n the Dock
I
The pale brunette
was asked to stand
and hear the verdict read.
One life hung in the balance,
one girl already dead….
Thumbs down,
and she would
be remanded.
grey days
in a prison drear.
Thumbs up
and she would
be restored
to those who held her dear.
Shifting slightly
from foot to foot.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Police Action
Did George Bush err in making war?
Was his pretext false, his premise flawed?
Was force deployed in the Middle East
just when we can afford it least?
We're like a prehistoric beast
that jumps its prey and sinks its teeth.
Both enmeshed in pits of tar
Both doomed to perish in their war.
At least George Bush let Congress act.
in ousting Saddam from Iraq.
Obama bombs Libya without surcease
This isn't war, we're the police.
Yet to the casualties on the ground
that distinction has a hollow sound.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Forgotten
I’m sure you never think of me-
I never cross your mind.
You’re happy with the guy you wed,
You like your life just fine.
You can’t recall that night your mom
Came storming up the stairs.
How I went out your window
And she turned back, unaware.
You joined me later on the roof
Beneath the bowl of stars-
We formed a strange conjunction
To be observed by passing cars.
I’m sure you never think of me
You took a wedding vow.
As he snores softly in your bed
You’re not thinking of me now.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Wordplay
A word was born, some years ago,
Perhaps from Mister Marlowe’s pen.
Will Shakespeare stole it for his play.
The groundlings picked it up that way.
It gained currency by the hour-
For such is a poets’ power,
though Marlowe died in a tavern brawl
And all but scholars forget his name,
Words conquer worlds, thoughts persist
far longer than his Tamburlaine.
Genetic lines may hit dead ends
From war or pestilence or fate-
But words poetic or prosaic
Survive (though sometimes they’re Archaic.)
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Model Prisoner
He showers each day,
and he takes out the trash.
He works in the garden at times.
Mostly he sits in his cell and he reads.
He has never admitted his crime.
He seldom gets visitors
and hasn’t made many friends.
He sits by himself at mealtimes.
He serves a life sentence-no hope of parole
Until death he’ll remain here inside.
Conjugal visits? It’s been several years.
Since last she was seen by his side.
At lights out, sometimes,
you can hear gentle sobbing
as a little bit more of him dies.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Making Cents
A Penny for my thoughts
doesn’t seem a princely sum.
It doesn’t buy much else
when all is said and done.
It might be that, In days gone by,
A penny bought a meal.
It was sufficient for the boatman’s fare
Across the Styx to steal
But now the humble copper
Is derided or forgot.-
When it comes to purchase power,
The penny has it not.
So if you would my thoughts peruse
there’s been a raise in rents.
You must come up with a dollar
I’m no longer taking cent$.
fear not, poems are still free.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Irish Hill
Bury me at Irish Hill
a shroud of linen on my face
do not embalm my mortal flesh.
or box me in expensive wood
Find me a place beneath a tree
once I am senseless like a stone
return me to my mother's breast
return me to my quondam home
From dust to dust the preacher says
It's right and just what he intones
return me to my rightful place
beneath the rich and fertile loam
And when the sun shall shine again
I will make a flower grow
A flower with a fragrance rare
its petals joined in silent prayer.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Just Some Stupid Girl
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 kill
filled with stupid ideas
that are not Allah's will.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Michael Jackson is Still Dead
Michael Jackson is still dead-
He sleeps alone these days.
No longer will he fondle boys
whose families he pays.
Blanket will be flush with cash-
The other children too
Freed from Michael’s spendthrift ways
Residuals come through.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Owd To A Nightingale
It was quiet in the park,
after lunch, the crowds are few.
Here the statures live in terror
because of what we pigeons do..
We’re adept at carpet bombing.
pets and people feel our wrath.
Our bowels are like loose cannons-
Don’t dare venture in our path.
Now, below, I see a poet
with pen in hand composing.
Intent upon the songbird’s tune
or perchance he’s merely dozing
His senses lulled by cricket’s song,
He perspires in the heat.
My calling card left on his suit.
says chose a different seat.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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