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John F McCullagh Mar 2020
The doctors all were taken aback
They had never seen a case like his.
They suspected a stroke had laid him low,
but knew not what to make of this.
His eyes were bloodshot; his pulse raced.
At times his breath was like a sigh.
As he declaimed in a strange foreign tongue,
They sent him off for an M.R.I.

Emeralds green are my lover’s eyes.
Her hair is golden as the sunrise.
We spread our blanket upon the earth
and joined beneath the bowl of stars.


Was this disease communicable?
Was it airborne or spread by touch?
They watched as the patient resumed babbling
In a strangely musical Gaelic tongue:

Furtive kisses are most sweet
as we hid from the world away.
Surely moments like this are why we live.
We were not born only to kneel and pray.

No sign of a lesion on the brain,
Nor a concussion could explain
Why  a man who knew no Irish
Spouted poetry  in the same vein.

Soft whispering and heartfelt sighs
Join with your all-consuming kiss.
The stars above wink their approval
As we surrender to our bliss.

When we awakened the sun was high,
The sound of birdsong was in our ears.
I drink my fill of your pale beauty.
It never fails to give me cheer.

“We must start quarantine right away
if containment will have any chance.”
Alas, it was too late, for all of them
as the nurses began  dancing the River dance.
A poem for Saint Patrick's day (let us s hope it doesn't go viral. )   The Irish verses are translated into English in the companion poem "Emeralds are my Lovers Eyes"
John F McCullagh Mar 2020
Emeralds green are my lover’s eyes.
Her hair is golden as the sunrise.
We spread our blanket upon the earth
and joined beneath the bowl of stars.

Furtive kisses are most sweet
as we hid from the world away.
Surely moments like this are why we live.
We were not born only to kneel and pray.

Soft whisperings and heartfelt sighs
Join with your all-consuming kiss.
The stars above wink their approval
As we surrender to our bliss.

When we awakened the sun was high,
The sound of birdsong was in our ears.
I drink my fill of your pale beauty.
It never fails to give me cheer.
companion piece to " A touch of the Poet" which I will post shortly
John F McCullagh Mar 2020
I knew a girl who wore dark clothes,
Who would not, could not, speak in prose.
She could, of course, declaim in rhyme,
For many hours at a time..

No thoughts prosaic or profane
Had anyone heard her exclaim.
Just poetry poured forth from her like wine;
a vintage nuanced and sublime.

She did not gossip, curse or tweet.
In matters of the heart, she was discreet.
I was her muse, she said. She, mine.
Her love for me, a gift divine.

We danced in silence without a word
To music only we two had heard.
She charmed my heart with every rhyme
In English, French, or American sign

Was this a talent? – Or a Curse?
I married that girl for better or verse.
A Piffle about a girl with a very special talent.  There was a famous cartoonist who lost the power of speech due to a neurological issue and only regained any ability to speak by speaking in rhymes. His situation was what inspired the poem.
John F McCullagh Feb 2020
If you have a fever
aches and pains and a chill,
its beyond disputation, my friend you are ill!
It might be a virus perhaps it's the flu.
My God , it just struck me
it might be something new!

The tests cost three thousand,
but that's money well spent,
To detect viral agents
that the Chinese invent.

I thought I was ill
but my Doctor opines
that I suffer from a
hypochondriac mind.
Relax, have a Corona and stay the hell away from Wuhan
John F McCullagh Feb 2020
Iwo was a bloodbath; that fact can’t be denied.
We had twenty thousand wounded men and seven thousand died.
The fight was long and difficult against the entrenched foe.
(When the photograph was taken the fight had weeks yet left to go.)
High upon Mount Suribachi, our hearts leapt at the sight:
As “Old Glory” was unfurled, our colors caught the light.
Six young men raised her on high, to defy the rising Sun.
(Three of them were buried there before that fight was won.)
One moment in eternity that was caught for all to see.
a moment passing, even now, from living memory.
For most of those who fought and lived
are, by now, dead and gone.
The moment of their glory lives
captured here in Bronze.
In honor of the 75th anniversary of the iconic flag-raising during the battle for Iwo Jima
John F McCullagh Feb 2020
Sophie was just twenty-two, arrayed in prison grey,
Sentenced to death for treason; this, her final day.
She was a faithful Catholic who defied the twisted cross.
She saw through the Fuhrer’s lies; those golden piles of dross.

Her boyfriend was a medic who served on the Eastern front.
Then, wounded, he returned with some hard truths to confront.
He’d seen the mass graves filled with Jews; the horror, the despair.
Demons such as ****** require more than prayer.

When they authored their first leaflet they surely must have known
That they would be discovered and how they would atone.
With each succeeding pamphlet, they courted their demise.
Their Martyrdom a certainty; the truth is treason in men’s eyes.

One by one the White rose died; death by the guillotine.
They had committed treason; their sentence guaranteed.
When Sophie heard the guillotine sing she knew what they had found;
As she, too, cast off her earthly cross and exchanged it for a crown.
02/22/43    The anniversary of Sophie's martydom
John F McCullagh Feb 2020
Formerly she’d sneak into my room,
and whisper things that only I could hear.
She‘d provide a fortunate turn of phrase
And I would craft the lyric sweet and clear.

I would praise her for her golden hair,
those sensuous lips, those cerulean eyes.
Yet she would often fool me, even then,
by entering my thoughts in a disguise.

We had such power, then, my muse and I
to infuse a verse with truth and light.
We once were lovers on red satin sheets,
Crying out in mutual delight.

Those were days to treasure then.
Some things we take for granted we should not.
We once made love beneath the bowl of stars.
This I remember, but she seemingly forgot.

These days now I seldom hear her voice.
Her beauty she reveals to others’ eyes.
I think she will no longer sing to me.
Her truths by others’ pens will be inscribed.
( Poets grow old, but muses stay forever young); the title is suggested by a Jimmy Webb song which in turn was inspired by Robert Heinlein's " The Moon is a harsh mistress "
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