Towers, a nine Eleven poem
In my minds geography
The towers still stand tall.
They rise up from their common grave
And overawe the shore
Above the clouds the diners feast
At windows on the World
as swarms of chefs and waiters
hang on their every word
In my mind's eye, no bells need toll
As mourners read a name.
No firemen in bunker gear
race up the stairs in vain.
With eyes wide closed
Deny, deny, the fast approaching planes
Deny the bodies in the street
Deny the dust and flames
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A misplaced minute
The holiday makes glad the heart
Of every child who knows their part.
-But for adults like you and me
may cause distress, perhaps ennui.
The days I hoped would never end,
The time I thought I’d spend with friends.
Lost opportunities liter my path
Then vanish as quickly as a laugh.
Not so, the hours spent alone
Dreadful, slow, they bore on home.
With a palpable sense of waste-
They leave me with a bitter taste.
Minds wander, memories fade
Thus happy moments are mislaid.
Just be grateful even thus
pain and regret are turned to dust.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In the National Gallery
Here, in the pale light of a winter’s day
I entered with a sketch pad in my hand.
I never dreamed that I’d encounter you-
To sketch out some old master was my plan.
Was it your eyes that first seduced me near,
or those cherry lips that I would never taste?
Two centuries past you were a beauty, dear.
Now, all but this image, time has lain to waste.
I envy him who painted you in camera,
together in your sitting room alone.
Who knows just how the session was concluded
If your old and senile husband wasn’t home?
I’m cast here in the role of a voyeur,
I haven’t even tried to draw a line.
Your dress of silk reveals just one bare shoulder,
Your eyes, the promise of a night divine.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Winter is Upon Us
Winter is upon us
The crowds all melt away
The Yanks clear out their lockers
for an unwelcome holiday.
This winter will be longer
than the winter just before
Some teammates will be leaving
Maybe breaking up the core.
I'm certain Jeter will return
to chase three thousand hits.
Jorge's under contract
so I'm sure that he won't sit.
Andy Pettite still can pitch
but there's doubt that he'll return
and Rivera's just turned Forty-
does the will to win still burn?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Woodstock Generation/Memorial Day
For every aging boomer
there are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Can Ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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To the Lat
Of all who ever were or been.
Of all who breathed in hope of sin.
Frank Buckles was the last of all
the Doughboys, and the last to fall.
He enlisted while still underage
Was “over there” by seventeen.
Then was prisoner of the Japanese
During World War Two in the Philippines.
A decade and a century
A long and eventful life he led.
After the battle had been won
He walked among the newly dead
He took from one an unused week,
from another, an unused day in spring.
From his colonel, a month he’d never see
Thus Frank amassed his century.
At the end he was a living ghost
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Other half of me
Plato told a fabulous tale
of two souls so meant to be
that when they met together
she completed he.
For so it was with us, my Love,
from childhood's first shy glance.
For far longer than most married folk
we shared Love's sweet slow dance.
Now it seems you want a break
We no longer are a pair;
At parties where we'd both attend
there is one empty chair.
Our once shared bed is empty, too.
This place I toss and turn.
Faint fragrant traces of perfume
remind me why I yearn.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Rolling Cones
You hear their siren song in the air,
before you ever see the truck.
If it is “The Rolling Cones”
then my friend, you are in luck.
Where Mister Softee use to be
an old bald man down on his luck,
“The Rolling Cones” have sweet young things
Make sexy sundaes in a cup.
These ice cream ladies sell the wares
while wearing frilly bustiers.
Men of a certain age all troupe
to wave their dollars for two scoops.
Curves and ice cream swirls can be
Sexy, yes, but not obscene,
It’s a profitable duopoly.
They use hot babes to sell ice cream.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Child of Then
I lay down on my living room floor
Convinced that the world would end.
A crisis off Cuba with missiles in route.
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
A lady in pink with blood on her dress.
A President shot in the head
I remember where I was exactly that day
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Police battle Blacks, Watts is in flames
Protests rage on without end.
King is dead at the hand of a bigoted man
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
Camelots heir sought to bind up the wounds
Then Sirhan Sirhan shot him dead.
Bobby bled out on the kitchen tiled floor
Yes, I am a Child of Then.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Comes The Revolution
The 'one percent' are tired
dealing with the unwashed masses
who harass them on Wall Street
while mostly sitting on their asses..
In a bold preemptive strike
by the favored one percent
The wealthy seized Zuccotti park
and there they pitched their tents.
It' s a very civil protest,
a catered call to arms.
Instead of drums and gongs,
an orchestra plays Brahms
English butlers with refined accents
now go from tent to tent
with champagne in fluted glass
for those who can pay rent.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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