image from bandswallpapers.com
I was sipping
warm mocha
when my eyes
idly glanced
at the front page
of yesterday's
news.
"John Lennon
would have been
70 today,"
I read,
a fact
my brain
simply
refused.
Not possible,
for it wasn't
very long ago,
that he was
young and cool
and, while never cool,
I , too, was young.
Most of life still
stretched before me,
with hope
my heart was strung.
I had time to waste
and more,
for the slow-moving
hand of time
to bring me
what it had
in store.
That hand has
speeded up now
and I need to
readjust
my vision
to the sight
of John Lennon
and I
teetering
on walkers,
or swinging
a mean cane.
The rockin' we'd
be doing
would be in chairs,
and all the songs
of love and pain,
all the heavy sighs,
would be about
how damned fast
this life goes by.
But John,
I still sing with you
when I have
your albums on:
War Is Over
and Give Peace
a Chance.
My heart still
constricts
and I
can't believe
you're gone,
as you sing
your songs
to which
I used to dance,
with all that came
to be
just waiting
in the wings
that fateful day
that would
whisk you
fast away.
You would have been
a really cool seventy,
and I am 64.
(I'm still not cool.)
And I swear
that it is
only an eyeblink
since I wandered
through Gastown
like a happy fool,
with my brown jacket
with the fringe
and my long red hair.
Your music
was playing
everywhere
and we shared
a dream,
the world
imagined
peace,
(You were
not
the only one),
when Blackbird
sang in
the dead of night
and all the lovely
out of sight
tomorrows
were still
shining
so bright,
not yet
passed and
full of loss
and
sorrow.
I live in a world
sadder
for the loss of
your clear voice,
and war is everywhere
more than it ever was.
But Peace is still
a choice.
Beam us some
from where
you're watching,
lonely dreamer,
whose music
recalls
those days
we thought
would never
end.
Your birthday
reminds me
of what I am
too
well aware:
there are fewer
tomorrows
than yesterdays
now,
my friend.
