Happy Feet.
When he was found, more dead than alive,
on the Shore of a Kiwi Beach,
the Emperor Penguin was brought to the zoo
and they called him 'Happy Feet'
He'd drifted, they say, for days and days-
over eighteen Hundred miles.
The poor little fellow nearly wasted away-
when they found him he was half starved.
Day by day, they nursed him back,
The folks at the Wellington zoo.
Now the time has come to return him home
Its the Kiwi thing to do.
So he'll take a sail with a freighter bound
for his cold Antartic home.
When he gets there, he'll pull up a chair
and take a vow never more to roam.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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In the Dark of the Sun
Having heard so much about nightlife,
The Sun was at pains to discover
The mysteries of the nighttime
So she pursued it around like a lover.
But wherever the Sun would go,
She would find the night had just been.
The Sun sighed with frustration
Night had eluded her once again.
“I’m not very good as a Stalker
even though I’m such an early riser.
I’ll never discover my dark side
And I’ll end my days no whit the wiser”
Author’s note: I’m just being whimsical here, so don't get all Copernican on me. I know the Earth Revolves around the Sun and rotates on its axis.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Great Fire of Rome
July eighteenth in 64’
Of the Common Era
Play Nero, play upon the lyre
While Rome Is fed into the fire
At the Circus near the Palatine
in some shops began the fire
You looked on impassively
And played upon your lyre
You sang about” The Sack of Troy”
The Trojans funeral pyre
While portions of your palace
Were themselves consumed by fire
Three Quarters of the city gone
The fire raged for days
Casualties kept mounting
as the Romans fought the flames.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Survivor
The Sound of their laughter
in the dream, I still hear.
I wake up in a sweat
with their screams in my ears.
On a road trip to Tucson,
my teammates and I
met with disaster
and two of them died.
Our team van blew a tire
at a high rate of speed.
It flipped on the highway.
I can still hear the screams.
I kicked out a window
when the van came to a stop.
and dragged out my teammates
off of the blacktop
It was then I lost consciousness
the state trooper said.
I saw white sheets pulled
over two of our dead.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Falling Man, a poem of 9-11
You see me suspended in space-time
as I’m passing the 89th floor
Falling headlong, my form is impressive.
Sadly, no one will be holding up scores.
Just moments ago I was standing
at a Morton’s Fork in the road:
The fires of hell were advancing
where I stood on the 98th Floor.
Well can you imagine my terror
when I came face to face with the flames.
I don’t know why I chose as I did;
Souls in torment can never explain.
My choice, which was no “choice” at all
was to smash through the window and fall.
Then the only thing that could “save” me
was the camera that captured it all
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Blonde in the Red Leather Booth
I was sitting in Katz Delicatessen
waiting for Sam to arrive,
when this blonde with her date
made their entrance.
They took seats in a booth on the side.
You know I'm not given to gossip
but I couldn't not hear if I tried.
They were speaking of sexual matters,
all about faked orgasms and lies.
The Blonde started bucking and shaking,
moving her head side to side.
She muttered God's name in her frenzy,
pretending her Lovers inside.
The booth smelled of sex and red leather
The Petite-Mort faked with great pride.
I muttered' I'll have what she's having.'
to the waitress who stood by my side.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Landmines in the Living Room
Those Landmines in the Living room
Can do a man much harm
And, being metaphorical-
They’re a challenge to disarm.
When my daughter’s home from college
a month can seem an age
A simple misspeak or misstep
can incur her wrath and rage.
Her life of course is difficult
She cannot drink or drive
She sleeps all day and parties nights
It’s a wonder we’re alive.
Weight opinions carefully
Whenever she’s around
Don’t set off a screaming match
you will not win a round
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Repetoire
There are songs that I no longer play,
even when I’m at practice alone.
The words are to painful to sing
now that I’ve reaped what I’ve sown.
There are places that we used to go,
where I haven’t gone in a year.
The barkeep must think that I’ve died,
As I no longer stop for a beer.
There are friends that I no longer see-
They would only remind me of you.
Phantom pains to an old amputee
Bitter leaves from my garden of rue.
There are songs that I no longer play,
Whose lyrics would stab at my heart.
These days, I’ve been drinking for two.
It’s my solace since we’ve been apart.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Babe Bows Out 06-13-1948
The stands are full of cheering fans
As I wait to say goodbye.
My bat serves as a crutch for me
just weeks before I’ll die.
This day in June is cold and gray,
windy, overcast and bitter.
No warmth touches my wasted frame,
I’m a mere shadow of a hitter
The grandstands are abuzz with life
I shed a single tear.
I always was a man apart,
Larger than life, I hear.
My lusts and appetites were great-
more than a mortal man’s-.
but the syllogisms true
And that is all I am.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Vessel
The Vessel was a thing of clay.
the sort you use, then throw away.
It was worth little, of itself,
but that vessel was filled with Love.
It poured out Love upon the Living
Free and selfless was its giving.
When at last the clay was dry,
it was the vessels time to die.
It shattered on the sands of time,
now half a lifetime gone from mine.
The vessel was my Dad you see-
and by his gifts I was set free.
I wept the day he met his end-
will I ever see his like again?
God willing on a higher plane
I'll get to call again his name.,
but if my journey ends in dust,
he taught me how as all men must.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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