letter to the boy.
And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope.
Begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy.
Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy.
And she gave the letter to him.
A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.
She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write.
The next day she sent the letter.
Thu was happy to read his words.
It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences.
Like he was there next to her, looking at her,
speaking to her spirit.
Days passed.
Weeks passed.
And then after a month, she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter.
She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.
“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.
“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”
“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 2:41 PM UTC
Imagine there's no Heaven,
it's easy if you try,
with no hell below us,
and above us only sky,
Imagine all the people living for today
Imagine no real difference
everyone sees the same
regardless of your skin tone
the only difference is a name
Imagine all the people living life as one
Imagine there's no countries,
it isn't hard to do,
and nothing to **** or die for,
and no religion too,
Imagine all the people living life in peace,
Imagine there's no hatred
no angry fingers blame
imagine no more bullies
no one to hide in shame
Imagine all the people living life with love
you,
You may say I'm a dreamer,
but I'm not the only one,
I hope one day you'll join us,
and the world will be as one,
Imagine no possessions,
I wonder if you can,
no need for greed or hunger
a brotherhood of man,
Imagine all the people sharing all the world,
Imagine no division
imagine holding hands
farmers and great leaders
protecting sacred lands
Imagine all the people
sharing all the food
you,
You may say I'm a poet
and I know
I'm not the only one
one day I hope you join me
and we can all live as one
Ma Cherie © 2017
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
You Facebook messaged me today.
**** it’s been a month or two!
I remember at Velvet I tried
to be like Lennon to your friend Roxy!
“dance?” I said, raising my arms; eye contact; smile.
She smiled and said, “Oh no that’s ok…”
“Ok, I’m not John Lennon haha…”
Twenty mins go by. I lit a jack.
You and I geeked about Murakami.
I was three Natty bo’s deep. I glanced up; rain fell
Your friend Sara pushed up her huge [ellipses] umbrella.
You mentioned your boyfriend is a Deejay at Flash.
You Facebook messaged me today.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
We need to put down our weapons
that is just the start
We need to open our arms
we need to use our heart
We are all many things
we are all different colours
but somewhere down the line
we started as sisters and brothers
(CHORUS)
Dance across our mother earth
Feel the beat and dance
as John Lennon rightfully said
Let's give peace a chance
Money doesn't make us richer
It's just paper in our hand
It doesn't give you power
You've got to understand
There are many different religions
so many cultures too
It doesn't make it wrong
if it is different to you
(CHORUS)
Dance across our mother earth
Feel the beat and dance
as John Lennon rightfully said
Let's give peace a chance
Smile at every stranger
be nice to all you meet
You may not follow the same path
but you may cross the same street
Use your heart to love
use your mind to be wise
We are here to make a difference
Like a sunset in the sky
(CHORUS)
Dance across our mother earth
Feel the beat and dance
as John Lennon rightfully said
Let's give peace a chance
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 3:00 PM UTC
A dreamer he is
Dreams his bliss
Awaiting the lucks kiss
Dreams come true his wish
Dreamt he not for fortune and fame
Not for a beautiful dame
Neither his enemies to blame
Nor in misery forged same
Dreamt he of world at peace
People sharing joy with ease
Wars and borders to cease
Humanity everloving breeze
Dreamt he of a world as one
His be a dream not alone
Many doth wish and dream as one
Dream his wish be done
Dreamers and dreams
Echoed in heart deep
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 2:36 AM UTC
The music may have died for some
That day in nineteen fifty nine
Don McLean said that it ended
But I say, it's just fine
The day that Buddy died
I feel it only took a wound
and though it has been 60 years
I think it's been re-tuned
If silence reigned when the music died
The Beatles would be missing
They picked their name for Buddy's group
An act that had some hissing
The Rolling Stones...would never play
If the music died as told
There would be no Exile on Main Street
There would be no band so bold
The Hollies, well that's simple
They were named after the man
If the music had really died that day
Would Graham Nash still be a fan?
To me it took a major wound
A shot that slowed it down
It changed music's direction
Took it to another town
With Elvis silent on German soil
The Beatles took the lead
They made sure music was living
And many others did they breed
Bobby Darin, Mama Cass
Jimi Hendrix and The Pearl
Jim Morrison and Brian Jones
Made the music spin and twirl
When Elvis Died, it slowed a bit
With Lennon shot...some more
But, the music never, ever died
For those who're keeping score
For each one lost...another comes
To fill the void with sound
It may have been quite wounded
But the music's still around
Each generation keeps it
In it's own and special way
That's why Buddy's music
Is still played on air today
So, please don't think the music
Died way back in fifty nine
Just look at all who've come on since
All your favorites and all mine.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
To know just where your're going
You must know where you've been
You must respect the history
The things others have seen
It's true in all things relative
Be it music, sports or life
If you don't know where you came from
You're just dancing on a knife
Gherig, Ruth and Robinson
May, and Mantle, Seaver too
Respect their contributions
And don't just say Ruth who?
Respect where things have come from
And the players of the past
Because you learn and make things better
It's what makes the **** game last
Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline
Nestor Chylak and The Goose
They made baseball special
They gave the game a little juice
Orr, Richard and Gretzky
Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz
You have to know about them
You need the beginning to your ends
Bob Baun and Bill Barilko
Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief
You have to know their history
They're what it is to be a Leaf
The game has changed immensely
Things can not go back in time
But to me...the old alumni
Made the game I know as mine
Respect the ones before you
The ones who laid the groundwork down
The ones who made it special
The non-pretenders to the crown
Elvis, Buddy, Harrison
Played the songs inside their heart
Lennon, Wilson and the rest
They all played a real big part
Every single generation
should learn from the one before
For if they don't know where they've come from
Then what has it all been for?
Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones
Sarazen and Hogan too
They pushed the gameright to it's limits
Now the pressure's upon you
The new breed are the teachers now
They're the ones to lead the way
When twenty or so years from now
You'll hear somebody say
"Respect who came before you
The ones who made us so **** proud
LIke Nash and , Perry and Taylor Hall
They played the game so loud
Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander
they brought it up a notch
They were there to stretch the limits
Not to just sit by and watch
Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan
Bubba, Dustin and the rest
They are the players of the future
They all respected the games best
So, to know where you are going
You must know where you have been
Respect, past through the future
And all that's happened in between.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
In Northern Virginia, for the ladies of wealth, Sunday mornings begin with a hangover, a Virginia Slim, and a Xanax. The day transitions to brunch at Liberty Tavern: one mimosa and one ****** Mary; an omelet with green and red peppers; and another round of mimosas and another ****** Mary, because: why in the world not?
For Thu—a Vietnamese American—Sunday mornings always begin with a different routine.
She comes downstairs to the dining room, steps around the bundle of adult diapers, and pulls back the curtain that leads to her parents.
There, on the far right corner, her Dad lays on an electric bed, his eyes sleepy as if he had drunk too much whiskey from the night before. His mouth agape, he has a face of a man who has lived for many years. In fact he has, 80 something years in fact. His arm hangs over the railing, blue veins protruding from the skin.
Thu pulls the blinds and light comes seeping through the window.
Her Dad smiles as the sunlight warms up his face.
Thu lifts him out of bed and into his wheelchair and travels with him, looping around the house in a circle: starting with the dining room, then the foyer, through the hallway, out the kitchen, and then back to the dining room. She tries to make him walk at least three rounds. Sometimes he makes it, sometimes he doesn’t.
He grunts and curses in Vietnamese, his walker scraping against the marble and hardwood floors. He moves the walker, using the little strength he has in his biceps and the muscles in his right leg.
Two years ago, her Dad had a stroke, leaving the right side of his body impaired and aching. Ever since then, he’s been trying to recover. He spends his time watching soccer and UFC on a television with a line running across the screen. He has caretakers who assist him with going to the bathroom and showering.
His wife is the only thing that keeps him going. She has Alzheimer’s and at random times in the night she’ll open up the refrigerator and search for food, because during the day she hardly eats a bite. She walks around in a cardigan and cotton pants, a toothpick jutting out from her mouth. She enjoys lying on the sofa and making phone-calls to her friends.
But she often misdials the numbers, startled when she hears a voice of a stranger on the other end of the line. She tells the stranger she doesn’t know English, shutting her eyes before trying to dial another number.
Thu has lived in Northern VA for many years, 18 years to be exact. She’s a Hokie. She’s an avid watcher of Criminal Minds. And she enjoys apple cider with a side of kettle-corn. Despite having to cook and look after her parents, she never complains. Never gets upset. Never says that life is unfair.
Later on in the day, she’s wearing a blouse dotted with blue flowers, a pair of gray sweatpants, and open-toed sandals.
When her daughter Vicki walks into the kitchen, she makes a remark about her posture. Vicki scoffs, no longer trying to seek her approval, but when Thu’s back’s turned, she straightens out her posture. Thu never makes a comment about her boyfriend. That’s a lost cause in her eyes. Once Thu doesn’t approve on a relationship that’s the end of it. She wants the best for her daughter, pushes her to be the best at what she does.
Thu used to live in Saigon. When the war ended, she had fallen in love with a boy who lived next door to her. He was her first love. He would write love poems to her. Sometimes they would hold hands. Once they had shared a kiss.
They were young and deeply in love. But as the war finished up, they moved on from each other. The boy went to live with his family in Australia, while she moved to America. After they broke up, Thu would still think about him. He was the one who dumped her.
The breakup crushed her heart. But she didn’t let it mar her dignity. Time passed by, Thu moved to Virginia and she went to high school in Fairfax County. The letters started pouring in from the boy. But she had too much pride and she didn’t respond until one day.
That was the day that John Lennon was murdered in cold blood.
She was heartbroken like every other person in the world. Yet, she also thought of the boy and how much he loved John Lennon.
Thu remembers reading the newspaper, seeing John Lennon’s face on the front page of the paper. She took a pair of scissors and cut a square around John’s face. Then she wrote a letter to the boy. And then she sealed the newspaper clipping and the letter in an envelope and begged her mom over the phone to send the letter to the boy. Her mom was still in Saigon and somehow she made contact with the boy and gave the letter to him.
A month later, she opened the mail and there was a letter from the boy.
She read the letter, stifled a cry, and then proceeded to write. The next day she sent the letter. Thu was happy to read his words. It was as though she could hear his voice through his sentences. Like he was there next to her, looking at her, speaking to her spirit.
Days passed. Weeks passed. And then after a month she realized he wasn’t going to respond back to her letter. She couldn’t believe that he didn’t give her a response.
“And that’s the end of the story,” Thu said to her son.
“What do you mean that’s the end of the story? That can’t be the end!”
“Well you’re the writer, right? Think of an ending.”
Okay. So here it goes.
Thu smiles, her eyes grow sleepy, and her head slumps over. She starts to snore, very loudly in fact. But it’s cute and you’re hoping that she’s dreaming, dreaming about something relentlessly lovely.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:35 AM UTC
I hear soft music
haunting sitar riding the low wave of a synthesizer bass
I am perplexed by the choice I must make
be taken by the song
or fight the twisting pain in my chest
'In search of the lost chord'
that Moody Blues title
I've found it!
here in the between space
'Visions of Paradise'
'Steppin' in a Time Zone'
I'm dying
and I can't stop listening
can't stop
the pain subsides
and I am crossed
I think
the music and vision now clear and strong
George is playing the sitar
and the synthesizer is not a synthesizer
but the wave itself
the beach I return to each Summer
Vincent hums along as he paints a wheat field
that fades in and out over the horizon
and the Sun is blazing
there in a white suit I see him
"The Lucky man..."
John says to Marilyn
as he turns toward me
..."you've made the grade"
the Sun suddenly falls behind the horizon
the music fades
I begin moving back to the center of all there was
and for a moment there is nothing
no sound
no light
then a voice
"It looks as if he's decided to return"
I awake to see a man in a very long beard,
dressed in white
with round spectacles staring down at me
"I'm Dr. Wall...Russ Wall"
"You're a lucky man! looks as though it's just another day in the life of...
what was your name, friend?"
Mar 29, 2016
Mar 29, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Some people write, but rarely read,
That seems to me most strange indeed,
They've read less than a hundred books,
Yet think they imitate the looks,
Of Sassoon, Cummings, Keats and Pound,
Or think they imitate the sound,
Of Lennon, Dylan, or Shakur,
And sometimes think they've offered more,
Than Chaucer, Wilde or Shakespeare could,
And claim they're more misunderstood,
Than even Salman Rushdie was,
Which really ticks me off because,
After having read such wondrous works,
A sense of failure always lurks,
Inside me whenever I write,
Yet they think they've done well tonight!
I hate them all! That's it - I've said it!
But they won't know until they've read it,
Which is quite doubtful, I'd attest,
Who'd read my work and skip the best?
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 1:55 AM UTC
**all that's changed in nyc
since he begged for a chance
that plea for peace
the power he gave the people
twenty years to be free,
is a body on the sidewalk
with a bullet in it's back
and six miles down the hudson
a space
where two buildings once sat.**
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 1:36 PM UTC
My world came crashing to a stop
Thirty four years ago....on 8 December
I can tell you all just where I was
And I'm sure that you'll remember
I mourned the loss of a legend
I sat and cried for he who died
And like people the world over
Our emotions could not hide
Three years before, another
Died, but it didn't mean the same
He was found dead in his bathroom
A brand new image for his fame
I mourned the loss of a legend
One who died, but at what cost
He was a victim of his excess
I didn't feel the sense of loss
Two Men of peace in Sixty Eight
I was not yet seven at the time
Assassins changed the world we knew
It changed direction on a dime
The King of Camelot in waiting
His brothers shoes, this man would fill
But, for a bullett in Los Angeles
Would hit their mark and get the ****
The other man was destined
To die, because he had a dream
But he united those who heard him
It was a surreal as it did seem
Five years before in Dallas
A President brought down too soon
Was it a single snipers rifle
Or another on the knoll there in the gloom ?
For each of us, a moment,
When our world did change it's way
When we asked why did this happen ?
There was nothing left to say
Imagine or Remember
We all have that certain date
Be it November, or December
It was not ordained by fate
Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray
Sirhan Sirhan, Mark David Chapman
Elvis Presley, John F. Kennedy
Martin Luther King Jr, Robert F. Kennedy
John Lennon....ask which ones we should remember.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 8:33 PM UTC
SCHISMS.
I woke up with Lennon on my brain,
I read the news in the usual way,
Turbulence and schisms over isms,
Society's deep divisive chasms,
Why are we all such lemmings?
Bigotry and phobias ever forming--
Imagine a world of informal religions,
Only peace and tolerance in our visions,
For churches, we revere the universe,
Star trekking our young deserve,
Imagine our brave new Planet Earth,
In a century's time, what would it be worth?
All children learning together beautifully,
None taught hatred or hostility,
Imagine no schisms over isms today,
I woke up with Lennon on my brain.
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 5:36 PM UTC
The old man sat in the darkness
Taking in what he could see
He smiled, although slyly
And he leaned in close to me
He said the air is different
You can taste it here abouts
Listen close to what's around you
The air is different...there's no doubt
I didn't understand him
He spoke in concepts, not in words
He talked of feeling the emotions
Of people running 'round in herds
He said, I've been here sixty years now
Seen people come and people go
I used to be the barkeep
But, then that's something that you know
I've seen Elvis and The Beatles
Seen Presidents and Kings
I've seen hearts torn all asunder
And the pain that a war brings
I saw Kennedy on that TV
That, one behind your head
I watched him drive on straight through Dallas
And moments later he was dead
This place was just dead silent
On the day that that man died
And hand to god I'll tell you
I was all torn up inside
I saw soldiers in that Vietnam
Fighting for what? I don't know
I saw them on that TV there
I watched them lining up to go
I saw them having rally's
Taunting those who had the guns
I saw them bringing back the caskets
Of the now dead, teenage sons
That TV showed me lots of stuff
It never strayed far from the news
It always shows the Tigers game
I turn it up to hear the boos
I saw King and Bobby on that set
Taken way to young
God, it would have been a different world
To see what things they might have brung
I sat back and I listened
The old man, went on a while
He waved two fingers skyward
And said, two more beers ...with his smile
My life has been a good one
I've been alone, except for here
I watch the outside on that set
It was then, we got our beer
I remember back when Elvis died
He was the best back in the day
But, me I liked Sinatra
Dean Martin, Bob and Ray
There was folks in here all crying
singing songs, and holding hands
on various occassions
from Lennons death, to Bobby Sands
I never really took part
In the lives of those who came
To spend their time here with me
I only knew a few by name
My job was just to serve them
Not to be their new best friend
I guess that's why I sit here still
Watching, waiting for the end
That set has shown me good and bad
That one, behind your head
It hasn't worked for fifteen years
We got a new one in instead
It's there as a reminder
more to me, than those still here
That life is for the living
And I'm alive while I am here
He rose and turned back to me
Said, it's time for us to close
I'll be back again tomorrow
To watch more highs and maybe lows
I watched the old man shuffle
To his room, and to his bed
Past the TV he saw life on
On the wall behind my head.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:04 AM UTC
Julia
I Should Have Known Better
I Want to Tell You
You've Really Got a Hold On Me
If I Needed Someone
Baby It's You
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
Come Together
Because
Oh! Darling
All You Need Is Love
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC
I close my eyes
Silently I listen
A voice that's vanished
That will sound forever
The voice that will always slingshot
The poetic words
Of the nightingale
Into the world
For a second I start to dream
I forget
What I saw
When my eyes were still open
Ik sluit mijn ogen
Zwijgend luister ik
Een stem die is weggestorven
Die voor eeuwig zal klinken
De stem die voor altijd
De poëtische woorden
Van de zanger
De lucht inslingerd
Even droom ik weg
Vergeet ik
Wat ik zag
Toen mijn ogen nog open waren
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
Writing
about writing
is pathetic,
so instead
I’ll write about that time
in March when we went
hiking along ridgetops and
firetrails, and the sun
baked the rocks hard and impassive
to our boots. The orange-and-white tracks
folded back upon
themselves and seemed
so illogical that we thought
somehow we were going
in circles
(round the Sun we missed
that one it felt like we
weren’t moving)
For lunch you had squished
peanut butter and
sardine sandwiches because
you’re odd and idiosyncratic
like that, and I had apples
and muesli bars because I’m
too lazy to make lunch
at 6 in the morning.
We ate on a huge rock
overlooking trees and *Lucy
in the Sky with Diamonds* was
playing on the radio.
It felt as if we were two
enclosed in a small
self-erected hazecloud
where birds and lizards
and just breeze mingles
surprisingly well with John Lennon’s
recollections.
I remember the sun-scored rocks
had stored up warmth
from years of Marchdays like
today, they stayed warm slightly
longer than the air did.
We tasted each other’s
post-lunch mouths (you were
sardine and kind of gross)
and pretended like
our hands were ants,
scuttling aimlessly
(we had an aim)
I liked to think my fingers
were all elegant and smooth
as the moon.
I love you and I want
to make you happy here,
I love you and I want you
to make me happy here,
i should sleep – you should sleep –
we should sleep together.
I still remember that Marchday
when we went hiking and I’ve
written about it
dozens of times before in different
modes with other characters
but
to be honest I
don’t want to write about
anything else.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 12:38 AM UTC