Borrowed Time

Image by Eli

Borrowed Time

"Life is what happens to you when you are busy
making other plans."--Chris Hunt

May 1980 was unseasonably warm
as John Lennon emerged from his five year
self-exile at the Dakota, fulfilling his promise,
after three earlier miscarriages, to be present
for Sean’s formative years.

He could smell the sea on the wind
the day he reinvented himself,
and saw a seabird’s strong wings
sprout from his shoulders, finally
capturing his childhood dreams,
born on the swarthy docks
of Liverpool, where he first heard the
siren’s song--and he decided
to buy a boat and become
a sailor.

Yoko consulted charts, read the stars,
listened to her advisors and steered
him to Rhode Island, where he made
the acquaintance of a 43 ft. Hinckley
Centerboard Sloop called
the Megan Jaye, and a tall veteran
sea wolf named Captain Hank Halsted.

Bermuda was chosen,
six summer days of easy passage,
slicing south-east to port--
and in June, John packed his duffel,
rolled up his sleeves,
and launched his adventure,
saying to Yoko,
“See you in paradise.”--
a promise he still has to keep.

The end of the first day brought
a dark companion;
a snarling storm sporting
65 mph winds, and 20’ waves.
The seasoned sailors became ill,
and only two men stood firm
against the gale--Capt. Hank
at the wheel, and John manning
the galley.

The captain stood like a bow plank,
more oak than man, for 50 hours,
fighting the sea until his body shuddered
and his great strength faded. With
a grin more grimace than glee, he said,
“I’m afraid it’s your turn at the wheel, son.
There’s no one else standing, and the storm
has yet to peak.”

John stepped up terrified, insecure,
grabbed that ship’s wheel as it bucked
in his hands nearly pulling him off his feet,
and the transformation began, as he stood
his ground and put his back into it,
as the urban dweller stepped away
and the sinews of salt, a sailor’s powerful
and mysterious reserves flowed
into his musician’s fingers, and he became
master to the pitching deck and thwacking sails.
After an hour, when his fresh courage
was at its zenith, he began to curse and shout
and sing sea shanties into
the furious face of that storm.

Later, back in New York City, his stride
was wider, his smile broader, yet
it has been said and I have read
that even as he clutched every moment
as if it were a precious gem, still,
he had a premonition about
his early demise.

Autumn had arrived in Central Park,
and in the window boxes, on
December 8th as he returned happy
from another positive recording session,
and just before he turned for
the Dakota’s door,
Mark David Chapman walked up behind him,
shooting him four times in the back;
followed brightly and too soon
in the howling ambulance, as Lucy ascended,
the walrus died, and a solitary scream
was heard from the fool on the hill.

The next day Yoko said,
with his gunshot wounds still fresh
in her head, “There is no funeral for John.”
He had a viking service and he faced the fire,
so that she could spread his ashes
out over Strawberry Fields, seen easily
from his old apartment window.

Via con Dios, beatle boy,
and may this day never pass unnoticed,
without our salutes and salutations.

Glenn Buttkus

December 8, 2010

Listed as #20 over on Magpie Tales 44

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