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737 · Aug 2013
Remember
John F McCullagh Aug 2013
What is one death out of Fifty eight thousand?
One house full of weeping in a divided land?
Examine, minutely, the loss of one solider,
one single example of so many last stands.
His sisters hair, now streaked with grey,
She lights a candle in a church
in memory of that fatal day
when her brother's airplane fell to earth.
Freedom's sacrifice paid in blood
by lance Corporal Ronald Powell.
It was an August day like this,
but far away and long ago.

Remember.
Lance Corporal Ronald L. Powell died in Vietnam on 08/24/65
John F McCullagh Feb 2013
In the clearing stands the garden,
one made beautiful by you.
There is laurel, here is Holly,
and scents of lavender and rue.
In the center of the garden;
a rock that was your Poet's chair.
Sadly it is empty,
Paddy, you've been gone two years.
Your refuge and your metaphor
both in this secret bower.
Here you shared your wisdom
about Love's redemptive power.
This beauty were impossible
without your patient toil.
Your mind knew well which plants would
grow in this type of soil.
In your absence can your garden thrive
without the Gardener's care?
Perhaps within this place of peace
your shade yet lingers there?
Though we still grieve your passing
we mustn't seek you in the dust.
You are present in your flowers;
in your verse you bide with us
We are approaching the second anniversary of the death of Paddy Martin. A great poet and a better man.   This commemorative piece is intended to evoke his famous poem about his Garden as  well as an essay he wrote a month before he died.
736 · May 2013
First Love
John F McCullagh May 2013
There are loves that are inseparable,
loves that never leave.
Loves that can define us
This much I do believe.
I remember well my own first “love”.
A Love I brought to bed.
I brought along a flashlight too
To discern the words Love said.
When all my family was asleep
from my pillow I’d retrieve
My treasure from the Library
And I’d begin to read.
That was my first chapter book,
A mystery, I recall.
Of all the words I’ve read or writ
It was the start of all.
I like to find that book again
and hold in one more time.-
and in the touch and smell of it
Recall a simpler time.
In my case it was  "The Mystery of the Wooden Indian" by Elizabeth Holness in 1958
735 · Mar 2013
His Final tour
John F McCullagh Mar 2013
The day they knocked the Towers down
He thought he heard his nation's call
He signed his name on the dotted line.
Off he went to train for war.

Just five days into his first tour
insurgents, in a fire fight,
put a bullet in his spine
in a war commenced by George's spite.

He never after walked again.
He felt a burden to his wife.
Time and time again
he lay beneath a surgeons knife.

Until at last he said "enough"
I've had enough of this half life.
No food or drink would he accept,
his only path to that good night.

Before the soldier's "final tour"
Before he joined our honored dead.
He wrote a letter to George Bush
and this is what the soldier said:

Ten years have passed now since the day
a bullet left me half a man.
A victim of an unjust war.
Your vendetta I can't understand.

I hope someday you can accept
some blame and guilt for all your crimes.
For spending young Americans
on bootless wars in foreign climes.
A soldier wounded in the early days of the Iraq war writes an open letter condemning George Bush for  the Iraq adventure.  The soldier, rendered a paraplegic is committing suicide by hunger strike. this is based on a true story
734 · Mar 2016
The Pearl
John F McCullagh Mar 2016
Immediately the oyster felt it, a piece of grit, a source of pain.
The little creature could not expel it; every attempt was in vain.
How to endure this rank discomfort? How to bear it and survive?
The Oyster had but one solution, one thing left for it to try.
Each day the oyster’s own secretions coated that tiny piece of grit
And in the end, when all was done, the oyster made a pearl of it.

When, like me, you lose a parent while still young.
There is this pain you bear inside.
Each day it haunts your waking thoughts
However you might try to hide.
Day by day you seek to cope, though it seems helpless at the first.
A year or more might pass before you feel that you’ve survived the worst.

Time, like that oyster, seeks to heal; to encapsulate loss and regret;.
Tim to heal, Time to grieve, just accept you can’t forget.
So you keep your public face and show that bravely to the World
Until the lacuna in your soul, with Time’s mercy, becomes a pearl.
I learned in conversation that I have something in common with my son's best friend. We both lost our Fathers in our 27th year.
734 · Feb 2012
Her Sacrifice
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
She was just a teen;
pretty ,blonde - and dying.
In a town in the Southeast
where she was born.

Cancer was her foe,
then in remission.
She’d been told
she would be sterile
even so.

A neighbor’s boy
escorted her to prom.
A special friend
within a
threatened life..

Could they be blamed
for trying to
steal pleasure?
Pain was her
companion all her life.

They joined their flesh
to share a moments pleasure.
Soon afterwards
her cancer had
returned.

A sick girl, thought sterile,
found to be with child.
She would not take
their poison in her veins.

The Doctor didn’t know
her heart and will.
She vowed her child
by cancer won’t be claimed..

She willed herself to
bring her babe to term.
Just barely lived to hold
him in her arms.

Like Simeon in the temple
she had lingered
Until, at last,
the torch of life passed on.

Her lover wept and held
her as she died.
Though she was then blind
she heard her newborn cry.
This story, about a pregnant teenager who refused an abortion and chemotherapy to save the life of her unborn child. It appeared briefly on Yahoo.com but, as it did not glorify aberrant behavior, it disappeared quickly with little notice.   Still, I think her admirable. How many shoulders would be strong enough to bear her cross?
732 · Nov 2011
Fall To Earth
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
The stubborn little Maple leaf
held on when all its fellows fled.
They carpeting the ground beneath
a vast lushscape of gold and red.

Leaf held on thru wind and rain,
the last survivor of its race.
Leaf held on past Turkey day
maintaining there its pride of place.

Then Leaf grew lonely, I suppose-
Like the summer’s final rose.
Leaf envied then the flakes of snow
Who fluttered past to their repose.

Then, just as winter came to call,
Leaf felt a tug and then a snap.
Flying, tumbling on the winds
Fall to Earth. Fade to black.
A rare (for me) poem about nature
John F McCullagh Apr 2013
Two folded sheets of paper
were secreted in his stovepipe hat.
He rehearsed the phrases in his mind
on the platform where they sat.

The air was cool and tolerable
on that remembered day.
The smell of death hung in the air
from heroes Blue and Gray.

A Doctor of Divinity intoned a simple prayer.
A local band then played.
Doctor Everett spoke two hours
In his solemn practiced way.

Only then did Lincoln rise.
His face seemed sad and grey.
I was then a child of five
standing fifteen feet away.

There upon the Field of battle
amidst the legion of the death.
He did honor to their sacrifice
And the sacred cause he led.

He spoke about equality
He promised a rebirth.
Government of the people
would not perish from the earth.

That is all that I remember.
of the consecration day.
His words will live forever
Like the deeds of Blue and Gray.
In 1939, an elderly resident of Gettysburg, Pa. recounts his memories of the day the national Cemetery was consecrated, 11/19/1863- That day Lincoln spoke his Gettysburg address.
731 · Jan 2015
National Clown Shortage
John F McCullagh Jan 2015
Registrations are way down at Clown Colleges today.
No one wants to scare small kids for the peanuts that they pay.
Older Bozos are alarmed that no one is enthused
to follow their profession and try to fill their shoes.
Sales of makeup are way down, ditto for funny clothes.
And vendors can’t remember when they sold their last red nose.
When the one ring circus comes to town clowns will be hard to spot
The clown cars that they used to drive are rusting on the lot.
The reason for the scarcity is obvious to me;
All those with clown potential serve in Washington D.C.
John F McCullagh Dec 2013
I think snow and I could become better friends
if Snow would confine itself to where the grass ends.
Snow should linger on ski slopes, packed powder preferred.
On my driveway and walks snow should not be observed.
For this white gift from heaven is not very nice.
Snow is cold and it's wet and it soon turns to ice.
Snow snarls my commute and makes parking a mess.
My back hates when I shovel, but I fear I digress.
Snow is beautiful, falling, driven by the wind,
but a pain in the ***** when the clean up begins.
Oh, I could wax poetic of snow's pristine beauty,
but my wife has assigned me to shoveling duty.
The lottery Genie could do me a big favor,
if my numbers all hit, she could well prove my savior.
On my beach, I'd recline, with a drink in my hand
and sing of "White Christmas" with my own back up band.
730 · Feb 2012
Daughter of Time
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
Truth is the daughter of time.
Lies are at best her half brothers.
Truth longs for a lover to come;
her milky whiteness uncovered.
She does not wish to be ruled
by the Crown or by Papal decree.
She is not Agenda's handmaiden,
she simply longs to be free.
Had I but the skills of a Goya
I could make Truth's beauty well known.
Michaelangelo, too, could portray her
for truth's often captured in stone.
Some will tell you that
Truth is quite beautiful,
as the last of her veils hits the floor.
I agree that her figure's impeccable;
She always leaves me wanting more
728 · Dec 2013
The waiting list
John F McCullagh Dec 2013
For 40 years Joe waited
For the chance to buy a pair
Of Packer season tickets.
He was verging on despair.
That time had seen Joe
wed and Dumped,
his children grown and fled.
Joe had waited half a lifetime,
far too long for a cheese head.
Then came the notice in the mail
The ducats could be thine.
Joe jumped out of his rocking chair
in ecstasy sublime.
He danced and screamed
And shouted out
Like he would when
Green Bay Scored.
Just then Joe gasped and clutched his chest
And fell dead on the floor.
It’s sad Joe never got the chance
to cheer them from on high
To freeze his *** at Packer’s games
It’s so unfair Joe died
Still, tickets shouldn’t go to waste
So I stepped up and bought the pair.
The seats are up in “Heaven”
I’m certain Joe don’t care

Of poor old Joe, my dear late friend,
I cannot find a trace
I fear he found seats down below
in a far, far ,warmer place.
The wait for the chance to buy season tickets for the Green bay Packers is measured in decades. However, for the New York jets good seats are still available.
John F McCullagh May 2017
On a splendid sunny day with the Gestapo standing by,
A Munich Co-ed, the condemned, Sophie Scholl spoke for the last time.
Sure of her cause, strong in her Faith, the last petal of the White Rose
Bared her neck to the guillotine already wet with her brother’s blood.

Opponents of  an unjust War. The White Rose defied the Fueher’s rule
In their pamphlets they exposed the horrors of the camps
until they were condemned in a court of law.

Not every German was complicit; not all revered the red and black.
Some still thought for themselves and secretly they fought back.
Like Antigone of old, Sophie stood against the State:
certain, to the very last, of Love’s victory over hate.
“How can we expect righteousness to prevail when there is hardly anyone willing to give himself up individually to a righteous cause? Such a fine, sunny day, and I have to go, but what does my death matter, if through us, thousands of people are awakened and stirred to action?”- reported last words of Sophie Scholl
727 · Jun 2012
For Elizabeth
John F McCullagh Jun 2012
“Beautiful” she said;
And none can her gainsay.
The poetess who spoke,
then, in quiet, passed away.
Cossetted within her husband’s arms,
frail and small in death’s repose,
Never again would she put pen to paper.
No more sonnets would her art compose.
Her illnesses had dogged her all her life.
Only morphine kept the pain at bay.
It also gave to her a heightened sense
of the beauty of mundane reality.
How vividly did her expressive eyes
Put words to thoughts and thoughts to
printed page.
She was the wild enthusiast of life,
whose poetry was the spirit of the age.
A tribute poem for Elizabeth Barrett Browning. "Beautiful" was her last word as she lay dying in her husband's arms.
727 · Feb 2012
Girl with Boa
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
At first she thought it cute
that he would call a dozen times:
His dating style was quite attentive,
gentlemanly, and refined.

It got a bit annoying when
he’d question her at length;
but she wasn’t getting younger
so she agreed to set the date.

At work it was disrupting
that he called so many times
thankfully, both her employers
were of the understanding kind.

After their first child was born
she thought he would behave;
Instead he acted helpless
and abused her like a slave.

In the darkest moments of her life,
he’d seem to disappear;
She buried parents, by herself,
A time he should be there.

His jealous was crushing.
His conversation was inane.
He took the air out of the room
with his selfish, childish games.

So, while at a cocktail party,
a handsome stranger asked her name.
She wanted to dance slow with him,
The moth approached the flames.
Haven't we all encountered couples like this one?
727 · Apr 2013
Noilamgyp
John F McCullagh Apr 2013
Her face and form intrigued him
She had such classic lines.
"I must get her in my studio,
I have just the piece in mind."
He hired her right then and there.
He paid her well to pose.
His artist heart beat fastest
at the moment she disrobed.
Her hair cut short, much like a boys,
small breasted and so trim.
Her features first in plaster cast
formed perfectly by him.
Later he would cast, in Bronze,
"The huntress" **** and bold.
In truth her arrows struck his heart
and Love poured forth, I'm told.
A happy life together shared-
alas, they both are dust.
In statue form she's ever young
for Bronze will never rust.
Pgymalion spelled backwards. A poem about the Sculptor Augustus Saint Gaudens and the model he fell in love iwth and married. she is immortalized in Bronze as his famous "Diana, the Huntress"
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Lilliana was quite beautiful
in most peoples’ estimation.
Even her name was musical
Her proportions were perfection.
She, being young,
heard her praises sung
by the minstrels of the land.
Of course she was a princess.
His Royal Highness was her Dad.
.
Little gifts began appearing,
anonymously, of course
Often she heard some angel singing
but could not trace the source.
Her little sisters teased her
about her mystery man.
Who would do anything to please her
Who'd ask Father for her hand.

Could his Father be the Duke
or perhaps the son of an Earl.
Perhaps a Prince of Persia,
from half way across the World
But they were wrong and she was wrong
wrong in the n th degree.
for it was Cupid who loved her so,
the son of Aphrodite.
Cupid and Psyche
725 · Oct 2013
Harvest Home
John F McCullagh Oct 2013
The corn is crowned with flowers
as harvest's end draw near.
Men and Women, Lads and maids
all raise a rousing cheer.
Pile high the wagon with the fruits
of Ceres Golden Horn.
The fortune of the fields is ours
for now is Harvest Home.
The pagan Fall festival of our agrarian ancestors
725 · Dec 2011
This Child of Bethlehem
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
God’s Son, nurtured by a girl,
this child of Bethlehem.

This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
like the star, in darkness, shines.
A Christmas poem
725 · Feb 2014
Neutrino
John F McCullagh Feb 2014
I sit in the bottom of a Well,
Its walls worn smooth by time.
Above, a solitary star,
One of seven sisters, shines.
Neutrinos in abundance,
like angels on a pin,
of minute mass, invisible
are forever pouring in.
All about me they dash by
Without an outward sign..
Even in these hidden depths
They’re an elusive find.
They speed on through to other fates
And leave me to my climb.
723 · Jan 2012
A Drop of Amber
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
A Prehistoric Dragon Fly/ Encased in amber, on display/ Caught my eye as I passed it by/

                                    in the museum yesterday.


Encased in amber, as if time/ itself was stopped and held at bay./ You will never know decay

                                    Or another summer's day.



                                    You in amber, me in time

                                    Both are trapped and on display.

                                    You in resin are enshrined,

                                    while I am seen encased in        
          rhyme.
721 · Mar 2017
Chopin in Aleppo
John F McCullagh Mar 2017
My apartment once was beautiful; hard woods and fine antiques.
Then civil war came to Aleppo and the fight was in our streets.
A improvised explosive shattered every pane of glass.
Hot metal and the fog of war obliterate my past.
I stand in the ruins of what was once our home.
My family has been scattered; I am frightened and alone.
I search about for some semblance of shattered civility.
A Deutsche gramophone recording has survived along with me.
My television has been shattered; I have no working phone.
Just a working turntable and I listen, all alone,
To the sweet strains of a chamber piece
That was written by Chopin.
I enjoy this scrap of harmony
in a  City of the dammed.
I based this piece on an AP photo of an older citizen of Aleppo sitting in the ruins of his bedroom, smoking his pipe and listening to a stereo record
720 · Dec 2011
5-5-5-5
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
The call went out
It meant one thing.
Death in the line of duty

Women keen
and Grown men weep
at the loss of youth and beauty.

The empty locker,
The owner-less gear,
silence that is a presence.

Brave Liam lies dead.
The fireman’s friend
Pity the parents their loss

The owner less toys,
The master less pets,
How to make sense of it all?
5-5-5-5 is the N.Y.C. fire dept code for death in the line of duty. this poem is concerning an unusual 5-5-5-5 call that went out for a little boy who succumbed to cancer. See my poem Prince Liam the Brave for the back story.
720 · Nov 2015
Après minuit, au Bataclan
John F McCullagh Nov 2015
Il est VALIDATION dans la Ville des Lumières
Alors que le bilan de ces attaques sont évaluées.
Au ****, je l'entends encore sons rudes des sirènes
Comme notre corps d'ambulanciers est aux abois
Ils vont me hanter dans le sommeil, tous ces jeunes visages morts,
que je chasse ceux qui ont commis ces crimes.
Il est trois heures du matin et ma tête crie pour le café;
La caféine me aide quand je suis privé de sommeil.

La puanteur de -fer sang ne peut pas être échappé
Il est trempé dans les chaises à cushioned-
Je prends en bas de la déclaration de celui qui survived-
Ce soir, cette bonne fortune était rare.
Il fait le mort et a vécu, avec la mort tout autour,
dans ce théâtre de la mort et le désespoir.
"Ils ont massacré les otages, un à la fois,
leur but était de tuer tout le monde ".
"Ils ont assassiné mon amant, ils ont assassiné mon ami,
Je regardais mort, gisant dans leur sang trempé ".
After Midnight, at the Bataclan

It is quieting down in the City of Lights
As the toll from these attacks are assessed.
In the distance I still hear the sirens’ harsh sounds
As our ambulance corps is hard pressed
They will haunt me in sleep, all these young dead faces,
as I hunt those who committed these crimes.
It is three in the morning and my head screams for coffee;
Caffeine helps me when I’m sleep deprived.

The stench of blood –iron cannot be escaped
It’s soaked into the cushioned- back chairs
I take down the statement of one who survived-
Tonight such good fortune was rare.
He feigned death and lived, with Death all around,
in this theatre of death and despair.
“They slaughtered the hostages, one at a time,
their aim was to **** everyone.”
“They murdered my lover, they murdered my friend,
I looked dead, lying drenched in their blood.”

.
718 · Jan 2012
Poetential
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
Dull sublunary lovers need
the help of 3D glasses
to ever seen things differently,
or grasp just what romance is.

We poets see things differently
because we take more chances.
The seen and unseen, we embrace
without cardboard enhancers.

Could Love even express itself
without our helpful similes?
Honor or Courage, without our help,
would be just pale  facsimiles .

We are the guardians of the words
that hollow men would empty.
Poetential is our flaming sword
against their verbal  entropy
A Neologism for a title and a borrowed phrase from the great John Donne to start me off.   Reading a poem by Ann Rouse inspired the new word a marriage of poet with potential.   It is common to use a new word in asentence- I thought i would use it in a poem.
John F McCullagh Oct 2014
On a cold winter’s night with the streets dark and still,
We converged at the Pillar with a plan and a will.
We placed sticks of dynamite Around and inside-
enough to send Lord Nelson upon his last ride.
In the wee hours of morning The fuses were lit.
We ran like mad devils so we wouldn’t get hit.
The concussive explosion made Lord Nelson fly.
Many windows were shattered, But nobody died.
It was fifty years on since our brothers in arms
Had proclaimed the Republic For which so many died.
The skyline’s been altered To reflect Erin’s pride.
The might Brit hero Will never again
Lord it over our Dublin Or free Irish men.
in the early morning hours of 0/08/66, members of the Irish REpublican Army blew up t\Nelson's Pillar. a monument in honor of the Admiral's victory over the Fresnch and Spanish at Trafalgar.


It was the 50th anniversay of the Easter rising in 1916
715 · Dec 2013
APPIAN WAY
John F McCullagh Dec 2013
Clodius’ ashes rose above
The Curia in flames.
His supporters filled the streets
crying out his name.
In a city ruled by violence,
One wracked by rival mobs,
The rule of law grew as silent
as the altars of her gods.
Pompey the great, sole consul,
His ally, Milo, would betray...
The eloquent grew fearful
of themselves becoming prey.
Cicero-" In Times of war, the laws grow silent."   It is 52 BC. Clodius is dead, Milo is being put on trial and Rome inches closer to the inevitable Civil War.
715 · Nov 2011
One Byte of the Apple
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
I take the Apple in my hand
And ponder how this tasty fruit,
Once a bite or two was eaten,
caused God to drive us out of Eden.

But what if Adam didn’t bite
upon that fatal primal night,
and God decided Eve, alone,
should pack and leave their Garden home?

Would Adam by himself remain,
long centuries after Eve was dust?
Converse with snake and count on sheep
if and when he couldn’t sleep?

Would the fiery angel give a shout
when Adam passed on his way out,
to join Eve on the Darkling plain?
One paradise lost, and one regained.
an exercise in alternate mythstory
713 · Jun 2015
Stage Fright
John F McCullagh Jun 2015
I’ll admit that it was different, and something of a strain
When our troupe was performing “Hamlet: for the criminally insane.
It was some do gooder’s notion to expose them to the arts.
and I saw that they accepted it when boys played women’s parts.
Some Prisoners thought the ghost was real and they were sore afraid
Their minds could not distinguish it was just a role I played.
Each line meant to gain a laugh fell silent with that group,
But as the death toll mounted, they thought that was a hoot.
They were the strangest audience, those prisoners out there
When Hamlet mused on suicide, they’d hoped he’d end it there.
Poison, ******, suicide; they were thoroughly entertained!
To thunderous applause we bore Prince Hamlet from the stage.
The warden was so gratified the Bard was loved by all
That we’re performing Titus Andronicus for the prisoners this Fall.
All the World's insane
713 · Nov 2012
Don't Blame Caesar
John F McCullagh Nov 2012
I do not blame you, Caesar,
you have ridden history’s tide.
Marc Anthony, your Lieutenant,
Is a loose cannon at your side.
I think I blame the Romans,
those who sought a life of ease,
They, who dance to the music of time,
brought our Republic to her knees.
I know she was imperfect,
(At times our poor were squeezed.)
Yet Rome, Mankind’s greatest hope,
Now succumbs to your disease.
So place the garland on his pate
For I have ceased to care.
Like Catalina, we have lived,
Our epilogue: despair.
History doesn't repeat, but it does, like us, rhyme.
710 · Oct 2014
Empty Playgrounds
John F McCullagh Oct 2014
In Mystic they have built a park in honor of the memory
of Grace McDonnell who was killed at Sandy Hook Elementary.
Elsewhere in Connecticut are playgrounds built to honor them;
the children and the teachers slain, so that we will remember when.
These innocents we could not save have playgrounds where they never played.
These bittersweet memorial parks are a sad remembrance of that day.
We saw their pictures, heard their names, our hearts brimmed full with sad remorse.
For twenty six children who were killed before their lives could run their course.

There are so many others dead, lost lives that we don’t celebrate;
56 million at last count- not one playground in any State.
There are few pictures, they have no names, their humanity; denied of course.
Inconvenient little lives put down like dogs with no remorse.
How different would our nation be? Perhaps a touch less old and gray?
Instead we have built playgrounds where far fewer children get to play.
Compare and contrast
710 · Jan 2012
The "Other" Woman
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
It should all become clear as you continue to read




My wife has been driving me crazy
with long lists of chores I must do.
I’d rather just sit and watch football,
So I slipped out the back door to you.

Your smile took the chill from the evening,
You seemed genuinely glad I was there
The forty niner's and Giants were playing
You sat me in my favorite chair.

You procured me a “Girl “for my pleasure,
Another, when the first “Girl “was through.
You brought me an excellent dinner.
There seemed nothing that you wouldn’t do.

We engage in a harmless flirtation-
You toss your blonde hair and laugh sweet-
Rex Ryan would lust for you madly
As you sure have a nice pair of…feet.

True, I know there are others
I must share you with, even today.
But I’m not the type to be jealous,
I know your just earning your pay.

I settled the tab with the cashier
and left a nice tip there for you.
You know I’ll be back for the Giants and  Pats-
Meanwhile, there are chores I must do.
"girl"= St Pauli girl in the 12 Oz glass bottle
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
If India and Pakistan
disagree to disagree
and the missiles begin flying
is there anyplace to flee?
Whole divisions of their armies
will be vanished, vaporized.
It is not only combatants that
will face death from the sky.
Ten million souls will met their end
within a half an hour.
Some twenty millions more
will be sickened by its power.
A cloud of ash will rise above
and block the sun from shining.
Winter will be premature
and soon the crops are dying.
A quarter of the human race
dead of famine and disease.
Please fellows, put your toys away
I beg you from my knees.
The opportunities for reincarnation would be severely limited in this scenario, not to mention the dearth of available houri.
710 · Sep 2013
Fore Closure
John F McCullagh Sep 2013
I stand before the wrack of it;
The home where I first learned to read.
The humble house of all our hopes.
Our refuge in our hour of need.

Surrounded by a plywood fence,
she lies in splinters on the ground.
The debris field of my yesterdays
is spread about me all around.

I find a piece of painted wood
with our house numbers nailed upon.
I rescue it for Closure's sake
One last look, then I am gone.
709 · Oct 2012
One Taken, One Left
John F McCullagh Oct 2012
They were brothers born a year apart,
the elder just nineteen.
Folks said they were inseparable-
Unbeatable as a team..

But elder brother went to war
in far off Vietnam.
His brother vividly recalls
The day He heard Jim’s gone.

Never again to take the field,
Or hear his voice again.
A Lifetime’s conversation
brought prematurely to an end.

One was taken, one was left,
Both forever changed.
One brother is forever young-
There in the picture frame.

The Younger is the elder now
Each year he grows more grey.
Sufficient is the evil
He has dealt with since that day
A tale of two brothers and a long ago war
708 · Aug 2015
A gift of Time?
John F McCullagh Aug 2015
James Holmes awaited news of his fate. (Would his madness be held to mitigateHis terrible sin, his awful crimes; Life or Death, How to decide?)
What is Justice for multiple homicides?
He murdered twelve and injured more; Now what would the verdict hold in store?
A lethal injection, A Lover’s pinch, was that the outcome he devoutly wished?
Else he would get the world and time to contemplate his awful crimes.
He’d be Locked away from the world of men; never to be free again.
Haunted by souls he condemned to death; who had cursed him with their dying breath.


Life, the jury has decreed, as punishment for his awful deed.


He'll be locked in the prison of his mind; an awful penance is this gift of time.
James Holmes murdered 12 and injures 70 others in Aurora Colorado on 07/20/2012. He had been sentenced to life in prison. The jury rejected the death penalty
708 · Jun 2018
Mti wa Uzima
John F McCullagh Jun 2018
Mtu mweusi mweusi, katika mwezi mkali wa moto,
ameketi katika kivuli cha mti wa Baobab.
Majani yaliyomo mara moja
walikuwa kavu na ukame,
waathirika wa upepo wa mabadiliko.

"Wazee, wananiita zamani." Alidhani,
"Majira ya joto ya sabini yanigeuka kijivu,
lakini mti huu wa Baobab ulikua mrefu na wenye nguvu
Wakati majeshi ya Kirumi yalipitia njia hii. "

Mzee huyo alitafuta matunda ya baobab
na akaingia kwenye hali kama hali.
Alikuwa katika hali ya akili;
Sio usingizi, sio macho kabisa.

Aliposikia sauti: "Nina kiu." Ilisema,
Ingawa alikuwa na uhakika alikuwa peke yake.
Ilionekana si sauti ya binadamu:
monotone kavu ya ubongo.

"Kwa vizazi, wanaume kama wewe
Walitaka makazi yangu kutoka kwenye jua,
Lakini sasa imekamilika; nchi imeharibika
Na mimi nina kufa, mdogo. "

Mtu mzee alilia kusikia maneno haya
Kwa maana miti hizi zinapokufa, kama lazima,
Wao huanguka juu ya ardhi yenye ubongo
Hivyo haraka kurudi kwenye Vumbi.

"Dunia imebadilika kwa wewe na mimi,
Upepo ni kavu chini ya jua.
Ninasamehe ulimwengu wa wanadamu
Kwa maana hawajui waliyofanya. "

Mtu mzee aliamka na mwanzo
na akainua na miwa yake.
Alilia kwa kufikiri mti huu utafa

lakini machozi hawezi kuchukua nafasi ya mvua.
Mti Baobab huitwa "Mti wa Uzima" kwa ajili ya matunda mengi ya virutubisho ambayo hutoa wakati wa kavu Afrika. Kama hali ya hewa ya bara inabadilika na uharibifu wa jangwa unafanyika, miti ya zamani zaidi ya miti inakufa kwa kiu
708 · Jul 2014
A woman well Lived
John F McCullagh Jul 2014
Her skin may bear some marks
from the Sun she has faced,
but she still holds a beauty
that time can't erase.
The blonde hair of her youth
now is silver and gold,
but her scent is alluring
and she's tempting to hold.
She's a Woman well Lived.
She is sixty years old.
Her life isn't over,
despite what she's been told.
Her ******* are translucent.
Blue veined and full.
A hand full and more
and enjoyable still.
Her kisses still sweet
as the day we first met.
The time, passing quickly,
gave no cause for regret.
So come lie with me, Love,
ere the evening is gone.
Don't be the least shy
we can leave the lights on.
In praise of older Lovers
John F McCullagh Dec 2013
I have never been an advocate
Of “woman’s right to choose”
because I think an infant’s life
is too precious to lose.

In the case of Marie Fleming,
I might plead for an exception:
This brave Irish woman,
Her body wracked with mortal pain,
Sought surcease from suffering-.
a peaceful rest to gain.

She did not fear that final breath
as the young and healthy do.
She sought a death with dignity-
the same as me and you.

MS was her enemy-
She could not do the deed.
She asked the courts to let friends help
To be there in her need.

Denied of an assisted end,
Marie died yesterday.
I hope that she passed peacefully
and sleeps til Judgment day.

Her wicker casket was borne to church,
She rests there in the yard.
She bore pain unendurable
before she met her God.

We are more merciful to pets
When they face shorter odds
Than the courts were to Marie
Who‘d been dealt the thirteenth card.
Marie Fleming, an Irish woman with terminal MS, was denied assisted suicide by the Irish supreme court.
707 · Oct 2013
Continuing Resolutely
John F McCullagh Oct 2013
There is a bankrupt government
Down in Washington D.C
A petty despot is presiding
from sea to shining sea.

The Senate is dysfunctional
The House perhaps is worse-
Obsessed with banning *** acts
That they hadn't thought of first.

They furloughed the non- essentials-
Eight hundred thousand out the door.
Had they looked around the chamber
They could find five hundred more!

They’ll be no negotiations
As they fight over the purse
We’ll pay fines or buy insurance
Affordable care-my ***.

A President elected
Largely based upon his skin
Will be followed by a woman
With more baggage than an INN

A bigger group of hypocrites
I hope never to see
Than this Congress full of Baboons
Posturing on T.V.
A few words about the ongoing farce that is our government
707 · Jul 2013
The Window
John F McCullagh Jul 2013
It was a semi- private room,
and my bed was closest to the door.
Beyond the screen my neighbor lay
by the window and told me what he saw.

For days I lay in constant pain-
in traction from the surgeon's blade.
My neighbor helped to pass the time
as he described life's grand parade.

Across the street there was a park
and a little pond where children played.
He told me of the ducks and geese,
Of dappled sunlight the trees displayed.

My fellow patient was quite old,
and his race was nearly run.
The intervals of silence grew
where no words issued from his tongue.

I so enjoyed the moments when
he'd wake and tell me what he saw.
One time he saw a bird of prey
****** up a mousling in its claw.

Then one day alarms rang out
His E.K.G. went monotone.
they came and pounded on his chest
but I knew I would be alone.

The next day his nurse came to me
and told me that my friend was gone;
Hopefully to a better place
Free from pain and safe from harm.

I asked if it were possible
to move my bed where his had been
to let me have the window spot.
to see the outside world again.

"It will not do you good or ill
to sit beside that window sill
there's little light and, after all,
it's only facing a brick wall"

But I protest- "how could that be?"
What of the park he described to me?"
"I think he was just being kind,
for you see the man who died was blind."
based on a true story I read on the internet
706 · Nov 2014
Me and Viv
John F McCullagh Nov 2014
She was the heartbeat of desire,
while I was a dry upper crust of a writer.
She was the Flamingo, fluid with grace.
I was just a stiff member with a bank teller’s face.
I lay with the lady as a matter of course
We woke up the next morning with all innocence lost.
I married Viv then and in London remained
where J. Alfred Prufrock cemented my fame.
It was between the two wars, when poets still mattered
Though the world of our birth was bruised beaten and tattered.
Viv had many needs that I couldn’t fulfill
Her one infidelity rankles me still.
The silence between us grew as loud as the Bourse.
Though our pairing proved barren, we never divorced.
My footsteps were haunted by this girl with my name.
I resolved we should part. My friends thought her insane.
Maurice, her brother, signed to have her committed.
I saw her just once, a perfunctory visit.
She was young when she died, just turned Fifty Eight.
My fate would be different, I had longer to wait.
Of the man that I might have been, little remained
She made me a poet, my dry soul she claimed
x The story of T.S.Elliot and his first wife, Vivienne Haight-Wood. She died aged 58 years in an asylum of a heart attack or a drug overdose. In any event the marriage was apparently an unhappy one
John F McCullagh Apr 2013
Come to bed, darling, for sure the hour is late.
Most certainly, your conference call can wait.
The children are asleep and I’m abed,
So work must wait, come play with me instead.
Don’t waste these hours with fitful sleep tonight
when you and I could fill them with delight.
Unlace that camisole and let it drop,
A goodly start. I didn’t say to stop!
Then, turning towards me with an impish smile
Lose the slacks and add them to the pile.
Then, taking sight of my most firm intention
Remove your hose, the devil’s own invention.
When we are wearing just our birthday suits
Arch your back like a feline in pursuit.
Keep the heels, they’re red and bold I swear
They spur me to enjoy my favorite pair.
Those orbs of night won’t ignored my dear
As we effect conjunction of the spheres
We stifle cries as we make our cradle rock.
We'll tell the kids it was an aftershock.
Some nights are cold but this one needn’t be,
If you fall asleep held safe and warm by me.
Having fun with, among other things, John Donne's elegy XIX
706 · Jan 2012
Strange Bedfellows
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
The first night that they slept apart
-I think because he had a cough-
He grabbed his pillow from their bed
Mimed a kiss and then was off.

Their separation lingered on
like cancer growing in a womb
Days into weeks turned into years
each spouse in their separate room.


Anniversaries came apace
To the separate cells wherein they dwell
All marveled at “togetherness.”
None could glimpse their private hell
.
No kiss, no glance, no warm embrace
As would ward off a winter’s chills
No passionate heat or casual lust
Not that either needed pills

And then one day he failed to wake
Cool to her touch, she felt his arm
Detachedly she looked upon
Her love, long dead, now gone

She lay down on the bed once shared
And swallowed pills enough and more
To join her fellow in that sleep
They’d share together evermore.
705 · Jun 2012
The Vessel
John F McCullagh Jun 2012
The Vessel was a thing of clay.
the sort you use, then throw away.
It was worth little, of itself,
but that vessel was filled with Love.
It poured out Love upon the Living
Free and selfless was its giving.
When at last the clay was dry,
it was the vessels time to die.
It shattered on the sands of time,
now half a lifetime gone from mine.
The vessel was my Dad you see-
and by his gifts I was set free.
I wept the day he met his end-
will I ever see his like again?
God willing on a higher plane
I'll get to call again his name.,
but if my journey ends in dust,
he taught me how as all men must.
700 · Aug 2013
Fatal Blow
John F McCullagh Aug 2013
The decedent was in perfect health
As all our tox screens show.
No visible wounds,
No blunt force trauma,
Believe me, We would know.
A “Dear John” letter
Found near the corpse
revealed that she would go.
The coroner ruled
that loss of Love
had proved the fatal blow.
698 · Sep 2018
Anonymous
John F McCullagh Sep 2018
Anonymous is a funny name
for a writer on an Opt-Ed page.
I'd want a by line I suppose
if I were going to step on toes.
I know the President would glower
to find me speaking truth to power.
He'd say "You're fired!" on the spot
but I 'd have my  verbal parting shot.
Hashtag "Not Me" is all you hear
from senior officials who quake in fear.

Yet if computers can disclose
by close analysis of prose
what Shakespeare did or didn't write
I'm sure the identity will come to light.
I think the turncoat might be named "Dan"
but I'm not willing to take the stand.
Cory Booker, who knows the law,
still thinks it must be Kavenaugh.
1)
Dan Coats has been suggested as the possible author in several sources
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Some time had passed already
since we’d come down from the trees.
We still walked with an awkward gait
Sore backs and aching knees.
Lar still might be alive, old mother,
if he hadn’t pawed my mate.
When I saw him mount her
in the brush
All I felt was rage and hate.
The jawbone of an *** was near
I took it in my hands.
I brought it down upon his skull
I killed with these two hands.
I wouldn’t let the Jackals have
the body of my friend.
I covered up his corpse with stones.
this is where it ends.
As a tribe we are too small, too few.
to let the blood lust linger.
We must keep moving further north
until we are out of danger.
Old mother nodded sagely.
Lars clansman did the same.
I promised I would share the catch
with the children of his name.
Some book may talk of Abel-
that at Cain’s hand he died.
but it was the tribe of Lucy
that first committed Hominidicide
A tale of the first Hominid population at Olduvai gorge, Africa and the first ******.  It was over a woman.  It would not be the last.  (  I have translated this from the original Bushman clic language)
697 · Aug 2014
The Cenotaph
John F McCullagh Aug 2014
In Whitehall stands a monument,
A column wrought in stone.
Empty as that mother’s heart
whose sons did not come home.
It bears the dates of two world wars,
And three carved words I read.
A politician’s shibboleth
About “the Glorious Dead”
Standing in November’s rain,
No glory came to mind.
Perhaps that word held meaning
in another place and time.
They have passed from living memory
those soldier boys of thine.
Now bronze reliefs and marble wreaths
Recall their deaths to mind.
The Cenotaph is a monument that standing the Whitehall square in London. It honors Britain's war dead.  The phrase The Glorious Dead" inscribed on the Cenotaph was prepared by Lloyd George
696 · Nov 2011
Kindle-ing
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
The Brute had a puzzled look on his face
as the city around him burned.
What possible value this object might have
could not by him be discerned.
The object was heavy, musty and old.
Some thick yellow pages he turned
"The old man died in vain to protect this?."
he thought- and what means this word "Guttenberg?"
"It won't get me high and it won't get me laid"
The Brute saw one possible course-
He warmed his rear end as the book fed the flames.
Only the dead knew the cost.
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