Straw
There was a man upon a time-
a man of genius rare-
Who strove to read the mind of God
And breathe the Empyrean air.
He taught at University
And gathered students round
Philosophy, Theology,
He sought their common ground
He’d count the angels on a pin
He lived a life of prayer
He learned nine million names for God
Then fell into despair.
Until one night a blinding light
Drove Thomas to the floor
And from his knees the signs he saw
reduced his works to straw.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Cyber Monday
Cyber Monday is my day
to Wrap my Christmas list.
I travel down the Amazon
to find that one-click bliss.
I keep my credit card on file
so when the impulse strikes me
I hop on line and grab my find
They'll ship it free most likely..
I joined their super saver club
which gives me priority.
I save a bunch on shipping
as I buy there constantly.
I pity those fools Thanksgiving night
waiting there on line
before a brick and mortar store
I guess for some that's fine.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Pitchers and Catchers
It’s the 21st day and there’s snow on the ground
It covers home plate and it’s piled on the mound.
It’s dumped in the infield; it’s heaped on the seats.
The ballpark is silent, not even a tweet.
But sooner than later we’ll all hear the sound
Of ball hitting glove as it gets tossed around.
Pitchers and Catchers are soon to report
A sign Spring is coming much sooner than thought.
The camps are all opening early this year
In just weeks I'll be watching from up in the Tier
My Yanks will be better than Shakespeare I hear
As Pettite plays Hamlet and Posada King Lear.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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For Elizabeth
"Beautiful" she said;
And none can her gainsay.
The poetess who spoke,
then, in quiet, passed away.
Cossetted within her husband's arms,
frail and small in death's repose,
Never again would she put pen to paper.
No more sonnets would her art compose.
Her illnesses had dogged her all her life.
Only morphine kept the pain at bay.
It also gave to her a heightened sense
of the beauty of mundane reality.
How vividly did her expressive eyes
Put words to thoughts and thoughts to
printed page.
She was the wild enthusiast of life,
whose poetry was the spirit of the age.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The future of Social Security?
“The trust fund, Men, is nearly spent.
The well is running dry”
“What will we tell the peasants
who expect pie in the sky? ”
“We must find a hero
to restore tranquility-
“Someone who’s a flim flam man
to the nth degree.”
With Obama much too busy
to calm the masses now.
They bailed Bernie Madoff out
to milk the sacred cow.
The checks went out as usual
Folks took them to the bank.
By noon the checks began to bounce
which made the markets tank.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Here Come the Brides
She may wear a Tux or
she may wear a dress.
They may write their own vows
for the love they confess.
The Catering halls are
expecting a boom.
(As do divorce lawyers,
those profits of doom.)
The law may help spur
new household formation
while Religious folk cringe
and cry: 'abomination'.
The bakers are unveiling
their latest confections
for brides and their mates
with the strapon erections.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Tiger, The Final Chapter
It's official, the divorce is now final.
Tiger and Elin are through.
He gets the payments, she gets the house.
Same deal for the Mercedes too.
She will care take their two children
for a monthly exorbitant fee.
It sure beats her pay as a nanny,
which was her job status quo ante.
Tiger retains his equipment:
By that I mean both bag and balls,
and such clubs as survived Last Thanksgiving
when Elin 'played thru' on the lawn.
He has custody of his faithful caddy,
and visits the kids when in town-
back in the mansion he once could call home
ere he got caught 'catting around'.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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To Hell or Connacht
Once upon a time
in a nasty little war
Cromwell came to Ireland
like a blight upon our shore.
He waged war upon my people
in a genocidal style
but some revisionists might argue
he was merciful and mild.
At Drogheda he killed thousands,
what a slaughter that place saw,
at the hands of 'Christian' soldiers-
surely righteous was their cause.
Then, when the war was over
and all our blood was spent
the Gaels, who used to own the land,
all wound up paying rent
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Tribe Has Spoken
When they walked along the trail of tears
The freedmen toted gear.
These blacks, who once were owned as slaves,
would be tribesmen, it appeared.
One hundred and thirty years have passed,
The Cherokee think it time
for a parting of the ways-
voting blacks out of their tribe.
Would Jeff Probst approve of this?
Would Survivor film the vote?
Casino money must be at stake.
It's quite the slippery slope.
Black Cherokees have been deprived
of their slice of change and hope.
Voted out of the tribe,
forced off the reservation
I understand Black Cherokees’
chagrin and consternation.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Rejoice, We conquer
They sent a man from Marathon
To tell the Greeks the News:
That Darius’ army had been smashed
His plans for conquest ruined.
Pheidippides, the runner,
in full battle armor dressed,
ran all the way from Marathon
to Athens’s temple steps.
The city elders waited there,
Fearing tidings grim.
He said: ” Rejoice, we Conquer”
It took the last of him.
These days we don’t give battle
With an army at the shore
Our enemy is cancer
Hear our army roar.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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