John F McCullagh

John F McCullagh Jun 2019

“We have no need of “Heroes” from our “so-called” storied past.”
So they pulled their statues from their plinths, while we looked on aghast.
The generals and the Presidents; the finest men we’d known,
Consigned to History’s dustbin until one remained alone.

Grant’s tomb was desecrated; its plea for peace ignored.
His opponents’ visage shattered; Lee reduced to shards of stone.
“Thomas Jefferson was a ****** who had children by his slave.”
Despite some feeble protests, his statues weren’t saved.

“Churchill’s bust, be gone from us!” They tossed it on the heap.
“Consign him to the flames!” they roared. It was not his first defeat.
Paintings done by Trumbull joined busts made by Houdon
Until nearly all reminders of our country’s past were gone.

Once Washington and Jefferson had joined Lee and Longstreet;
Their Paintings and their statues gone; their names expunged from streets.
They pulled “Old Glory” from its pole and consigned it to the fire,
and danced like Satan’s children as the flames leaped ever higher.

At last, they came for Lincoln to unseat him from his throne.
Of our pantheon of heroes, he, till now, was left alone.
“His fine words and speeches shall not save him from this fate!”
“He was a white supremacist too; he wished blacks would emigrate.”

What he thought of these barbarians is known to him alone.
Like Athena of antiquity, when the “Christians’ razed her home.
They went to work with relish until Abe’s statue had atoned.
For all sins, real and imagined, they left no stone upon a stone.

From age to age we gather, and we pool our ignorance.
At things we think good and moral,, our forebears would take offense.
Tolerance- the last virtue lost, as we approach a darker time.
Our civic altars desecrated; our civilization in decline.

Some of this has already happened. More of this type of activity is planned... In a world where poor Kate Smith has her statue wrapped in garbage bags isn't anything possible? After all, the Taliban desecrated art that had endured a thousand years. Still, I hope this remains a work of fiction and not a prophecy. This work of fantasy was inspired by a friend's observation that artists like Mozart Haydn and Beethoven are being removed from the curriculum of several American Universities for the sin of being old dead white Europeans.

John F McCullagh Jun 2019

Tale of the Feral Pig

Once upon a time in the land that is down under,
There was a feral pig whose heart was set on plunder.
While wandering the outback he chanced to chance upon
A group of unwary campers and lo, their beer was gone.
The pig was feeling happy, having put away a case,
And he wandered through the bushland with a smile upon his face.
As he staggered through the wilderness he chanced upon a cow.
The poor cow was soon set upon by this drunken sow.
A battle royal then did ensue but our pig was out of luck.
The feisty bovine bested him and tossed him in the muck.

That’s where the pig was sleeping it off when found by this reporter,
Who, at first glance, had mistaken him to be a Trump supporter.

This wild pig put away 18 beers stolen from some hapless campers and then did battle with a cow.

John F McCullagh May 2019

Memorial Day Parade

Memorial Day Parade

The fog that day at Arlington, the thickest I ever saw.
The only thing that could compare would be the fog of war.
From the marshes and the gardens of old Marse Robert’s estate
The dead rose from their hallowed graves in numbers small and great.
There were scarecrows dressed in butternut, and ghouls in tattered blue.
Some had battled for old Virginia; the others Union true.
They all formed up in lines of four; right smartly they arrayed.
Side by side they began to march in columns on parade.
These men, who had been foes in life, now seemed to understand
That they were brothers, joined in death, and bound by Love’s command.
One hundred and fifty years had passed since last they saw the sky.
I watched fascinated as this ghost army shuffled by.
No word of command was spoken; these men knew what to do.
Proudly they marched together; these veterans, Gray and Blue.
Then they melted back into the fog; I watched in shock and awe.
These men had seen the last of Earth and had had enough of war.

A strange sight in the early morning fog at Arlington National Cemetary. this is a revision of the original poem with changes to lines 12,15 and 16

John F McCullagh May 2019

The Battle of Music 12_06_41

My heart was full of joy that night; I’d just received good news:
I’d learned that my request for flight training had been approved.
That night was warm and the sweet scent of flowers filled the air.
As we sat in the Bloch arena, Navy bands for battle did prepare.
Bands from the Tennessee, the Pennsylvania and the Argonne played.
and no one in that audience gave a thought to an air raid.
Pearl Harbor was too shallow for torpedo planes to strike.
Or so we had been told and did believe till morning’s light

I’d had an ice cold beer (or two) to celebrate my good news.
My shipmates from Arizona sat beside me in the pews.
Our ship’s band was believed to be the finest in the fleet.
The surviving band tonight would be the foe they had to beat.

The golden sun had long since set in the Pacific sea.
Perhaps that was a harbinger of what was yet to be.
In just a few short hours hence did hell on earth arrive.
Though I was thrown from the burning deck, no band members survived.

The Arizona sank so fast; Eleven hundred died.
I watched from the oil-slicked water as their second wave arrived.
This was the day of infamy that entered into lore.
The last sweet strains of peace had been played the night before.

( This poem is told from the point of view of Louis Conter who was an able ****** on the USS Arizona and who had just been accepted into the Naval Flight training program. He survived the attack on Pearl Harbor and served in the war as a Navy pilot.

PEARL HARBOR (NNS) -- The U.S. Pacific Fleet Band honored the members of U.S. Navy Band Unit (NBU) 22, the last band to ever serve on the battleship USS Arizona, during a commemoration concert at the USS Arizona Memorial Visitor Center at the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument in Pearl Harbor Dec. 5.

According to U.S. Pacific Fleet's website, the following is an account of NBU 22's activities prior to and the day of Dec. 7, 1941:

"On the night of Dec. 6, 1941, there was a band competition called the 'Battle of Music' at Bloch Arena on Naval Station Pearl Harbor. It featured Navy bands from 'capitol ships' homeported in Pearl Harbor and those attached to shore installations in Hawaii. The USS Arizona band had already won the first round Sept. 13, 1941, and was not scheduled to play again until the final competition.

During the elimination tournament on the evening of Dec. 6, bands from the USS Pennsylvania (BB 38), USS Tennessee (BB 43) and USS Argonne (AG 31) competed against one another. Several members of the USS Arizona band attended the contest to see their upcoming competition and to visit with School of Music shipmates in the Tennessee band.

On the morning of Dec. 7, 1941, while the band from the USS Nevada (BB 36) played 'Morning Colors,' the Japanese surprise attack on Pearl Harbor occurred. The entire USS Arizona Band, while at battle stations passing ammunition under gun turret number one, was killed in the attack. In the weeks to follow, all the bands that had participated in the 'Battle of Music' voted to posthumously award the tournament trophy to Navy Band Unit 22, renaming it the 'Arizona Trophy.'"

John F McCullagh May 2019

The Stars themselves

Some stars explode in the darkest night,
while others, massive suns implode and swallow even light.
Most, after ten billion years, find themselves begin to fade,
As their hydrogen exhausts itself and they are put to shade.

Thought their ends may be varied, the next results?-the same.
Another Sun extinguished, another star put in its grave.
With the snuffing of each lamp, colors disappear from view.
We share the same fate as the stars, for we are stardust too.

Do not go gentle into that good night...

John F McCullagh May 2019

At Seventeen Janis Ian

At Seventeen
Janis Ian

I learned the truth at seventeen
That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired
The valentines I never knew
The Friday night charades of youth
Were spent on one more beautiful
At seventeen I learned the truth
And those of us with ravaged faces
Lacking in the social graces
Desperately remained at home
Inventing lovers on the phone
Who called to say "Come dance with me"
And murmured vague obscenities
It isn't all it seems
At seventeen
A brown eyed girl in hand-me-downs
Whose name I never could pronounce
Said, "Pity, please, the ones who serve
They only get what they deserve"
And the rich relationed hometown queen
Marries into what she needs
With a guarantee of company
And haven for the elderly
Remember those who win the game
Lose the love they sought to gain
In debentures of quality
And dubious integrity
Their small-town eyes will gape at you
In dull surprise when payment due
Exceeds accounts received
At seventeen
To those of us who knew the pain
Of valentines that never came
And those whose names were never called
When choosing sides for basketball
It was long ago and far away
The world was younger than today
When dreams were all they gave for free
To ugly duckling girls like me
We all play the game, and when we dare
To cheat ourselves at solitaire
Inventing lovers on the phone
Repenting other lives unknown
They call and say, "Come dance with me"
And murmur vague obscenities
At ugly girls like me
At seventeen
Songwriters: Janis Ian

One of my favorite songs from a long time ago. Not one of mine but light years ahead of some songs of modern day

John F McCullagh May 2019

Summer of Love, plus fifty

By the time I got to Woodstock, I was pushing Sixty-five.
I was qualified for Medicare when I finally arrived.
All the famous bands that played there, by and large, they are no more.
You can hear them still on vinyl; just not at the record store.
It was mud and drunken nakedness in the summer of sixty-nine.
There were ******-active drugs too if you were so inclined.
All the gorgeous girls who made that scene back in Love’s own summer,
Now use Clairol to hide the gray and are somebody’s Grandmother.
And what about the tall lean dudes who lusted for them then?
They now rely on small blue pills to get it up again.
Imagine standing on that stage staring out at the tie-dyed throng
as Janice Joplin poured her heart and soul out in a song.
I hear Hendrix was electric even as the skies did pour.
And Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were up for an encore.
Lennon couldn’t make it and Jethro Tull declined.
Joan Baez was magical; Joni Mitchell would have cried.
They are but ghostly echoes now, playing to an empty field.
We were all once young and beautiful, and Love was true and real.
Still, Time is a heartless arrow, relentless now as then.
I only fooled myself to think I could go back again.

Standing in that now empty field in Bethel, New York in the summer of Trump