Columns

In the less than middle of the night of our lives 

In broad neon light before cabbies and queens 

Seven stunning shots sped through the New York Night 

Ripping through the joy of our lives 

Struck us through the heart. One who is blood coursing through our youth  

lay dead. 

When we all wore our hair in bubbles and beehives 

Those four burst forth our lives in song. Oh joyous song. 

Sent our spirits coursing with beat and bounce 

Electric laughter our drummers danced 

Oh wondrous right-on tune of our hearts 

Our passions roused, Moved were our feet 

To thump, pelvis to rock, fingers to snap. 

Melody burst upon the scene an irrepressible joy 

Our bodies rocked the first courage of our age. 

Our Eisenhower-years hearts were electrified with hope 

A sense of future. A time of our own. 

Most subtle revolution since Bach who beneficently and 

Polyphonously rolled over round and round in glee 

Four baby boys pulsing a beat that pumps our blood. 

Mass and lone, singing and ringing out 

The song of This Is What Can Be. Let it be. Then 

Suddenly, we are not half the men we were Yesterday 

Struck down a heart we held as ours. Leaving us all the lonely people. 

We must go back to where we all belong. 

For such a long moment they had swept us away from 

Where we all came from. And made it better. 

So much better. 

We are stunned. We are real nowhere man. Don’t know where we’re going to 

Going round ‘n round in our grief 

Struck stunned that He, A part of us so vibrant 

Was struck down in the middle of the night of our lives. 

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