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John F McCullagh
Poems
May 2014
The Time Traveler
The time machine, itself, was old,
compact, yet seemingly vast.
It prepared now for the journey
The traveler thought would be his last.
Like a ghost in the machine
Lights glimmered, dimmed, then flared.
The time traveler breathed deeply,
nodded that he was prepared.
Back in his distant past he roamed,
back, to his childhood home.
A vanished place now only seen
in creased photos with sepia tones.
But no, the sky a remembered blue,
The white clapboarded home
The lawn, a rich lush emerald hue
and he was not alone.
For at the door his mother stood
as she was in her prime.
To see her once again was worth
all the world and time.
She beckoned him to join her
and she hugged her welcomed guest.
The traveler whispered “Mother”.
as so many have said at their last.
Back in the sterile I.C.U.
There were no vital signs.
The traveler had a D.N.R.
The nurse noted the time.
Memory is the time machine of the spirit, and for now it is the only working time machine we possess. Happy Mother’s day Mom.
Written by
John F McCullagh
63/M/NY
(63/M/NY)
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