Pink Triangle
I remember when I walked the Earth
in the days before I died.
When Reich chancellor Hitler rose,
after the Reichstag fire.
I remember a November night
with a million shards of glass.
I never felt more all alone,
that night my lover passed.
After that, I had no rights,
I was forced to bear this sign:
A pink Triangle swatch of cloth,
by this I was defined.
I remember some with David's star
would look down their nose at me.
Yet We were under the same sentence-
had not our deaths all been decreed?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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First Kiss
We met for drinks and music
in a quiet little bar.
A singer, Reno Sweeney,
was the evening’s featured star.
Bob and Shelia never showed,
throwing us together:
You, a dark eyed beauty,
loquacious and quite clever.
I, your unexpected swain,
With eyes an emerald treasure.
Later at the Piper’s inn
We sat before the fire
You sipped on your white Russian
I drank my Pinot Noir.
I could not know, did not foresee
Our future in my glass:
Our sensual adventures
On rooftops and on grass.
Our joys, our sorrows, and our fears
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Moirai
When He came home from work that day
He said “Enough’s enough”.
“Let others built the widgets,
I have done that long enough.”
I’ll live a life of leisure,
crafting poetry and song.
Perhaps I’ll write short stories
or play my guitar all night long.”
Such boundless optimism
didn’t take Fate into account.
Fate, the foe of youth and love,
was lurking there about.
He thought that He had years of time
to write and think and putter.
Yet Fate was of another mind,
and a malediction muttered.
A tightness in the chest He felt.
A soreness in one arm.
He was sure that it was nothing.
Soon thereafter, He was gone
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Other Side of the Street
All though my married days I've lived
on the West side of the street.
I have dealt with plows in winter
that buried me knee deep
The West sides' winter sun is scarce
too weak to melt the ice.
So you'll see me out there chipping away
(Miami would be nice)
They get their trash collected first,
while we must wait a day.
I think the mailman likes them too,
He always starts their way.
In Spring their lawns are greener
In summer they have shade.
My back porch boils each afternoon-
no wonder I'm dismayed.
Mayhap I would be famous for
these poems that I excrete
If only I'd had the wit to live on
the other side of the street.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Only The Lonely
They finally did it,
so often they'd tried.
The whole Human race,
dead, a suicide.
The people I'd chosen
made war on Iran,
Until the last dropp of Isaac
bled out on the sand.
Their allies engaged
and the dread missiles flew.
Nuclear winter
took care of a few.
The rivers of Babylon
clotted with dead.
So it was written.
So it was said.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Dysmorphia
To others, she appeared so fair,
Her blonde hair long and silky
Her eyes intelligent and kind,
her complexion clear and milky.
She saw herself quite differently
in the mirror of her mind.
She thought her breasts a lttle small,
with a much too large behind.
So, unhappy with her looks,
she stayed apart, alone.
She turned down dates from hopeful mates
and stayed most nights at home
So she sought out the surgeons knife
to perfect her derriere.
The infection that she died from
is, fortunately, quite rare.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Annex
These empty rooms
devoid of life,
behind a bookcase
in the hall.
This was, for a time,
our home
while the Germans
held the Dutch in thrall.
My wife since dead from huger,
my daughters in a common grave.
I, Otto Frank, the sole survivor.
Is there no one I can save?
Annelise, my dearest daughter,
Miep Gies gave me your book.
The Germans cast in on the floor
without a second look.
Here in your words I find
that not all of you has died.
Here your words may speak
for all who suffered, all who cried.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Shadowlands
The Shadow-lands are here about,
hidden from even the most devout.
There those who were, then ceased to be,
enjoy post mortem revelry.
Their ghostly visage sight unseen
by downcast kin that sob and keen.
They linger but a moment, then.
they head off to the shadow-lands.
There they are young and strong and free,
much more than simple memories.
When their earthy foibles are recalled
they laugh hardest of us all.
They’re close whenever called to mind;
The shadow folk are calm and kind.
For they who were, then ceased to be,
well know what mortals fail to see.
Only they can understand
who’ve traveled to the shadow-lands.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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the Droplet
I am but one droplet in the stream,
carried along by gravity,
which snakes toward the River Liffey
which then empties into the sea.
One droplet, chemically the same
as all my brothers in the tide.
Yet unique, I am myself.
distinct from others by my side.
What a crazy ride it’s been
over rocks and through the woods
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Blood Red Rose
A solitary rose,
it could not understand
why it was deprived of life
by the cultivator's hand.
A solitary rose,
clutched in a mourner's fingers
waits the presenting of the flag
as the last note of "Taps" still lingers
A solitary Rose,
it could not understand
why its life was at the mercy
of the passing of this man.
A solitary Rose
wise beyond its time
is accepting of its fate
as the mourners stand in line
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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