A Lad from Liverpool

14 Comments

Tags:
  • Sadness
  • ,
  • Loss
  • ,
  • Death

    Poem Commentary

    I will never forget the morning I read of John Lennon's assassination. He was so talented and such a good person. Whether you like Yoko or not, John sure did. Such a short poem to sum it all up surely didn't do John Lennon justice, but what ever could? His music will live forever.

    A Lad from Liverpool

    John thought himself a regular guy
    An artistic talent no one could deny

    A young lad from Liverpool
    All of us thought he was so cool

    Once part of the fab four
    Loved Yoko with all his core

    On December 8th, 1980
    Chapman ended John’s life so tragically

    Poem Comments

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    kmooney commented on A Lad from Liverpool

    09-25-2010

    I, too, remember vividly the day John Lennon was shot. I was in college and it was like the President had died. So many people visibly shook...in tears. I wasn't a huge Lennon fan then but have come to know him and his music better. He was a martyr of sorts and is sadly missed. I have a Lennon and 2 Beatles poem myself. Read What If, The Last Judgment and Blackbird. Great tribute. Thanks...Kevin.

    Marsink commented on A Lad from Liverpool

    09-08-2010

    Nice write! Sad commentary on social ills.To the point!

    MootPoint

    09/08/2010

    Thank you for commenting.

    stever commented on A Lad from Liverpool

    09-04-2010

    yea im 46 so i know how youu feel ,,great lil poem to put in your thoughts and feelings ..nice StEvEr

    Artie commented on A Lad from Liverpool

    08-20-2010

    This is a great tribute. I remember that day as well. I was too young to realize what had truly happened, but learned shortly after. There is a madness to obsession, and an obsession to madness. 10 from me

    Maleficent commented on A Lad from Liverpool

    08-20-2010

    how can any of us forget that tragic day...? the shell of the man has passed, but his belief's live on... thanx for sharing this awesome tribute! ;)

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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