The Sleepers
Two sleepers dreaming different dreams
lay together but apart
of a differnt girl he dreamed
he stirred but didn't start.
Beneath a canopy of stars
on a blanket in the dark
he gently kissed her burn scared breasts
and swore they'd never part.
The other sleeper gently moaned
with her dream love in the dark
deft fingers probed her secret place
as they lay heart to heart.
she may have called a name, not his,
as she shifted in the dark
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Milk Chocolate
On my fingers, on my tongue-
Your taste a sweet and pleasing one.
I unwrap you greedily
And nibble on you speedily.
Milk chocolate, I can't resist-
in miniatures or in a kiss.
Three musketeers are worth the fee-
all for one and one for me.
In a pudding or a bar
I enjoy you in my home or car.
In drink, you warm my winter day
once my shovels been put away.
We all owe Milton Hershey thanks
For inventing chocolate bars.
Kudos goes for M &M’s
to his competitors from MARS.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Day I Died
The air was close, but it would not rain
The day I died.
And smog enshrouded Gotham town
The day I died..
I should have stayed in Oceanside
The day I died.
Instead of a hellish subway ride
The day I died.
It started with a stabbing pain
The day I died.
Then waves of nausea deep inside
The day I died.
I fell to earth, I could not breathe
The day I died.
Co workers rushing to my side
The day I died.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Move over Moon
Move over Moon-
You’ve been displaced,
And it’s not some Star
That took your place.
Nor is a rose by another name
slipping in to steal your fame.
Their day is done
and none too soon.
Henceforth lovers who wish to swoon
must not rely upon the Moon, .
must not invoke the mystic rose
musr not implore the Northern star
Love needs the help of a guitar:
Beneath your lovers’ window stand
and strum a chord with practiced hand.
Sing your love a haunting tune: :
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Moolah
Some earn it, some steal it,
some lust for it like muff.
Others work hard for hours
earning barely enough.
The lucky, with Trust funds,
have got it to spare.
Others anxiously hope
Grandma’s will named them heir.
Some guys on the Street
Take risks with brass balls.
Then live like royal dukes
in baronial halls.
In the evenings some Ladies
Will stroll on the street
Accepting donations
for sausage relief.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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AL Gore doesn’t recycle
“Use it up, wear it out
Make it do- or do without-“
My mother was a child
of the Depression.
Her carbon footprints were quite small
As she never drove at all
She didn’t fly
Or like to air condition.
Al Gore, on the other hand,
Just pretends to be the man.
He heats his house with oil
and it’s a mansion.
He drives an S.U.V.
when he comes to lecture me
On inconvenient truths
of earths’ condition.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Dancing in the Dark
It’s seldom that folks see me dance,
for want of occasion or partner.
My stiff joints pray “give others a chance!
Just sit with your drink in the dark there.”
I’m not really hip and can’t hop
Arthritis has put paid to that dream.
I’d let younger ones gambol and lark
here I’d sit, waiting patient, for ice cream.
But no, I sway out on the hardwood,
locked in a slow dance with you.
I clinch like a boxer, exhausted-
Whose opponent has landed a few.
I pray that the music is ending-
My balky hip screams with each turn
After this I’ll for sure need a Walker
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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One Night in Downtown Flushing
The gates of hell were opened wide
and beckoned me within.
Alas I can’t read all the signs
Because my name’s not “Chin”
I wandered through emporiums
Overwhelmed by sights and sound
If you would like a duck or goat
I’m sure one could be found.
Bubble tea and sushi bars
Compete here cheek and jowl
And from the Karaoke bar
One hears a drunkard howl.
A slightly built masseuse then smiled
And gestured me come in
But they’d be no “Happy Ending” there
Because that “she”’s a “him”
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Out on the Trail
While on the Appalachian trail
Out hiking in the wood
I accidently ventured close
to a Grouse’s brood.
The mother bird could not surmise
The path I’d choose to take.
She saw her family threatened
by some trouser wearing ape.
So with undaunted Courage,
She came running through the brush.
Had I been the great white hunter
She might have wound up as our lunch.
But I’m a lover, not a fighter
And I turned tail down the hill.
Had my laughing friends not called me back
I might be running still.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Unto Us
Borne forth from darkness into light
A child is born this Christmas night
A Mother’s pain is turned to joy
as she swaddles her little boy.
Their habitation is the place
where beasts of burden spend the night.
Their bodies' heat the only warmth
on this cold and bitter night.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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