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324 · Apr 2014
REMEMBER
John F McCullagh Apr 2014
The old man sat in his motorized chair
in a room filled with shadow and light.
His bored health attendant cared for him there
as he made his descent into night.
He longed to remember the smell of her hair,
the woman who had brought him such pleasure.
To escape, for a moment, the dull aching pain
Of the cancer that was taking his measure.
He longed to return to that day long ago,,
They made love in the warm summer rain.
Yet how could he summon the muse of his youth
When he couldn’t remember her name?
Would his kindly Physician take pity on him-,
the old man in his motorized chair?
Would he increase the drip until his heart stilled?
When he died would she be with him there?
He had failed to appreciate, when young and strong,
the pitiless tempo of Time.
He couldn’t remember the words of their song,
to descant at the end of the line.
When saving time in a bottle remember that it must be labeled and tightly sealed
323 · May 2018
Exit, Stage Left
John F McCullagh May 2018
I'd like to slip quietly away from Life;
Peacefully in my sleep would be best,
that's for sure.

No doctor pounding on my lifeless chest;
demanding of me an unwanted encore.

I seek no grand Finale.
I require no clamoring crowds.

No, for me, just a bare and empty stage,
with one less spear carrier among the  dramatist personae.
One not remembered once you turn the page.
An Actor files his DNR
322 · Oct 2016
Seven Days
John F McCullagh Oct 2016
It is, for some, a brief vacation from the world of work for pay.
For a child awaiting Christmas it seems an eternity.
For a patient sent to hospice, their prognosis being bleak,
The sum of their tomorrows may amount to just one week.

For them there will be opiates to help manage their pain
All chemotherapy will  stop, for it has been in vain.
Like vandals bent on pillage, Cancer cells their havoc wreak.
Fear yields now to acceptance in the sure knowledge of defeat.

We all face this same sentence, this same curtain call awaits;
though some may drift off during  sleep, which seems a kinder fate.
Appreciate the time you have and give each day its due.
We once had all the world and time but now our days are few.
In memory of my friend and colleague, Stephanie Cilla
John F McCullagh Nov 2016
So sad, to see these empty chairs, where, just the day before,
Our brave young aviators sat looking like the gods of war.
They won a famous victory, our wing commander said,
But when a flyer dies in combat we never see them dead.

The planes they flew were obsolete; they never had a chance
The Zero is more maneuverable, so deadly and so fast.
Let no man doubt their courage as they pressed on their attack
in the sure and certain knowledge that they weren’t coming back.

We render one last service as we pack up our friend’s gear;
the pitiful remainders of their lives of twenty years.
Their absence? a reminder of the costs of victory.
Our friends?- forever on patrol, somewhere out at sea.
(You are in the ready room of the carrier USN Hornet, the day after the battle of Midway. The American pilots flying the slow torpedo planes were wiped out to a man. The Japanese Navy lost four Carriers and a heavy cruiser. The American’s lost the carrier Yorktown. It was the turning point of the war in the Pacific)
322 · Jun 2014
Child without a Name
John F McCullagh Jun 2014
I spoke no human language.
I never put on clothes.
The sum of my possessions
was ten fingers and ten toes.

My mother was too rich or poor.
Too scared, too old, too young,
So many reasons for her choice,
by which I was undone.

I never felt the sunshine,
or sailed the wine dark sea.
I had a heartbeat just like yours
until they murdered me.

There are those who would protest my death
But most here are nihilistic.
To some I was a child of God;
to others, a statistic.

I have no death certificate
I have no human name.
I was terribly inconvenient,
but I was human, just the same.
While I wouldn't make abortion illegal as I would not impose my morality by force, I am saddened by those  who use abortion in lieu of birth control.
321 · Apr 2015
The I- Stone
John F McCullagh Apr 2015
This cave held secrets, of that he was sure.
It was filled with ages of debris.
Already they had found the bones
of two australopithecines.
He squatted near the latest find,
A flake of stone, stone that had been worked
long before **** sapiens’ time;
when our precursors walked the Earth.
He felt the stones weight in his hand,
Cool to the touch, the well-made blade,
Sharp enough to skin a deer-
a treasured heirloom from this grave.
His mind wandered, in the cool dark of the cave,
to think of those who worked this stone.
They were driven from the Eden of the trees
and struggled to survive on the grassy plain.
In a night without fires’ comforting glow;
In a night full of sounds; roars whispers and groans.
He grasped the stone tool tighter still
He had never felt so all alone.
Then he was rescued from all such thoughts
By the vibrating call of his I phone.
Paleontologists have discovered  the blade of a stone hand axe that predates the earliest known fossil of **** Erectus
319 · Nov 2017
The Empty Glass
John F McCullagh Nov 2017
I woke up before dawn with my eye whites ****** red.
The fierce pounding in my skull made me wish that I were dead.
My lips are cracked, my throat is parched, my mouth is desert dry.
I can't remember much about last night, no matter how I try.


I had misplaced my childhood faith that I had gained through my baptism.
As a teen I seized on alcohol as my replacement ism.
There the spirit was available to all who had the price
With services held daily as habit turned to vice.

I have slept at times in gutters when the weather wasn’t cold.
I have ****** on strangers lawns near taverns where my drug is sold.
I have gotten into fistfights, the kind that no one wins.
My family doesn’t want a son who drinks and reeks of gin.

Tonight I took a seat in a church basement for a change.
I’ll spill out all my secrets.   A sponsorship will be arranged.
I know I’ve hit rock bottom and that will be my foundation
I hope my new  friend  Bill W. will lead me to salvation.
a troubled homeless teen attends his first meeting of alcoholics Anonymous
318 · May 2019
Farewell, Chewbacca
John F McCullagh May 2019
The Millennium Falcon seems empty now
with no one in your chair.
Though you had a tendency to shed
I didn't mind, I swear.

Your presence was always comforting.
I took courage in your growl.
I might even have understood you,
if I could only buy a vowel.

Leia is waiting for you now
to take you by the (?) hand
Off you go now together
to the moons of Alderan.

So may the Force be with you, friend,
though mortal bonds now sever.
Take solace that we hold you close
in memory forever
Peter mayhew has passed away at age 74.  Another cast member of my favorite movie had taken his final bow.
John F McCullagh Jul 2018
It's a closely guarded secret so don't ask for the address.
It's a shelter from the storm for any damsels in distress.
It is funded by the City and follows their mandate
to shelter battered women from the men they've grown to hate.

The location must be secret from the predatory male;
the women would be helpless if security should fail.
Like any abused creature, the fear is  in their eyes
for they've been beaten ****** by their less than perfect guys.

I was there for an inspection, the house mom met me at the door
Most of her charges do not want me there; they don't trust men anymore.
I  arrived when most were working; I must leave ere they return.
for it is peace and solitude above all for which they yearn.

They are Eloi, I am Morlock- at least in their fearful eyes
For they have suffered at the hands of men
and dare not believe their lies
An interesting inspection of an undisclosed address which is not really on Morrison  but is a true story
318 · Dec 2016
Don’t Make Him Laugh
John F McCullagh Dec 2016
I said my plans out loud
and heard a deep throated chuckle.
I felt so foolish and exposed
and in a muckle of trouble.
For there’s many a slip
Twixt the cup and the lip
For those who chance to dare
And though you flee from
City to City
Fate will find you there.
So keep your secrets to your self
and shelter your designs.
Don’t dare to whisper on the wind
The debts you owe to Time.
316 · Apr 2018
A Chord of Silence
John F McCullagh Apr 2018
When you are old like me
The sports page isn’t the first one
That you check.

It was just a modest notice,
If I hadn’t checked the obits
I’d have missed it,
I suspect.

Karen L., an entertainer,
She sang and played
Guitar.

In the eighties
I’d be there most nights
When she played our local
Bar

Mostly she sang others’ songs.
Her own lost on the wind.
Still and all I was a fan.
If you suspected we were lovers
I wouldn't tell you if you're wrong.


Her alto voice
was smooth and strong.
Her brown hair streaked with grey.
A little Simon
A little Guthrie
Those were her kind of song.

She made a modest living
As she turned breathe into song.
Others might have grown discouraged
But not her;
she was strong.

We lost touch ;( my fault)
some years ago.
Life dictates what must be.
Like River water our paths diverged
and flowed on
separately.

Her old guitar is silenced now
No nimble fingers play.
I’ll be along in just a while
Dear friend
My water of life
Will empty soon
Into the selfsame sea.
She was so full of life, I can't believe that she is gone.
314 · Jul 2014
The Last Alarm: 9-11-01
John F McCullagh Jul 2014
Were you climbing up the stairs when you heard the last alarm?
Whispering a desperate prayer to somehow keep you safe from harm?
When the towers were collapsing and that debt all owe came due,
Were you proud of your life choices as they passed in quick review?

Sometimes, late at night, when dreams, not nightmares, come
I’ll awaken with a start from sleep and once more speak your name.
Sadly, these days you’re nothing but a picture in a frame,
For your last alarm has sounded;a death knell for my son.

It is hard to keep on living when the son I loved has gone;
to face grey days of emptiness when Life has lost its charm.
The job you had to do that day, you did with grace and calm,
You were just a wingless angel rising to the last alarm.
( A old man mourns for his firefighter son lost in the North Tower) this is based on a chance encounter with a retired chief who lost his son on that day
314 · Mar 2014
Last Dance
John F McCullagh Mar 2014
He’d offered her his hand to dance
Politely, she’d declined.
“I have promised many others,
-perhaps another time.”

He accepted this with all good grace-
“Perhaps another time,
When your dance card is nearly full,
The last dance shall be mine.”

The night was young and she was fair,
Men clamored for their chance.
In some eyes she saw routine lust,
In others- true romance.

Her card was signed by many
There remained a single line.
She stopped back at her table
for a final cup of wine.

The dark and handsome stranger
was waiting for her there.
She took his hand without protest
as he rose up from his chair.

He led her to the dance floor
as the band played one last time.
The music was a stately waltz
done in three quarter time.

His arms were strong and masterful
as he led her in the dance
Her will seemed to desert her
as she fell into a trance.

In the half light she looked up
And searched his face and eyes
The eyes of Death looked back at her,
In lust for her demise..

Swept up in her dance with Death,
She uttered not a sound
for she was in his power now.
and destined for the ground.
Be careful when choosing your partners
313 · Aug 2014
The Wooden “O”
John F McCullagh Aug 2014
The groundlings gather close around
It’s an unruly crowd.
The gentry sit in her majesties box
decked in Purple and all looking proud.
The poet enters the wooden “O”
armed only with his pen.
Will it be thumbs up or down?
On this so much depends.
The crowd screams out for blood and gore
As much as they can stand
They lust to see your soul laid bare
And naked on the sand
You weave a tale of arms and a woman
About the Trojan war.
Three hours traffic of our stage
They leave still wanting more.
The inaugural production of “Troilus and Cressida” 1602 at the Globe
313 · Jan 2015
The Call
John F McCullagh Jan 2015
We must have picked up the call at the same time
I heard my wife answer the phone.
The voice was a friend but the words that he said
were intended for her ears alone.

I stood in stunned silence and feeling betrayed
at the words  I heard over the phone.
There was worse yet ahead, those three words she said;
“I love you.” made me feel so alone.

Things hadn’t been good, this much I understood.
Passions can fade over time.
Daily life’s dull routine never matches the dream,
But I’d thought it no cause for alarm.

“I Love You. She said, but not for my ears.
I had not heard them for some time.
How could I miss the perfunctory kiss?
cold leftovers at dinner time.

I hung up the receiver, did they hear a click?
I wondered how long she'd have lied?
My only thought then was which one I’d **** first
And could it look like suicide.
My take on Browning's "My Last Duchess"
312 · Feb 2019
Love is a choice
John F McCullagh Feb 2019
Love is a choice, not a feeling,
At least that Love which will endure.
Feelings are transient, really,
and feelings,  like sand, are unsure.
Love which endures will be patient,
Love works to improve every day.
Love is a choice, please remember this,
should the stars in her eyes fade away.
based on an article I read recently about marriage and divorce
312 · Mar 2018
Last Words
John F McCullagh Mar 2018
Three decades since he last drew breath-
it came as something of a shock
To find a tape that he had made
Its existence long forgot.

To hear his Irish Brogue again
after  a long  respite.
To hear  the music of his voice
It is my heart's delight.

A simple oral history
we taped in 73'
we did a sort of a "Q and A"
I think he humored me.

Some truths he told
Some truths withheld.
I know with certainty.
Not all will be revealed.

He had the courage to venture out
from the old world to the new.
I love him more than words can say,
but no more than he is due.
I discovered a lost tape of my father's voice labeled oral history
312 · Sep 2014
Siriously?
John F McCullagh Sep 2014
I camped out to be first on line at Apple’s flagship store.
Sleeping days on concrete had left me stiff and sore.
Now all was fine, I was first in line, They handed me the phone.
Envious glances all around, I am the first to own.
A local news reporter asked me if I would hold up my prize.
They broadcast live on New York One. My joy is undisguised.
But my joy turned to horror as the phone slipped from my hand
and smashed on Apple’s
smooth
tiled
floor.
I’m an unlucky man.
You’ve seen me on the internet,
the video went viral.
Don’t bother calling,
why interrupt me
in
my
downward
spiral.
Shamelessly based on a true story from Sidney, Australia
311 · Aug 2019
Skywalker
John F McCullagh Aug 2019
On beams of steel they Death defy,
while they're working way up high.
They are union brothers; Iron men.
The fraternity of the Sky Walker clan.

Two thousand feet up, they weld the steel
In heat and rain they labor on
until a new glass tower greets the morning sun
then the Sky Walker clan moves on.

Muscle and balance; skill and zeal
it takes to make those blue prints real.
They built this City; story by story
That is the Sky Walker's claim to glory
My Dad worked on bridge construction as a young man. He liked it better than his work in the mines
309 · Jul 2017
The beginning of Wisdom
John F McCullagh Jul 2017
“I desire to gain wisdom.” said the acolyte to the Priest.
“There are many paths to wisdom, Karol, imitation is the least.”
“In imitating someone who you perceive to be wise,
A false sophistication you display before men’s eyes.”
“Experience is the hardest path , contemplation is the best.
Read widely and love deeply, Karol, and be ready for the test.”
“In suffering there is wisdom gained for those who are devout.
The stony path to Golgotha we cannot do without.”
“Consider the fate of common grapes ripening on the vine.
Some may become raisins in the withering sunshine.
Others will be squeezed for juice or fermented into wine.
The rest will be distilled and become brandy in due time.”
“Each you see is useful, transformed by the Vintners art.”
“Our lives are not our own but each must play his part.”
Father Figlewicz began the mass with Karol as his server.
They were the only souls that day that came to the Cathedral.
Outside, the Stukas bombed Krakow, the City would not stand.
Evil, like a darkening cloud, spread out across the land.
For many years Poles were enslaved, trapped in Dictator’s hands,
But Karol Wojtyla was a most uncommon man.
He would not forget his people, he would work and never cease
Until the day the Soviet fell and Poland was released.
(Wawel Cathedral, Krakow Poland 09/01/39)   Karol Wojtyla ( later John Paul II)
experiences the evil of Fascism as  his city, Krakow, is terrorized by Stuka dive bombers. Poland was occupied first by the Nazis and then by the Soviet union. Pope John Paul II is widely credited with supporting the Solidarity movement that helped Poland  regain its status as a free nation.
308 · Jun 2017
A Political Assassination
John F McCullagh Jun 2017
No assassin, perched way up high,
lies in wait for the limousine this time.
There’s no crazed job seeker at a fair.
No killer lurks near a rocking chair.

No gun or knife is needed this time;
Innuendo will do just fine.
History, like a poet, rhymes.
They seek to win your hearts and minds

No blood is spilled but oceans of ink
to mold the way that people think.
An accusation born out of envy.
As to actual proof- they haven't any.

He is a narcissistic man
with a massive ego-and such tiny hands
He is coarse, uncouth and, if truth be known,
He tweets too much and he sleeps alone.

He’s hounded daily by the Press
And Senator Franken won’t let it rest.
As our national economy sags under debt
All the Democrats can say is “Nyet”

Disrespected both abroad and at home
No POTUS since Nixon has been this alone
The result of this political assassination?
We are left with a badly divided nation.
I am not a fan of the President but we are in deep trouble as a nation and the opposition party should fish or cut bait.
307 · Nov 2017
Thanksgiving 2017
John F McCullagh Nov 2017
Be thankful for such things you have-
if those things do not have you.
(They will be inherited, discarded or donated
Come the day your life is through.)
Be thankful for what you don’t know
But still have time to learn.
Be thankful for the health you have
and the wage your labor earns.
Be thankful for the eyes that see
the beauty of Creation.
Be thankful as a citizen-
work to preserve our nation.
Give thanks to God if you have faith;
with song if you are able.
Most of all give thanks today
for the family at your table.
Happy Thanksgiving to all at Hello Poetry.
305 · Sep 2015
The Legion of the Lost
John F McCullagh Sep 2015
I lay down on my childhood bed with a bottle, half empty, in my hand.
I raised my pistol to my temple; feeling lost, hopelessly dammed.
I flicked the safety off my forty five and took a pull from my Jim Beam.
I was ready to be a sad statistic, another tortured Ex- Marine.

I pulled the trigger, this much I know. What happened next, I can surmise.
I passed out from the alcohol, the pistol jammed; I didn’t die.

My friend had died at his own hand, just one of six from my old team.
We’re tortured by the ghosts of war; in flashbacks I can hear the screams.
We buried my friend yesterday. The flag was folded and Taps was played.
A detail fired blank salutes as his family wept and his mother prayed.
I bowed my head and turned to go; His mother stayed me with her hand.
“I hope you will not be tempted- to do the thing your brothers do.”
She pressed a spent brass casing into my open hand.
I looked down, dumbly, in surprise.
“I know you are a soul at risk.” I’ve seen that look in my son’s eyes.”
“If only I’d known how to help; only too late do we grow wise.”
She made me promise, then and there, that I’d not put my mother through
the anguish and the agony that other keening mothers knew.
.
Today I face another day; the journey will be hard, I know.
I poured the bottle down the drain, and turned to face my shadow foe.
based on a New York Times article about suicide among returning veterans
305 · Oct 2020
Angels without wings
John F McCullagh Oct 2020
They are living, here, among us,
These fine celestial beings.
These children with Downes syndrome;
These angels without wings.

In the care of aging parents,
Or together in group homes,
These angels without wings possess
47 chromosomes.

You will recognize the gentleness
Of their kind, defective, hearts.
Yet you may discount their usefulness
In a world that values “smart”.

If you do so, at your peril,
Discount these gentle souls,
You will never learn that wisdom
Is what makes a person whole.

We’ve seen intelligence abused
And been victims of its lies.
Innocence has been refused
When unborn angels die.

At a distance they resemble us;
These angels without wings.
Yet they have an openness to Love,
That speaks of higher things.
302 · Jun 2017
Sentences
John F McCullagh Jun 2017
In some long marriages
the couples complete
each others sentences

In all others
each serves their own.
301 · Mar 2017
Too Big to Fail?
John F McCullagh Mar 2017
How proud King Carlos must have been
as the Armada fleet set sail
He could not know that those brave men
would drown, and the invasion fail.

Charles Stuart thought his word was law
and swore the Puritans would feel regret.
Charles, who was  already short,
would wind up getting shorter yet.


Consider, too,the Bourbon King;
who married Marie Antoinette;
The guillotine loves royal blood too.
The Deluge came and he got wet.

Banksters lusting for their bonus
who really ought to be in jail
made us make good all their losses
because they were too big to fail.

Our nation teeters at the top
of a twenty trillion dollar debt
If interest rates creep too much higher
I think you know what happens next.
301 · Jun 2018
Accessory to Suicide
John F McCullagh Jun 2018
They found her, blue and lifeless, a red scarf around her neck.
She was , in life, a designer; head and shoulders above the rest.
Women loved all her creations; her faultless sense of style.
Her Life seemed charmed and perfect, at least for a little while.

She tied the scarf around her throat when she decided it was time.
Medication for depression may have placed these thoughts in mind.
Her vision blurred, her heart beat raced until it came full stop.
Her housekeeper found the body- the poor woman's still in shock.

The police came to investigate and photograph the scene.
In death there is no dignity, the process is obscene.
They found the note, devoid of hope, that Kate had left behind.
People who know nothing spoke about her state of mind.

Her estranged spouse sits in silence with the little girl she left.
He struggles to make sense of it. He's sad, perhaps depressed.
He wonders what to do with the red scarf in which she died.
It is a hated, despised thing, this accessory to suicide.
Kate *****, a brilliant designer has been found dead from suicide in her New York apartment
299 · Feb 2018
A chance Encounter
John F McCullagh Feb 2018
We met, quite by accident, at the concession stand.
Some forty years or so have passed
since last I was your leading man.
Those years have dealt you kindly; Just a touch of grey.
Surely it was fate that had us attending this same play.
I see in your face your mother but with kinder gentler eyes.
You are, its true, still the girl I knew, just in a mature guise.
When we were closer to birth than death I thrilled to hold your hand.
In our beginnings are our ends; I thirst to understand.
It brought a smile back to my lips when you touched me on the sleeve.
Time, sufficient to heal all wounds, has passed, I do believe.
old lovers
299 · Mar 2016
Stranger than Fiction!
John F McCullagh Mar 2016
In Brussels the announcement came
to add to their everlasting pain.
Sunday's "March against Fear" has been Postponed
and folks have been told to stay at home.
The reason for this I just learned;
they cancelled due to security concerns.
Sad and funny at the same time
299 · Jul 2019
Last Call
John F McCullagh Jul 2019
the Gentleman three stools down shot an admiring glance her way.
She brushed away a strand of hair, a lovely silver gray.
She slipped a ring off of her left hand and felt a warmth that flushed her face.
It's not like she was unaware of the quick courtships in this place.

"Compliments of the Gentleman" the barman brought her some champagne.
Though somewhat out of practice, she still knew how to play this game.
She turned towards the gentleman with a shy smile and confident
stare.
He moved in to claim his prize and sat in the adjoining chair.

She felt a momentary pang of guilt; this act of infidelity.
Then brushed away that traitorous thought; their love was but a memory.
The Stratton bar and grill , circa 1976.
298 · Jun 2018
Au coeur de l'hiver
John F McCullagh Jun 2018
Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
une peur qui n'a pas donné son nom.
Une pensée dont la source ne divulguerait pas
la peur que tous ceux qui vivent le sachent.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
ces jours de courte durée nous passons en vain.
La colère, de courte durée mais intense
à l'amour sans sa récompense.

Dans les morts de l'hiver est venu
un rhume froid sans nom
Maladie qui ne suivrait pas son cours
La pilule amère de notre divorce.

La boisson est la porte du désespoir
et oui, je cherchais du réconfort là-bas,
quand les voix humaines sont toutes allées encore
pour me réchauffer du froid hivernal.
Un marin doit faire face à la fin de son mariage, sa santé défaillante et sa solitude.
298 · Aug 2017
White Rose
John F McCullagh Aug 2017
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; 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.
Sophie Scholl, the white rose of Munich executed by the ****'s iu 1943. Free speech had consequences then too.
]
297 · Jan 2019
Hate of Disunion
John F McCullagh Jan 2019
A House divided cannot stand,
though we try to preserve it no one can.
Uncivil discourse leads to civil unrest.
Both sides dig their heels in
But no one is impressed.
I recall this all happened once before
when rancor escalated into civil war.
Six hundred thousand died by the end
and the weapons they used were inferior then.
What will the butcher’s bill cost us this time?
The hate of disunion-
It Approaches

It’s time.
A play on words about the State of the Union address which will not be delievered
296 · Jan 2018
Vote for Weatherman
John F McCullagh Jan 2018
When the body politic, long fleeced, begins to understand,
I believe that local weathermen will be in high demand.
Our politicians will all be seen as having feet of clay;
Venial types who sway according to the winds each day.

Weathermen are truthful; weather girls the same.
They tell us when it’s going to snow and when it will turn to rain.
Their forecasts aren’t perfect but I believe they try.
They consult the Doppler oracle and gaze into the sky.

They, daily, take the auspices like some archaic priests.
They prophesize the temperature for cold snaps in the East.
They are the only public voices who do not spin or lie
They don’t fall back on talking points or dare debate the sky

So if we now choose presidents from their appearance on T.V.
I nominate Bill Evans for president and Storm Field for V.P.
Donald Trump has been an embarrassment and I doubt oprah Winfrey will be much better. Weathermen have at least a track record of truthfulness that would be refreshing.
296 · Apr 2017
Man with No name
John F McCullagh Apr 2017
I knew a man, who had "no name:,
Neznamy he was called.
Though He had his father’s looks and charm
The two had never met at all.
Personable and engaging, Pleasant Company;
I think I learned an awful lot from the man called Neznamy.
I remember once he got laid off from the telephone company.
I remember thinking I’d be crushed if that happened to me
Neznamy was an optimist and the epitome of calm.
Misfortune to any other man was no cause for alarm,
He was sure there soon would come new opportunity.
I asked how he remained so calm amidst uncertainty.
I still recall his brief reply; its perfect clarity:

“ I don’t believe the work I do defines the worth of me.”
Neznamy   means “No Name” in the Slavic language group, given to a child born out of wedlock who is not acknowledged by the ***** donor
296 · Oct 2017
Little Red and the Wolf
John F McCullagh Oct 2017
It was the role of a Lifetime, but she couldn’t accept.
She passed on the chance with a twinge of regret.
It was clearly off Broadway but it would have run long.
A role some would die for, but the timing was wrong.

It had started one night with a casting couch call
from a powerful man – a slob more broad than tall.
Promises whispered, but would they be kept?
Had the mega- producer enjoyed his starlet?

The review came positive in a ladies’ room stall.
Cinderella was late for more than the ball.
She who couldn’t resist, and then couldn’t complain,
now had a pregnancy she couldn’t explain.

While she thought she might, one day have a child,
surely not with this stranger, this crude *******.
A girlfriend loaned her  money;she went there alone,
She kept the appointment she’d made on the phone.

Her calves in the stirrups; her heart in denial,
The deed was done quickly in back alley style.
She nearly bled out; it was botched from the start
But the abortionist did manage to still one beating heart.

Just a face in the crowd; not a name many knew.
She had some bit parts then she faded from view.
These days her tale is on everyone’s tongue:
How the wolves of Hollywood  devour the young.
My take on People like Harvey Weinstein who have long lurked in Tinseltown and the people they hurt.
295 · Jul 2017
A welcome interruption
John F McCullagh Jul 2017
The blank page lies before me, the hour being late.
As Inspiration is  lacking,perspiration takes its place.
My deadline approaches and I have barely writ a line.
My Muse finds this amusing and I find her most unkind

Crumpled ***** of paper mark how I spend my time.
Clearly I am no Durant behind the three point line
All I have accomplished is to waste a pad and ink
Indeed why do I bother; who cares what poets think?


Her hand upon my shoulder,  Her lips upon my cheek.
Her eyes are importuning, there is no need to speak.
She lures me from my garret; she takes me to her lair.
Her perfume- intoxicating. she has me in her snare.

I know what you are thinking; that I should be more devout.
Dedicate myself to writing, cut the "monkey business" out.
I am no fan of Lovelace now, nor was I one before
When my Lucasta calls you will not see me off to war.
We've all been  there and done that.
295 · Sep 2017
The Day That we Lost
John F McCullagh Sep 2017
I remember the morning sky so blue. The air was crisp and clear.                              
Days like that are all too few
With autumn drawing near.

I remember the first report of a plane.
The details weren't precisely clear.
The proof that  it was no accident
Very shortly would appear.

The mother of my children worked
Right there across the street.
Communication proved impossible
When we most needed to; it was impossible to speak.


I saw the smoke from fires rise
From my vantage miles away.
Men died whom I had just met
A scant few days before.

We watched footage in an endless loop
As planes crashed and the towers fell.
Lost was a beautiful late summers day.
Transformed by hate to a vision from hell.
  
We watched as search and rescue changed
To search and recovery.
Sixteen years have passed. Still the fate of some is a mystery.

That was the day we lost.
It's memory still makes me cry.
The day death came for so many
Out of a clear blue sky.
9/11 plus sixteen
294 · May 2013
Memorial Day
John F McCullagh May 2013
Dappled light through sheltering leaves
on a perfect summer’s day.
My lady love lies on the grass
Alas to pray, not play,
For I am one who gave his all
And have no more to give.
O’ to be anywhere but this,
I wanted so to live.
To hold you close,
and feel your kiss.
To let you have your way.
Honor’s call was
cruel to us both
on this Memorial day
294 · Sep 2020
The five foot giant
John F McCullagh Sep 2020
She was not your typical everyday giant
she was neither jolly or green.
Instead she was a many faceted diamond
hard because she needed to be hard
Brilliant, just because she was brilliant
Her keen intellect had a laser focus.
She gave life to many a little girl's dreams.


She was our five foot giant
and somehow it doesn't seem right
that she'll be replaced by a pygmy.
R.I.P Ruth Bader Ginsburg
293 · Jun 2020
Burn Baby Burn
John F McCullagh Jun 2020
On this unholy Pentecost
I see the tongues of fire rise
From small businesses downtown
and, just like that , a city dies..

The Acolytes of Anarchy
draw inspiration from despair
They break the windows, rob the place
then torch each store without a care.

The writings on St. Patrick’s walls
are unholy and profane.
Over at St. John Divine
The N.Y.F.D fights the flames.

Further down at Union Square
Violence flares with fading light;
Broken plate glass in the street
Bears  witness to this Krystallnacht.


Is this how a great city dies?
First came a plague and now the sack.
Our Mayor is a weak- kneed progressive,
He plucks his lyre as things get hot.
On Pentecost Sunday 2020 the tongues of fire descend upon the acolytes of anarchy
John F McCullagh Jan 2018
Like a hungry Bear beset by bees,
with its paw caught in a honeyed trap.
The pride of the Japanese surface fleet
Reeled from the Americans’ attack
The Yamato lurched and began to list.
The Americans closed in for the ****;
Torpedoes were set for Twenty feet,
They gave that ship a belly full.
Like Arizona, in Forty one,
Fire spread to her magazine.
A pillar of fire: two thousand feet high,
marked the moment the Yamato died.
Three thousand souls had been aboard;
Three hundred fought the oil slicked waves.
Her captain went down with his ship-
Only a relative handful of men were saved.
The battleship had seen its day
Yamato was the last to fall.
Now she sleeps two thousand feet deep
And colorful coral covers all.
300 American planes from 11 U.S. Carriers sank the Japanese battleship Yamato, a cruiser and 5 of her 8 escort destroyers in the waters off Okinawa on 4/7/45.  Eyewittnesses saw the pillar of fire from the dying ship 100 miles away
John F McCullagh Aug 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
291 · May 2015
Remember
John F McCullagh May 2015
Sitting by the fireside and gazing at the flames,
a crystal glass of sherry in my hand,
My thoughts drift back, to a different time and place
when I was still a boy, not yet a man.

I remember you were patient when I did not understand
math problems that came easily to you.
I remember stories read to me before the lights went out.
You shared your love of books; I love them too.

I remember when I made you proud, in ways that children do
I remember, with some sadness, times I disappointed you.
Sometimes I'll use a turn of phrase when speaking to my child
and realize that my words are both your substance and your style.

I will not see your like again, here, in this vale of tears.
but I remember that you loved me; that sustains me through the years.
and when this fire burns to ash, as it is wont to do,
they'll bear me to the sacred place, returning me  to you.
Happy Mother's day to my mom Helen, R.I.P.
290 · Oct 2017
Stardust musing
John F McCullagh Oct 2017
Tomorrow is on my calendar
as is every day next week.
I have interviews, appointments,
Dinners at which I'll speak.

I'll make some time for family
and writing, I suppose.
I must buy steaks to barbecue
and must purchase new  work clothes.

When evening comes I'll settle back
with a glass of Pinot noir.
I'm a transient immortal,
I'm on loan here from a star.

The future is a game
against ourselves we play.
We plan as if we still have left
forever and a day.

In truth we all are transients
For just this moment free.
Self observing stardust
poised twixt two eternities
Carpe Diem
290 · Sep 2018
The Bravest of the Brave
John F McCullagh Sep 2018
In that noted class of Sixty-one, His was not the most famous name.
Still, John Pelham served the cause until death staked its claim.

The Gallant Pelham took the field across three years of war.
It’s said he never knew defeat; Success was all he saw.

A shard of shrapnel pierced his brain that day at Kelly’s ford.
They carried his body from the field; his soul remanded to the Lord.

His leadership was sorely missed with Gallant Pelham in his grave.
Jeb Stuart paused to shed a tear for the bravest of the brave.
John Pelham, west point class of 1861 served as an artillery commander for the confederates until his death on 03/17/63. His exploits were later eclipsed by one of his classmates- George Armstrong Custer.
290 · Sep 2020
Conversations with the Dead
John F McCullagh Sep 2020
Don't think me unusual, it isn't  what it seems.
I don't see dead people, not even in my dreams.
Yet deep within  the Winter's chill.
when all is drear, grey  and dread.
I reach up to the topmost shelf
and take a book to bed.
Sometimes I visit with Robert Frost,
or Edgar Allan Poe.
Sometimes it's Caesar ravaging Gaul
or high tea with Arthur Clough.
They all are windows to the past,
now freed from their fleshy prison.
I always let them have their say,
while I just sit and listen.
John F McCullagh Oct 2017
In that valley of death the Highlanders made their stand.
To live or die
but not retreat
in the Empire’s hour of need.
The British redoubts had been overrun by the Russians
in the desperate morning fight.
If not for the brave men of the Ninety third
The allies would be put to flight.
The Russian Calvary with sabers slashing
came at them from all points.
The highlanders were not dismayed
by the sound of the Lancers steel.
The thin red line wavered but held
then drove them from the field.
Their courageous stand has been sadly forgotten.
They were passed over by the Press.
For that same day the Light Brigade
were led to the slaughter next.
The precursor action on the field of balaclava, just prior to the Light Brigade's fateful charge into history
288 · Oct 2017
O.D.
John F McCullagh Oct 2017
As she stepped into the M.E.’s chamber
The light was uncomfortably bright.
The policeman held her by one arm
As she took in an unwelcome sight:
A sheeted body lay on a slab,
a human who had come to harm.
The medical examiner pulled back the sheet
And she could no more deny.

Her son looked peaceful and composed,
almost as if he was asleep.
The needle tracks upon his arms
Betrayed addictions hold was deep.
“Yes” she said, “this is my son.”
There was little else to tell.
She claimed his body from the state
thus sparing him a pauper’s grave.
An Overdose was ruled the cause
The antidote administered was too late
With ceremony she buried him
In hopes of Heaven, in fears of Hell
Her tears betray a common grief
In Purgatory now she dwells.
The sad aftermath of death by overdose. An epidemic among American youth
John F McCullagh Apr 2018
Yes! in the sea of life enisled,
With echoing straits between us thrown,
Dotting the shoreless watery wild,
We mortal millions live alone.
The islands feel the enclasping flow,
And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour—

Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were
Parts of a single continent!
Now round us spreads the watery plain—
Oh might our marges meet again!

Who order'd, that their longing's fire
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?
Who renders vain their deep desire?—
A God, a God their severance ruled!
And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.
A repost of the Matthew Arnold poem which is echoed in my short parable "Stones"
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