Finding beauty
Is Beauty like pornography?
-identified by sight.
Is the 'eye of the beholder' school
the one that got it right?
For them a pleasing symmetry,
of eyes, lips, breasts and hips
is ample justification
to launch a thousand ships.
For them beauty is genetic,
gifted by heredity
you get it from your parents-
much like their insanity.
For most, its unattainable-
that certain je ne sais quoit-
Still women spend a fortune
on beauty in a jar.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A snowflake’s Revenge
My brother died upon a tongue
But now I with my legions come
Pelting down like frosty rain
with drifts up to your window pane.
Your women to the market race
As if food won’t be seen again
And you make your Home Depot run
As if some salt will stop my friends
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Living in Hiroshima
A morning in Hiroshima
In August of the year
I walk towards a tower
with battered walls and naked steel.
The dome is open to the sky
The walls have crumbled down
All else around had been laid waste
This was the zero ground.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Family Tree
In every proud Victorian home
There was a tree ablaze in light
Bedecked with gold and garland strands
to celebrate on Christmas night.
Again in times close to our own
In every decent Christian home
A little creche gained in favor
to celebrate our infant savior.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Toasts of Ireland
Giants set the causeway stones
between our Isle and sea.
Saint Patrick drove the snakes away
and explained the Trinity.
Connolly and Pearse persuaded
Brits to set us free.
Some tales are myth, some are lore
And some are history.
The Irish make an Aran knit
With Celtic weaves sublime.
The Crystal made in Waterford
is elegant and refined.
In the past, flights of “Wild Geese”
Exported Ireland’s pride
Some think the future is Belleek
Others say Intel’s inside.
A pint of Guinness in a pub
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Kobayashi Maru
My gleaming white constellation class Starship
(My dirty white Chrysler K car)
was out on patrol near the neutral zone
(I was driving back home from the bar)
It was then I received a distress call
(I urgently needed to pee)
Some Klingons decloaked in proximity
(I sped past a cop car or three)
I called for more speed from the engine room!
(My transmission started to shake)
Klingons pursued in the neutral zone
(They motioned to me HIT THE BRAKE!)
“What seems to be the Tribble, Officer? ”
I said to the humorless Gorn
That Klingon impounded my vehicle
(Because they caught me exceeding Warp Nine)
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Poppy Seller
The poppy seller stands near the Rotunda.
He vends his paper flowers as before.
He wears a small red poppy in Remembrance
of heroes fallen in our nation’s wars.
The people pass as if he’s’ non existent,
more interested to buy well watered beer.
The Veteran feels the sting of their indifference-
Upon his grizzled cheek I spy a tear.
I cannot, will not also pass in silence
I stop and donate something at his stall
He stammers thanks, but he needn’t thank me-
more fitting that I thank those who gave all.
They who owed us nothing gave us everything.
We, their debtors, balk to pay our share.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Michael Furey
That night was cold,
The wind was biting.
All over Ireland
the snow was falling
"I was packing
my trousseau,
To Dublin town
I was to go."
"I heard a pebble
strike my pane.
A moment passed,
then, there, again."
"I looked out
On the snow filled lane.
That's when I saw him,
Saw my Michael.
His pale face raised
toward my light.
Like an angel
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Welcome to Babel
Welcome to BABEL
A storm is brewing on the sun
and solar flares will soon appear
tongues of fire will reach out
across millions of miles and sear.
Charged particles will crash upon
The planet Earth's magnetic fields
This may wreak havoc on our world
frying our electronic gear.
The sun’s been 'quiet' for decades now
fewer and fewer sunspots appeared
but 'Sol' they say is a variable star
and may be vary hot I fear.
When last storms of this magnitude
bombarded Terra from afar
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Sound of your Laughter
Why do I love you?
because you’re my child.
Since before you were born-
So it’s been quite a while.
I couldn’t resist you
No way and no wise
Since the first time I saw you
in your Mother’s eyes.
In part your remind me
Of those I hold dear
the sound of your laughter
the salt of your tears.
The way your tongue curls
And mothers’ cannot
You’re a storehouse of traits
That I can’t do without.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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