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John F McCullagh Jan 2012
That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.

They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.

Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.

The men were cooking barbecue,
Tossing footballs, drinking beers
You'd recognize their names-
because you hear them once a year.

The day was nearly cloudless
Seldom was the sky so blue.
Who knew so many would be lost
before that week was through.

Within two days too many here
were cut down in their prime.
Betrayed by poor equipment-
They could not escape in time.

But I, permitted to grow old,
remain to testify
about the courage of my friends-.
so that their memory never dies.

That day is sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.
09-09-11    The scene is the Fireman's benefit picnic for Widows and Orphans which was held that year in a public park on Staten Island. I attended with my family because we have firemen in our family By noon on Tuesday 9-1-01  over 200 of the people we were with  that day were dead.
John F McCullagh Oct 2012
Just some stupid girl,
just fourteen years old.
She should have stayed silent.
She shouldn't act bold.

Just some stupid girl
lacking all sense of dread.
Classes for girls?
She should have been dead.

Just some stupid girl
only infidels note.
She took a shot to the head,
next a knife to the throat.

Just some stupid girl
that we failed to ****
filled with stupid ideas
that are not Allah's will.

Just some stupid girl
that some have called brave
just for daring to think
she won't wind up a slave.
An appreciation of Malala Youseufzai, the 14 year old Pakistani girl who dared to speak out and was shot by the Taliban
John F McCullagh May 2012
to contemplate your beauty
is this poets' guilty pleasure,
but, as we're taking separate trains,
this joy won't last forever.
The play of light upon your face
as you read some Lovers' twit
gives you an aspect of Kabuki
in the station's dark abyss.
Your perfect, doll-like, features
painted porcelain by the light
An oasis of sheer beauty
amidst the station's urban blight.
Too quick, the moment passes.
I board and you remain.
For, you see, I'm headed Westbound
aboard the downtown train.
You reminded me of one I loved
in another place and time.
The girl who is forever young
and never far from mind.
This is a composite of images encountered yesterday. In the course of my travels I encountered a stunning beauty waiting on a train platform, An Asian girl with an I phone who  was rendered pale white like a kabuki mask and a girl with perfect skin and impossibly perfect doll like features.   Here they are made one.
John F McCullagh Oct 2018
Where were you in eighty two on some hot summer day?
We hear that you had had a few and were in the mood to play.
Where and when was this exactly? Your accuser can’t recall,
But we have to believe her so you have to take the fall.

The presumption of your innocence we will dispense with first.
Teen age boys are predators, they all suffer Adam’s curse.
She’s a female, therefore honest, believed as a matter of course.
Like the woman who accused the boys who played for Duke Lacrosse.

A woman three years older has emerged to add the charge
That you organized her gang **** and you should not remain at large.
Yet she kept attending  parties even after this occurred.
She drank the punch she saw you spike until her speech was slurred.

Brett Kavanagh your past is littered with beer cans, this is true.
The phrase “as sober as a Judge” must not apply to you.
In prep school and in college you were drunk out of your mind.
Is that why you were still a ****** at the age of thirty nine?
A little bit of fun at the expense of the circus that is Washington D.
C.
John F McCullagh Apr 2021
From Cy Young to DeGrom
The distance stayed the same
Sixty feet, six inches
It’s the measure of the game.
Each base is Ninety feet apart
In Diamond shape arrayed.
Shortstops still get the runner
Wherever the game is played.
Home plate is Seventeen inches wide
And the pitcher toes the rubber
These are the articles of faith
For any baseball lover.
In every City in this land
Where Freedom used to ring.
The sounds around the Diamond
Were a welcome sign of Spring.
You can meddle with the mound
And fiddle with its height,
But don’t touch the distance from home plate
Unless you’re ready for a fight.
Its true we now play games at night
But surely that’s our loss.
When you tally up the profits
You forget about the costs.
This game was born for Summer
On hot afternoons they played.
When you lose the children, Manfred,
That is when you lose the game.
Our game is not played with a clock
Yet there’s an ending to each game
In this it is like life itself-
for the keepers of the Flame.
adding phantom runners  experimenting with a clock and meddling with the geometry of baseball are just some of Rob Manfred's sins against the game
John F McCullagh May 2018
A canister of tear gas was lying on the ground.
In my dumb incomprehension, I first heard the rifles sound.
Then there were screams and curses; weeping and lament.
There were bodies lying silent, bleeding out on the pavement.

Our protest wasn’t peaceful although “Peace” was on our signs.
We had thrown rocks at the guardsmen; they responded now in kind.
Tensions had escalated and passion outraced sense.
The crackle of the rifle fire ended the suspense.

Now I am an old man; we’ve moved on to other wars.
To that wall of names in Washington I’d like to add four more.
The rain has washed their blood away. The memories fade with time.
The old guard has passed; now all that is left is the enormity of their crime.
A little over 48 years ago in another America
John F McCullagh Nov 2013
Beneath a grey, forbidding sky,
as all the Saints looked on,
Kevin Barry climbed the scaffold,
by the order of the Crown.
He would not betray his fellows
to the agents of the State.
By Courts martial, they condemned him
to a common villains fate.
This morn at Mount joy jail
as the World looked on, aghast,
the hangman’s rope snapped Kevin’s neck
and Barry breathed his last.
Denied a soldier’s bullet,
Kevin hung upon a tree,
Just eighteen, but a martyr
for the cause of Liberty.
Let him never be forgotten;
As long as we have voice to sing.
He is past all trial and suffering
at the hands of Earthly Kings.
On November 1, 1920 Kevin Barry, Irish Patriot, was hung by the agents of the British crown for his part in the death of three British soliders.
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.
John F McCullagh Jun 2013
The President assessed the scene
and gave a terse command.
His caddy grabbed his putter
and put it in Obama’s hand.
The breeze as not a factor
The air was hot and still.
The hole, a dozen feet away,
blocked by a small windmill.
Barrack needed this putt for par.
to help him tie the score.
Boehner got a hole in one
in the clown face just before.
Obama gave his ball a stroke-
it veered wide, an inch or two.
It’s a pity folks are watching
Or he’d lie about that too.
That he should be reduced to this;
Playing at the “Pirate’s cove.
The sequester is a right wing plot
likely dreamed up by Karl Rove.
What I imagine would happen if the president's golf game was affected by the budget sequester
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
My gleaming white constellation class Starship
(My ***** white Chrysler K car)
was out on patrol near the neutral zone
(I was driving back home from the bar)
It was then I received a distress call
(I urgently needed to ***)
Some Klingons decloaked in proximity

(I sped past a cop car or three)

I called for more speed from the engine room!

(My transmission started to shake)

Klingons pursued in the neutral zone

(They motioned to me HIT THE BRAKE!)

“What seems to be the Tribble, Officer?”

I said to the humorless Gorn.

That Klingon impounded my vehicle

(They caught me exceeding Warp Nine)

If Kirk faced this “no Win” situation

He’d probably get off with a fine.


Dam Klingons!
A drunken fan of the original star trek series comes to grief in a classic " No Win" Scenario.
John F McCullagh Mar 2018
In a medically induced coma
The patient was divorced from time.
He wandered from room to room
in the chambers of his mind.
Memories of long ago;
things and people he’d left behind,
Competed for his attention
with all his kith and kind.
Ghosts of family, dead and gone,
came face to face at last,
with his children’s children
at a glorious repast.
He bellied up against the bar
with some friends he’d  lost in Nam.
They looked no worse for being dead
For what seemed a very long time.
They raised a glass to memory
and gave a toast to Time.
The barkeep said “its Final Call!”


and his monitor flat lined.
Another poem resulting from reading books on Quantum Physics. Labyrinthine time is like linear time interspersed with "hypertext's" that link to other timelines
John F McCullagh Dec 2011
Her Horse didn’t canter in Canterbury
Her braided hair was long and Brown.
She galloped uncovered in Coventry
so that taxes would drop like her gown.

Hot to trot without makeup or Jewelry
Hair undone, long tresses hang down.
A ****** named Tom was observing her
riding through town sans a gown.

A woman of substance and Charity-
Not given to horsing around.-
Her legend comes down from antiquity
That’s how seldom those taxes go down.
As suggested by LP
John F McCullagh Nov 2011
In the cold damp stairway
of the Tower I saw her:
Lady Jane
the nine days Queen.
Unperturbed
she walked right through me
heading for the Tower Green.
Escorted by an unseen Parson
to the block, likewise unseen,
Her translucent body
bends before it
Lady Jane, the nine Days Queen.
How many times, I wondered then
has this poor ghost played out this
Scene
bereft at once of crown and life
there upon the tower Green
A visitor to the Tower of London has an unsettling encounter with the Ghost of Lady Jane Grey, acting out the day of her execution at the hands of her cousin, Mary Tudor
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
I imagine you in profile,
sitting in the artist’s chair.
Your coiffure, so elegant, yet
wind is blowing through your hair.
Did you feel self conscious
in the crown of Liberty you wore?
Those lips, moist, pink and parted,
That noble nose and chin,
You stare into eternity
as the artist then begins.

Teresa De Francisci
was the face of Liberty
from the roaring twenties’ boom
to the Depressions’ maladies .
Then she disappeared
and was minted just once more:
It was at the Denver Mint,
in the summer of Sixty four.


They coined your youthful face
when you, yourself, were old and gray.
Then politicians changed their minds,
and consigned them to the flames.
Did it break your husband’s heart
that his work met such an end?
what joy it would have been
to see you made young again.
Whatever was the cause,
your husband died that very year:
the year his lovely Liberty
had been set to reappear.
De Francisci was born Mary Teresa Cafarelli in a town south of Naples, Italy.[1] When she was four years old, she and her mother emigrated to the United States.[1] She was raised in Clinton, Massachusetts, graduating from Clinton High School in 1918. De Francisci was the first person of Italian descent to graduate the school.[1] She married Anthony de Francisci in 1920.[2] Anthony de Francisci died on October 20, 1964.[3] Terese de Francisci died exactly 26 years later, on October 20, 1990, at the age of 92.
John F McCullagh Nov 2017
Let us now ****  famous men
for their low morals and cruel cunning.
This witch hunt is different from all the rest;
now the witches hunt and the men go running.

From out  of the woodwork the women come;
victims, opportunists or jilted lovers?
Forty or fifty years have passed.
Their denouncers are mostly young grandmothers.

Now Garrison Keillor has joined the ranks
of venial men obsessed by lust.
He has been banished from Lake Woebegone
Where the women are Strong, the children are bright-
and the men look no better than any of us.
Scandal hits Lake Woebegone
John F McCullagh Sep 2012
Every drop of blood slaves shed
beneath the lash and rod
was repaid in kind at Sharpsburg
by the terrible swift sword.
Twenty three thousand Sacrificed
in joint sanquinity
to debate the principle
that all men should live free.
At Burnside's bridge,
on the sunken road,
The Landscape dripping red.
The wounded called for water
as they lay among the dead.
At the Whitewashed Dunker church
the Dutchmen stood agog
as the fearful toll was paid
by brave souls on either side.
this is the 150th Anniversary of the civil war battle of  Antietam (Sharpsburg). The war would continue another 3 years at a cost of 600,000 dead
John F McCullagh Jun 2018
Un vieil homme noir, dans un mois chaud et sec,
assis à l'ombre du Baobab.
Les prairies autrefois verdoyantes
étaient secs avec la sécheresse,
victimes des vents du changement.

"Vieux, ils m'appellent vieux." Il pensait,
"Mes soixante-dix étés m'ont rendu gris,
mais cet arbre baobab est devenu grand et fort
Quand les légions romaines ont passé par là. "

Le vieil homme mâchait le fruit du baobab
et a coulé dans un état de transe comme.
Il était dans un état d'esprit;
Pas tout à fait endormi, pas tout à fait réveillé.

Il a entendu une voix: "J'ai soif".
Bien qu'il soit sûr qu'il était seul.
Cela ne semblait pas une voix humaine:
un monotone sec et sans discernement.

"Pour les générations, les hommes comme vous
J'ai cherché mon abri du soleil,
Mais maintenant c'est fini; la terre est desséchée
Et je meurs, mon petit.

Le vieil homme a pleuré pour entendre ces mots
Car quand ces arbres meurent, comme ils le doivent,
Ils s'effondrent sur le sol stérile
Donc, rapidement, ils reviennent à la poussière.

"Le monde a changé pour vous et moi,
Les vents sont secs sous le soleil.
Je pardonne au monde des hommes
Car ils ne savent pas ce qu'ils ont fait. "

Le vieil homme s'est réveillé avec un début
et s'est soulevé avec sa canne.
Il a pleuré de penser que cet arbre mourrait

mais les larmes ne peuvent pas remplacer la pluie.
Le Baobab est appelé "L'arbre de vie" pour le fruit dense en nutriments qu'il fournit en saison sèche en Afrique. Alors que le climat du continent change et que la désertification a lieu, le plus vieux des arbres meurt de soif
John F McCullagh Nov 2014
In the last year of Trujillo’s reign, the Dictator decided
to eliminate three sisters and then plausibly deny it.
Patria, Maria and Minerva were the victims of the plot.
Once the three were dead and gone, He‘d make sure folks forgot.
On a lonely country road, they were ambushed by his men.
They forced the sisters off the road. That’s how it began.
The girls must not seem martyrs; Trujillo had made it plain-
nothing quick and merciful, like a bullet to the brain.
The men used bats to knock them down and smashed their faces in
so they could not be recognized by their own next of kin.
They placed the bodies in the car and pushed it off the road.
“The butterflies are free!” they mocked; “Those girls reaped what they sowed.”
In the Dominican Republic, the wheel, if slowly, turned.
Trujillo met a ****** end and freedom was regained.
The truth was slowly brought to light, the murderers were named.
The Maribels were honored and their martyrdom proclaimed.





   h
November 25, 1960 was the day that the three Maribel sisters were murdered by the secret police of Trujillo. The United Nations has declared November 25th of each year as the day to end violence against women. The choice of this day is in honor of Patria, Maria and Minerva. today by John McCullagh
John F McCullagh Jul 2013
Brave men run toward the flames
when others turn and flee.
Without such courage all is lost,
there could be no victory.

From fire Station Number Seven
the men of Prescott heard the call.
"Go and set a fire break
near the town known as Yarnall.

It was a race against the clock.
Their team of twenty vied
to wall off the drought fueled flames
before a whole town died.

A stroke of lightening set the blaze
that would consume them all.
With the county suffering a drought,
the trees were tinder dry.
when wicked Western winds whipped up
the Granite Hotshots died.

In the town of Prescott, Arizona
in fire station number seven
A stained glass window commemorates
men who died deserving heaven.

Brave men run toward the flames
when others turn and flee.
Without such courage all is lost,
there can be no victory.
19 out of twenty men of the "Granite Hotshots" fire company died fighting a blaze on 06/20/2013
John F McCullagh Aug 2013
When he returned from Vietnam
it was in part, not whole.
Something akin to jungle rot
has seeped into his soul.

He was not fit for steady work
or the company of man, and
in his dreams lurked demons
only liquor could withstand.

The streets of San Diego
are more hospitable as most.
You'll find him sleeping on the grass
in the Corps of the lost hopes.

His final battle rages here,
more desperate than in Nam.
this veteran fights for dignity
in a cold, uncaring land.
Inspired by the plight of a Veteran I observed on the embarcadaro  in downtown San Diego.
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.
John F McCullagh Mar 2020
They’re closing all the bars tonight!
At eight O’clock they all must close.
That’s not much time to tie one on,
Thou, for some, t’will do
I do suppose.

It hardly time enough for some
to obtain sufficient anodyne.
To insulate themselves from care
As viruses spread and stocks flat line.

I’m guessing some fights might ensue
As we all belly up to the bar.
Then stagger out in blue twilight
In a vain attempt to find our cars.

The plain girls I feel sorry for.
There’s insufficient time, I fear.
For their swains to have consumed enough
To make their inner beauty clear.
By closing all the NYC bars on the eve of saont Patrick's day that vindicive  scion of the mafia in Albany has cost honest barkeeps a fortune
John F McCullagh Jul 2013
October’s storm was brutal,
drenching rain and heavy wind.
Our little tavern by the beach
started taking water in.
Then, when the storm surge
breeched the wall,
the place lacked all defense.
Waves swept away our little bar
leaving us just the front steps.

The “Pour House” now a memory
for its scattered congregation.
Mostly Irish Catholics who enjoyed
its liberal dispensations.

Some people prefer brews to pews
for fighting off dammnation.
So many demons haunt our souls
and these demand libations.

The juke box played sad Irish songs,
the only sort it knew,
while disorderly Hibernians
enjoyed their favorite brew.

Here the patrons much preferred
Draft Guinness in a glass
while stealing furtive glances
at my waitress’ shapely ***.
Here the women started homely
but were beautiful by close-
at least to those poor drunken sots
Who’d relieve them of their clothes,


By Christmas it was apparent
that the “Pour House” had to go.
There just wasn’t FEMA money
For an old man’s bar you know.
So word swept through the beach blocks
And it reached the subway station.
Gather at the Pour House Steps
for the New Year’s celebration.

Party favors must be had
So I bought some horns and hats.
Dry eyes and throats were disallowed
So I had free beer on tap.
That New Year’s Eve was cold and drear
When we held our celebration
Our dear old timers all appeared
for our “free beer” dispensation..
At midnight we stood on the steps
And had our photo taken.
We all hugged and went our separate ways
While inside our hearts were breaking.

The Pour house is a memory now.
I’ll miss those guys and girls.
It was a sort of Paradise,
a refuge from the world.
Loosely based on a photograph that appeared in the Rockaway Wave newspaper of a bar destroyed by Hurricane Sandy
John F McCullagh Apr 2019
She looks much like an angel in her white lace hat and dress.
Her patent leather shoes are polished; her beads clutched to her chest.
She almost looks as if asleep, but, sadly, we know better.
Violence shattered an Easter morn; this child may sleep forever.

The tiniest of martyrs, who can tell the reason why
She was murdered by hearts full of hate who determined she should die.
Her little classmates are here too, awaiting the embalmers art.
A little boy in his blue suit; it’s enough to break a parents’ heart.

There first was an explosion, and then began the screams and shouts.
The Terrified parishioners were in a panic to get out.
The dead and dying left behind enveloped in a silent peace.
First responders found them there. They called for doctors and a priest.

The man of sorrows bears his cross; upon his head a crown of thorns.
His naked feet step upon the Stony path that leads to the glory of Easter morn.
His back is marred by ****** stripes; he bears our imperfections.
Remember, Christians, without the cross there can be no Resurrection
Inspired by a picture of the smallest victims of the Easter bombing in Sri Lanka
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
John F McCullagh Jan 2015
Dennis Doyle, a barrister,
gave up his job upon a whim.
Now what to do? A quest!
A quest he would begin.
A lifelong fan of the New York Knicks
He'd follow them home and away!
Tickets were a big expense
=Twenty five thousand he would pay.
Then there would be planes to catch,
food and hotels along the way.
He'd sit and cheer his heroes on!
Each night he'd watch Carmelo play.
Too soon, the losses began to mount;
he watched the season slip away.
It takes a special sort of soul
to sit and watch this team at play;
to seize defeat from victory ,
the Knicks would surely find a way.
To qualify for a high pick
they traded half the team away.

Each night He'd sit and glumly watch
This team that will not win a ring.
Is it all worth it? Who can say?
For the true fan, the play's the thing!
The true tale of a suffering Kick's fan.
John F McCullagh Aug 2020
It seems the Universe has made
all the stars it can.
Black holes gobble up
ribbons of gas
to frustrate any star making plans.

So, Not today and not tomorrow,
but someday, bye and bye,
we will look up at  the cosmos
and see a nearly empty sky.

For, like us, stars are mortal;
They are born they live, then die.
Their nurseries are  nearly empty.
Only God could tell you why.
Scientists predict the end of the star making epoch of our Universe
John F McCullagh Apr 2012
On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of artic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.

Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don’t make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.

She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.

Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.

Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won’t pass.

Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain’s choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing put an end to fear?

No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We’ll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths  find honorable graves.
The story of Harvey and Charlotte Collyer and their 7 year old daughter. Harvey died last night, one hundred years ago. His wife, Charolotte, already ill with Tuberculosis, succumbed to the disease in 1914.
John F McCullagh Apr 2018
On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of arctic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.

Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don't make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.

She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.

Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.

Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won't pass.

Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain's choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing, put an end to fear?

No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We'll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths find honorable graves.
106 anniversary of A night to remember
John F McCullagh Apr 2021
On this, the last night of our world,
As rockets flare and people scream,
A floating mount of arctic ice
has made a nightmare of our dream.
Dear Charlotte, get into the boat.
Don't make an orphan of our child.
I smile and lie and say that I
will be along in just a while.
She nods, and we share a final kiss,
a kiss redolent of goodbye.
It is my hope that they will live,
while I prepare myself to die.
Doomed gentlemen upon the deck;
noble, wealthy or in trade.
I play as brave as any there
In this, our final masquerade.
Their little lifeboat floats away
adrift upon a sea of glass.
I pray, for the first time in years,
full knowing that this cup won't pass.
Should I go down with the ship?
That is the Captain's choice, I hear.
Or put a gun into my mouth
And firing, put an end to fear?
No. I will stand with these brave men,
Who made the choice that I have made.
We'll leap before Titanic sinks
And in these depths find honorable graves.
Titanic
John F McCullagh Apr 2016
This day is cold and dry, more March than April.
The wind, from the North, howls mean and low.
I'm here to pay my last respects
to a teacher I knew long ago.

He taught with a passion for all things French
I was an indifferent student though
We both loved music, he could really play
I wonder now what became of his piano.

The school where he taught and I attended
was taken over many years ago.
Of all my teachers very few remain
Even some alums have been laid low.

His soul has taken ship for that distant shore.
That distant borne where all are truly equal.
There, in the Democracy of death, they wait
in the hope of being featured in a sequel.


All are actors in this existential drama
each performing our own lines and parts.
Our curtain drop may meet with scant applause,
Love, Perhaps,from other aging hearts.
John F McCullagh Apr 2019
My brother-in-law was a chauffeur.
He loved cars since he was a teen.
My sister Clare thought he looked handsome
at the wheel of a Lynch Limousine.
For years he drove town cars to airports.
He was courteous and impeccably dressed.
He loved New York’s bridges and byways,
And he rated among the best.
Later in Life, Tom drove Corporate.
A CEO rode in the back.
The job had appeal; Tom was still at the wheel.
And nothing was better than that.
Then, when Semi-retired, Tom drove school buses
shepherding Pre-Teens to class.
A task unappealing to many of us,
But Tom always had parents trust.
Even his hobby revolved around cars;
Tom owned vintage automobiles.
His black 40’ Chevy appeared in parades
with, as usual, Tom at the wheel.

This day, a sad day, Tom will take his last ride
In a Cadillac, polished and black.
This day another will be doing the driving;
This day Tom will be riding in back.
My brother-in -law Tom has lost a long battle with the big C.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
When all we count as friends have passed,
and we alone remain- Will this grey world
seem beautiful? Or will it just seem strange?
Like the last rose of summertime,
encountering the frost-
Will our beauty be remembered
or will it be simply lost?
A homage to the Irish folk song "The Last Rose of Summer"
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
A thoroughbred voice.
A stellar career.
A beautiful woman
singing songs sweet and clear.

Must I mention the millions
that flowed to her coffers.
Whitney could have enjoyed
what this world has to offer.

Then she married a punk,
not the least bit refined.
She drank a bit much
she did a few “lines”

A broken down voice;
missed notes and miss dates.
A fate like Monroe’s-
Cut off young by the fates.
Whitney Houston, R.I.P.   Gone much too soon.
John F McCullagh Jun 2013
Summers by the Jersey shore
Have always called to me,
As though a Siren lived beside
our cottage by the sea.
A place where wave
and wind and sand
conspired perfectly
to make a simulacrum
of what Paradise might be.

This will be my last summer
coming to the Jersey shore.
My medications manage pain
But they can do no more.
The doctors say I have six months
before I cease to be.
So I have chose to spend that time
in my cottage by the sea.

I walk alone at Evening tide
beside the golden shore.
The tide erases every step
I take forevermore.
For I am not eternal
Like the deep and restless sea.
In truth I am ephemeral
More than I’d like to be.

I cannot bargain with my fate
I cannot buy more time.
This vintage, strictly limited,
is dying on the vine.

Too soon it will be Labor Day
And time for you and me
To close the place up one last time
our cottage by the sea.
A dear friend has received the bad news of the sort we all must someday face.  We all have a last summer, we just hope it is not yet.   I wrote this in first person Point of view for immediacy and dramatic effect. I do not in any way intend to make light of my friend's suffering.
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.
Peter Handcock and Harry “Breaker” Morant were executed by firing squad on February 27, 1902 at Pietersburg, South Africa. They were convicted of war crimes which  included killing 8 Boer  prisoners and a itinerant preacher. This case was the subject of an excellent Australian film released around 1980.
John F McCullagh Feb 2012
His last sunrise shone in his eyes
as we readied, aimed and fired.
“Shoot straight you *******!”“Breaker” yelled
as his life and time expired..

Handcock and Morant together lay
sightless eyes toward the sky.
The courts-martial had convicted them.
Kitchener ordered that they die.

How did I feel about this man
my bullet helped to slaughter?
This man who ordered Boers shot
without a written order.

I’d seen him fight, and bravely too
when Boers struck the town.
The prisoners had manned the line
and helped us hold our ground..

Now stretcher-bearers took their limbs
and bore them from the field.
So fast and secret were their deaths
There was no chance of appeal.

Australians had been killed by Scotch
to please the Dutchman Boers.
British men and Africans-
we were all just following orders.
Peter Handcock and Harry “Breaker” Morant were executed by firing squad on February 27, 1902 at Pietersburg, South Africa. They were convicted of war crimes which  included killing 8 Boer  prisoners and a itinerant preacher. This case was the subject of an excellent Australian film released around 1980.
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
John F McCullagh Oct 2013
The old man sat on a log near the road,
with his faithful dog right by his side.
They had been walking
on the trail through the woods
when he’d felt something different inside.
Perhaps if I rest
For a bit T’would be best.
It is a hot day after all.
He looked at the trees
In their splendor of green
But the heat made him wish for the Fall.
He thought of the Love of his life,
Mary, his wife,
And part of him let fall a tear.
For clearly he knew that this pain in his chest
Gave proof that his own end was near

They found the old man on the log near the road
His faithful pet still by his side.
Death had come quickly
And his face seemed composed
Like a poet who’s finished his lines.
They found in his hands
His poet’s notebook
And the EMT read his last words:

You’re my Eve and my Eden;
Please don’t mar with your weeping
the face that I loved most of all.
But take care of the Garden
We tended together
Until I again come to call.
This is intended as a meditation in honor of the late great Paddy Martin
John F McCullagh Nov 2014
I've soiled my sacred garments. I fear I've fallen far. I have a pounding headache and just woke up in a bar. My clothes reek of tobacco. My heart races from caffeine. As I was born and raised a Mormon this is not my normal scene.


I was prospecting for new converts , going door to door, when I ran into a sort of girl I'd never met before. Her hair was fire engine red, at least the drapes I 'd say. Her blouse was silk and tightly stuffed in a most intriguing way.

She said that she was off to "church", would I care to come along? She said the spirit moved her there, a place of cheer and song. I sensed a soul that I could save and so I went along.


Soon I was drrinking  Jameson. I bought the house a round. It's amazing stuff, this alcohol, this new friend I have found. I was singing karaoke and was dancing on the bar. I guess I had a bit too much, oh, I have fallen far.

I woke up from my stupor- cotton mouthed, dazed and confused. I'd been overcome by demon ***, a thing I shouldn't use. There was somebody laying next to me, I feared it might be "Red".  Imagine my profound relief that it was a man instead. He said his name was Khalid and he'd come here from afar. He, too, had a Prophet who forbade drinks from the bar. It turns out he also met the girl, this "Red" of whom I speak. He 's been trying to convert her and he's been here since last week.
Members of the Church of Later Day Saints abstain from alcohol, tobacco and caffeine. They limit the consumption of red meats. I have no idea how they make it through a single day. This is strictly fictional and intended as comedy. No actual Mormon was harmed in the writing of this poem.
John F McCullagh Oct 2017
I first saw her at the coffee shop;
a pale white girl with long black tresses.
Her legs tucked up beneath her on the chair
wearing one of those fashionable peasant dresses.
I would see her, time and again,
studying out on the Quad on a sun filled autumn day.
She never bronzed burned or tanned;
She was most remarkable in that way.
Her skin was always like new fallen snow
in the glow of a full December moon.
Her voice was comforting, simply lyrical.
As for me; I could barely hold a tune.

“Her name is Laurie” her roommate told me.
“it’s time you introduced yourself,
instead of lurking around like a love sick puppy.”
So I did; and it turned out to be
one of my better decisions.
A girl I knew in college. She had those bee stung lips and gave the most amazing kisses
John F McCullagh Aug 2013
He was her only Rose,
and you might think it unkind
for Rose to have left Libby
so close to Valentine’s.
Still, Libby couldn’t hold him.
He felt that it was time,
for he knew in Libby’s cold embrace
So many men had died.
For Libby was a prison,
drafty, crowded and a hole.
A hundred Union men escaped
in a break daring and bold.
Under cover of the darkness
They broke for Union lines.
Like blacks escaping slavery
Polaris was their guide
It is the night of February 10, 1864 and Colonel Rose is leading a jailbreak of 109 Union officers from the infamous Libby Prison in Richmond Virginia. 59 escaped to Union lines. 48 men were recaptured and 2 drowned while attempting to swim across the James river
John F McCullagh Dec 2018
The Jupiter is on the launchpad.
The count down  is proceeding smooth.
On board there's a crew of robots;
for Man there is no room.

Yes, those androids look like us;
and, once, there was a time
when human Scientists themselves
designed some android minds.

Now AI has progressed so far
that circumstance demands
that the designers of this crew for space
must have titanium hands.

This crew will never tire.
they need no food to eat.
Radiation that would **** a man
they'll easily defeat.

The distances in space are vast
at even half the speed of light.
This robot crew will long  endure
after my last good night.

There are headed for Tau Ceti.
Exoplanets there abound.
They'll transmit their data findings
to those here on the ground.

I worry for Posterity;
Fear clouds my troubled mind.
Once  our species were explorers
now we're  forever left behind.
A bit of Science fiction about the launch of the Jupiter 1 exoplanet explorer
John F McCullagh Apr 2013
The businessman was on the prowl
that soft night in September.
He was looking for a bit of strange
and a night he would remember.
She need not be a ****** queen
but he didn't like them jaded.
A rose bud opened, deeply blushed,
surpasses one that's faded.
Caveat emptor stills applies
He'd do well to remember-
Curvy vendors lay and lie
to those who seek illegal tender
A slightly tipsy businessman seeks a ****** with a heart of gold
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
Luscious Legs, Plump *******,
Succulent thighs.
These ladies know how
to appeal to us guys.
My brother’s no different
as he grabs for a breast.
Each guy has a favorite.
A part he loves best.
Me. I’m a leg man,
my preference well known.
I like my bird
with some meat on the bone.
The Colonel’s our ****,
and he keeps us supplied
with the parts we prefer
Extra Crispy deep fried.
alternate title "The Bucket List"
John F McCullagh Oct 2015
Jeudi, 21 Février, 1788, NYC

Il a été dit que la science progresse un décès à la fois. Pour Jeune Docteur Richard Bayley, professeur aspirant des études anatomiques, ce fut littéralement le cas. Il avait besoin d'un approvisionnement constant de cadavres récemment décédés pour ses recherches, et ce fut la raison pour laquelle il était là, la négociation avec les trois voleurs de corps dans le sous-sol de l'hôpital de New York.
"Il ya une jeune femme, Margaret La Stella, décédé jeudi dernier, et qui repose dans le complot de sa famille dans le cimetière de l'église de la Trinité." Ceci est le corps, je dois, pour ma recherche, et je suis prêt à payer le taux en vigueur pour vos services. "
Quel improbable trio étaient ces hommes debout avec lui. Leur chef, James, était un géant d'un homme robuste, près de six pieds de haut, ses deux compagnons étaient des nains par comparaison, à peine cinq pieds chacun. "Rafe ici est un bon pour crocheter les serrures sur les portes de fer et Alfie est rapide avec une pelle en bois. Il les ressuscite dans une hâte: «Je vais pousser le corps dans une brouette et de vous rencontrer de retour ici pour livrer la marchandise et récupérer notre argent. Vous aurez à payer un peu plus que vous le feriez pour un pauvre ou un nègre ".
Il était une négociation rapide et le docteur assez rapidement convenu à son prix, laissant James à se demander si il aurait dû demander plus. Eh bien, une bonne affaire est une bonne affaire, et une médaille d'or chacun Guinée était bon salaire pour un travail obscur de la nuit.
Ils défilaient sur puis, laissant le jeune Richard à ses pensées. Bientôt, très bientôt, il serait de nouveau afficher Margaret. Bientôt son corps allait abandonner ses secrets pour lui et il serait apprendre la mort avait pris celle qui avait été si belle et si jeune. Il n'y avait rien à faire pour lui maintenant, sauf à attendre. Il est assis avec une tasse de thé et a tenté de se distraire avec le journal du soir.
Body Snatchers, ou Resurrectionists, comme ils préfèrent être appelés, sont en mauvaise réputation en cette année de notre Seigneur 1788. gens souhaitent en général tourner un oeil aveugle quand le corps de certains pauvre a fini sur la table de dissection. Un bien faire femme blanche avec une famille était généralement prévu pour se reposer tranquillement. Encore James et ses deux petits complices connaissaient leur entreprise et vous faire le travail rapide de celui-ci sur cette nuit.
James arrêta son cheval et le chariot bien en deçà de la Trinité, ne voulant pas porter trop d'attention à eux. Il serait monter la garde à la porte du cimetière avec une brouette tandis que ses deux complices petits glissa à l'intérieur et fixés au corps.
Trinity Church cimetière était à côté du site de l'ancienne église qui avait brûlé dans le grand incendie de New York du 76 '. Le doyen actuel de l'église avait accumulé des fonds destinés à la construction d'un second, plus grandiose église de la Trinité, mais encore la construction avait pas encore commencé. L'absence de l'église physique devrait signifier pas de gardien et un cimetière qui serait totalement déserte sur une nuit la mi-hiver froid. Avec seulement une lune décroissante pour l'éclairage, les trois hommes étaient dépendants de lanternes à main qui ont donné peu de lumière et à côté de pas de chaleur lorsque les vents du sud de Manhattan serraient à la gorge comme un spectre vengeur.
"Et c'est parti. Rafe se rendre au travail cueillette de la serrure, tandis que je l'aide avec Alfe la bêche et les couvertures. "
«Je vais avoir besoin d'une longueur de corde, trop mate, à nouer autour du corps et le faire glisser le long de la tombe."
Ils ont été surpris par le cri plaintif d'un grand corbeau noir qui a été perché sur la porte du cimetière de fer et qui semblait être en regardant leurs activités avec curiosité et méfiance.
«Je dois la porte ouverte, allez, Alfe, je ne veux pas être là plus longtemps que je le dois."
James regarda les deux hommes petits happés leurs lanternes et des outils et ont disparu dans les ombres du cimetière de Trinity.
Ils ont trouvé la tombe récemment fini de la fille La Stella rapidement, et Alfe commencé tout de suite avec sa pelle de bois pour creuser le cercueil de son lieu de repos temporaire. Il a travaillé tranquillement, mais ses travaux ne vont pas complètement inaperçu.
"Mate, Prêtez-moi un coup de main et nous allons la faire sortir d'ici. Jetez la corde ".
Rafe a fait comme il a été soumissionné. Il a également ouvert sa lanterne et l'agita en un signal à James que le travail était presque terminé. James n'a cependant pas été le seul qui a vu le signal.
Comme le corps a été exhumé une lueur d'or attira l'attention de Alfe. Je t avais un anneau sur les cadavres quitté l'annulaire.
Grave voler était considéré comme une infraction plus grave que trafic de cadavres, mais sûrement pas l'un allait remarquer petit anneau d'or disparu. Quoi qu'il en soit ce corps allait retrouver tell disséqué et articulé, il avait entendu on fait bouillir la chair de l'os de fournir un squelette complet pour l'étude. Personne ne les payait pas assez d'argent à son retour ici quand le bon docteur avait fini avec son travail.

Était-ce juste imagination- de Alfe ou fait froid main morte des cadavres lui semblent se battre pour l'anneau avant qu'il arracha libre. Immédiatement, cependant, toutes les pensées de l'or est devenu secondary- il y avait des problèmes en cours de réalisation
"Vous là, montrez-moi vos mains!" Il y avait un garde dans les motifs de la chancellerie, un peu de malchance qu'ils avaient pas compté sur. Rafe, pas un héros, sa réaction immédiate a été de tourner et courir. Il lâcha la corde et le corps de la jeune fille se laissa retomber dans le trou, près de piégeage Alfe dans une étreinte indésirables.
Alfe bondit de la tombe ouverte et renversé le grand mince tombe garde qui semblait un peu plus d'un squelette lui-même. Il a entendu le crieur public dans la distance la sonnette d'alarme. Alfe a abandonné toute idée de récupérer le corps de la jeune fille et avait l'intention d'évasion. Comme il sauta de la porte, il pouvait entendre la garde frénétiquement essayant de charger son fusil. Alfe besoin de plus de distance. Il a dû se rendre à James à la porte.

Un fusil à âme lisse est une arme la plus fiable et à beaucoup plus que 100 verges pour atteindre un succès était plus de chance que d'habileté. Alfe entendit à peine la décharge de l'arme, mais la douleur dans son dos était difficile à ignorer. James l'a attrapé avant qu'il ne tombe, mais il est vite devenu évident pour les deux que Alfe ne fallut pas longtemps pour ce monde.
James et Rafe ont travaillé rapidement pour obtenir Alfe dans la brouette et le roue de l'écart. Le gardien tentait de recharger mais la distance et l'obscurité devenait leur ami. Il ne serait pas obtenir un deuxième coup avant qu'ils ont fait à la voiture.
Pour le docteur Bayley il semblait que les Resurrectionists étaient de retour plus tôt que prévu il, mais le corps dans la couverture était pas le corps qu'il avait prévu de recevoir.

«Il y avait un garde posté à la chancellerie en face du cimetière. Il faut avoir vu l'un de nos lanternes et est sorti pour enquêter. Il descendit un coup à nous pauvres Alfe obtenu dans le dos. "
Richard regarda par-dessus le corps de Alfe, le nouveau sujet du Royaume des morts. «Combien voulez-vous pour ce corps?" Ils ont conclu rapidement leur affaire, James ne fait pas tout à fait aussi bien qu'il aurait pour le corps de la jeune femme, mais divisées deux façons il serait suffisant pour obtenir de lui un endroit pour dormir et nourriture et la boisson en plus. Alfe allait être un homme difficile à remplacer, mais il y avait beaucoup d'hommes durs bas près des docks qui feraient le travail et ne pas trop parler aux mauvaises personnes.
Il pensait qu'il ne serait pas bientôt d'accord pour ouvrir la tombe d'un dame. Les corps des pauvres ne sont pas si étroitement participé.

Bientôt Docteur Bayley avait le corps d'Alfe déshabillé et lavé et prêt sur la table. Dans sa vie relativement brève ce corps avait rarement eu assez à manger et trop de gin à boire. Les dents qui lui restaient étaient jauni et il y avait des signes de maladie des gencives. Richard était sur le point de faire la première incision dans la poitrine quand il a remarqué une lueur d'or dans la main droite crispée.

Il était un anneau; il était la même bague qu'il avait donné sa Margaret quelques semaines avant. Juste quelques semaines avant la mort l'avait prise de lui. Il ne savait pas qu'elle avait été enterré avec lui. Richard a tenu le petit anneau dans sa main et a commencé à pleurer amèrement, dans la connaissance cruelle qu'il ne reverrait jamais son visage, pas dans cette vie ou la prochaine.
A short story, in French, based on a grave robbery that took place on Thursday February 21, 1788 in Trinity graveyard in New York City.
John F McCullagh Apr 2017
Convicted and condemned, I hang
Upon a cross of wood .
With me my co-conspirator
And a rabbi, one reputed good.
I hear the rabble mocking him;
This teacher crowned with thorns.
Like me, he struggles for each breath.
Like he, he’s suffering and alone.
We are naked to the wind
There is no dignity in this death
For one like me so steeped in sin.
I beg a blessing for my soul
Before eternity beckons Him
He looks at me with kindness then
and speaks to me of Paradise.
I sense He’s dying as we speak
Though I have sinned, he pays my price.
I hear him cry out to the sky
as he yields his spirit up.
The sky grows dark, Golgotha shakes
A solider with a stave draws near.
Lord I will follow soon enough.
The New Testament story of the good thief
John F McCullagh May 2016
It used to be the task of Moms to ***** train young ***** and Janes.
The government had other work; such as procuring tanks and planes.
These days the STATE has grown so large that they alone must run the show
The President, by Royal decree, demands we let his people go.

Though Male and Female God created; that either-or -ness now seems dated.
Learned scholars have explained how **** might think herself a Jane,
providing Kaitlyn, once named Bruce, with a ready-made excuse.
Conservatives rail, but what’s the use?

He She or It? Are you confused about which bathroom you should use?
In former days it was the done thing to use the room that matched your fun thing
Now delicate Psyches are rubbed raw as their gender issues they explore.



Once more the forces of the law are brought to bear on Segregation;
now its stools, not schools, which are the cause for intervention.
Yes, women have their Privacy rights- when it comes to procreation.
All else must now be sacrificed to the vision of a much changed nation.

When Adam and Eve think they’re Ada and Steve
Let them *** where they want or the State is aggrieved.
Adolescence is just such a jumble these days;
What with male lesbians, trannies and gays.
The young must find it most confusing
about which bathroom they should be using.
In New York City, if you so please,
You won’t be arrested if found using our trees.

Obama started with such high hopes.
I voted for him but now I’m bitter,
That the Presidency of hope and change
is winding up here in the *******.
John F McCullagh Jul 2013
Now past the days of shock and awe
In a war that just drones on.
The martial spirit has been suppressed,
Save a taste for martial law.
Surgical strikes on Taliban types
**** wives and children too.
Drones lack the flexible response
To distinguish twixt the two
Half measures never win a war
And gradual escalation
Just gets soldiers’ names on walls
And the thanks of a “grateful Nation”
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
The Ding Dongs at the T.S.A.
decided as of yesterday
frosted Cupcakes aren't allowed on Board
flights domestic or abroad.

They employ the dumbest of the dumb
To harass us as we go and come.
Miss Liberty must be dismayed
to be prodded, strip searched and X-ray'd.

Thus the Empire extends its claws
through privacy invading laws
They won't repeat Marie's mistake
encouraging people to eat cake.
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