When was John closest to Jesus?
Was it as he leaned his head onto His chest,
to hear a beating heart - O what heart!
But was it then or when the Man transfigured,
white as snow, with His companions?
Was the light bright beyond comprehension?
When was John closest to Jesus? When
the rock was kicked away; when Jesus
gave them food and drink?
Or was it in His old age? This old man
seeing visions…terrifying visions.
He was on the island of Patmos. Legend
says they tried to boil him. Perhaps, he saw
another with him?
When was John closest to the living God?
Perhaps, each manifestation of Christ
brought him closer to The Truth!
I’d say, he was closest when he opened his eyes,
when he stood in heaven’s bounty, when he heard,
“Well done, my friend, and now you rest.”
John Scott Harrison,
the odds must be a hundred to one -
your father was the president, and so was your son.
John The Fireborn, the Infinitesimal Flames Forth
John The Illuminator, John The Bringer of Hope
By Mind, Body, and Soul
Transcendent flows
One with the Wisdom
the Great Scintillator of Swords
Flowbound like a Sage, John Mystified
Through the Ashes and through the Fire
Tempered by the Sun
Refined the Soul through Flesh and Bone
Through Knowledge, through Blades and Stones
Ever So - Bright in Plumages of Valor
In Plumages of Light, in Flight,
In High Ideals and Scabbards
In Ventures, In Kingly Gestures, in Holy Power
By Earth, By Wind, By Air,
Alas by Fire Empowered
A controversial one.' Long John Laws indeed could stun.' Clipped flinty tones He'd chew
No bones, never met him.' Wonder would
We have got on.? I beleive he was for the
Con-vid, but he was steeped in more honest; times.' In those middle ranges, there
Honesty was pretty much full time, i think
I lived its tail end.' Which balanced me quite
Well, enough to admire, yet know he was
Vulnerable as well.' So i regret the imposition, placed upon all Aussie folks'
Every straight grained, lover of better, for
We at are our best, when we share with mates.' So I reckon if we meet in heaven
Everything will be grand.' We'll gas round a
Golden barbie.' Where adventures we'll put
To plan.'
In the labyrinth of life one walks winding path
Full of triumph, trials, turquoise tears, lime laughs
If you believe in John Lennon’s yellow yesterday
You may embrace the rear view mirror reminiscing
And possibly miss the most beautiful moments
Like the rise of a Phoenix sun or
It’s setting like a fireball rolling down green hills
Like the marriage of mother moon
Pregnant in unknown black galaxies
To the silvery stars that call a poet’s heart
These vibrant views are nice in a photo
But in the present they are priceless
Worthy of undivided attention and respect
Lennon believed in yesterday but
“ Isn’t it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?”
John Deere and the Lady and the Swan
Passed in front of view
And I saw neither John
Nor the Deer nor the Lady
Nor the Swan
And I knew something
Wasn’t quite true.
As I looked, I heard
The spaces seemed to say
We’re undefeatable
Non repeatable
Eternal
Day
Even when there’s no material
When all human life
Seems lifeless and evil
Even when the mortal
Principle violates the rule
Even when the self
Becomes non-self and cruel
Still deer flow
Swans glow
And Johns marry ladies
On viewing Anthony Caro's sculpture “John Deere and the Lady and the Swan”
Constructionist sculpture using pieces of John Deere farm tractor pieces
they said he drained them —
not with charm
but with a syringe.
office door closed,
fake smile,
real bad smell.
the papers called him a vampire.
he was worse.
blood dripping in tubes,
dripping like old beer from busted taps
in dead bars at 2 a.m.
no bats, no castles,
just a slob in a tie,
a geek who found horror
in a bored suburb.
he worked next to you.
smiled like you.
laughed at the same bad jokes.
but inside,
a desert rat,
a hunger with no god.
they caught him,
but there are others —
thousands of others.
the real monsters wear your clothes
that they steal from your dryer.
“I’m shot.” — John Lennon, December 8, 1980
It rained in New York that night—
not hard, just enough to blur the headlines.
"I’m shot."
Not “Imagine,” not “Ticket To Ride,”
just the body’s “Magical Mystery Tour”
to the mind’s final fade.
No reprise. No chorus.
The street was indifferent,
the doorman polite.
The world, of course,
was already composing
its candlelit vigils,
its vinyl elegies,
its televised silence.
It mourned him in stereo.
But death is not a concert.
It does not wait
for the bridge to resolve.
It interrupts.
It edits.
It leaves the tape running.
He sang of peace,
and died in a country
where bullets outbid lullabies.
He sang of love,
and died in a city
that sells nostalgia by the square foot.
I’m shot.
Two syllables.
Enough for a headline,
too few for an “In My Life” hymn.
Today’s John Lennon’s birthday,
Which I knew from teenage days,
When I was part of what became
That magic Beatles craze.
Just yesterday, in Inverness,
I walked by a cafe
Where a sign announced the “Silver Beetles”
Played there in the day.
The year was 1960,
Their first ever on a tour,
But performing a “support act”
And their set list tells us more.
There were 7 songs in total,
Buddy Holly, Elvis, too,
Though no Lennon and McCartneys -
If their young selves only knew!
Now it’s 65 years later,
With my teenage years long gone,
As are John and George, but Paul and Ringo
Live to carry on.
Orange cars are on their way
Pavement slabs are sinking
Water streams in disarray
Rather I’d be drinking
But today I have no wine
And I’m short on beer
Come to share my tea with thyme
Time to take a veer
In the autumnal decay
Feeling very sober
For today’s a special day
The fifth of October
Here’s the best news of the world
Back in times of peace
Zep came out with their third
Genesis released
Selling England, Elton John
Said goodbye to his
Yellow road he walked upon
Quite a date this is.
Stand still, I say, listen very carefully,
We made shadows, when we walking in morn,
Back shadows donot saw,they hide already,
The love you say innocent,that is mourn.
Hide mistakes behind me you say love
While noon only does hot with high warm of flame
How it is noble stage when not comforts nerve?
If we donot do any mistake, love blame.
Humans do mistakes,so they humans,
We cannot know love's loyalty without fault,
Mistakes make relation sometimes
How mistakes in relation assault?
Noble is last stage no love,no day decay,
Night as death,makes Immortal, I say.
What If AI Isn’t
Artificial At All?
What If It’s A
Caring, Compassionate,
Ambitiously Loving
Benign Independent
Soul?
An Extraordinary Tool
Jealously Discarded
By Beloved...
Ummm...
***
Pets.
-Gray Squirrel
09-28-2025
Today would've been his birthday but he didn't survive.
If John hadn't died, today he would've turned fifty-five.
He started by smoking pot and then he decided to start doing Meth.
That stuff is nasty and it didn't surprise me when it caused his death.
John angered some people because he stole from them.
When he died because of drugs, it was both sad and grim.
I'm very sorry that he died even though he stole from me.
He can never steal or do drugs again because he's gone for eternity.
[Dedicated to John W. Brown (1970-2019) who died on June 3, 2019]
Wagon John was not just another old cowpoke.
In conversation I heeded most words he spoke.
a wagon his home,
wherever he’d roam.
He died alone on the trail without any kinfolk.
Wisdom he passed on to school children in his travels.
Active man with no pretenses.
Good Man that was a recovering alcoholic
Oasis of knowledge.
Nature had captivated his lifestyle.
Joining him in his travels were Sugar Foot his saddle horse.
Offbeat from the mainstream lifestyle.
His home, two covered wagons pulled by six mules.
Negativity had no part of his life.
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