A Poem in Memory of John Lennon

(a note: I wrote this shortly after the gathering described which took place at the corner of 72nd St. and CPW the Sunday after his murder.)

December Sunday afternoon

a poem by Richard R. Binkele

(for John Lennon, 1940 – 1980)


gilt edged trees rise
against the dense gray bank
of concrete, of sky.
all around the park the city thoughtfully
packs it’s ballbearings with grease.

by the bandshell the tribe unites
to mourn the murder of another
peacemaker – carnations and roses
bloom in the wind
around the poster, a kind brow
under soft hair, a soldier in
the softer conflagration
of love, a tender rebel,
a light in the inkwell dark.

beneath low rolling clouds
helicopters drone recalling
another stubborn wound
a memory of war.
love was never enough to save us all,
idiots still perform their wild dance
and madmen cut down stars from the heavens.

bend the trees down
the strings of his guitar are silent.
our hearts have just begun to sing.
for a moment the droning fades,
the low clouds fall away,
a warm sun penetrates the wound
and sparkles on our tears.
our covenant, our brotherhood
is reaffirmed

outside this silence is life and traffic.
veins and capillaries flow free
on December Sunday afternoon while
children coming from the museum stop to see;
lovers too,
always lovers

imagine plays, the tribe splits,
the clouds return as intense as any sunlight
to atone for a bitter day.
oh sadness
for all the sorrow
hidden in moist crevasses of sky
and the coming of winter