Phoebe Prince
An immigrant from County Clare
brought to this harsher clime-
Phoebe Prince, an Irish rose,
a gentle heart and mind.
First used, and then discarded
by one boy, then another.-
Object of the mean girl’s scorn
Phoebe was “the outsider”
On the last day of her short life
They hounded her from school.
The girl they called the “Irish slut”
was made to feel the fool..
Her sister, Lauren, found her body
hanging lifeless in the hall.
Befriended by nobody
Phoebe chose to end it all
And on the day they held her wake
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Seven
From the time his boy could stand
The Dad had brought him on the Seven.
To see the Mets they both would go,
before he'd even learned to throw.
All through his childhood and past his teens.
They'd entrain to their field of dreams.
Their Mets found many ways to lose-
most years they had godawful teams.
So soon it was his time to go.
Children grow (Time flies they say) -
His son now has his place downtown
A few short miles and a world away.
Opening day is magical
once more it found them in the stands
Cheering loud, their voices hoarse,
as their team booked yet another loss.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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My Little Valentine
For years now I have lived alone
Since my marriage fell apart.
In theory we’ve joint custody
But that’s always how it starts.
I’m a salesman on the road
About thirty weeks a year..
My barkeep is the mini bar,
Room service makes my meals.
But I was in town for Valentines
And for my weekend with our girl
I took her to her favorite place
These days she’s my whole world.
All grown up at five years old
And learning not to cry..
She enjoyed the present that I brought
Cause I’m her special guy.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Hey, It could be Verse
I write poetry for a living
And it's hard in this recession:
-Getting by on one thin rhyme.
-Its a recipe for depression.
If beauty would inspire me
I'd go hang out in a bar
Where, I've heard it said, by 3 A.M.
Plain Janes are movie stars.
I stand out in the Quatrain
To catch couplets in my hands-
But they slip between my fingers
And get soaked up by the sand.
Some poets hear the music
in the speech of common man.
I'm tone deaf to the Siren's call
-like a whale beached on the strand.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Same Sentence
At Calvary three crosses stand,
where the rebel, Jesus, died.
With him, two petty criminals-
were also crucified.
Per legend, one man begged relief
sought pardon as he died.
The other merely mocked the Lord,
as they hung side by side.
The first rebuked the second man:
“No fear of God, you slime?
We both bear the same sentence-
just judgment for our crime.”
“But this man who did nothing wrong
with us is crucified.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Oakland Lake
The sunlight, like a mother’s touch,
lies gentle on the water’s face.
The last warm breath of summer past
Not ready yet to yield its place
And you and I walk, hand in hand,
Around the long and winding path
Past where fledging Mallards stand
And weeping willows sweep the earth.
From beyond the rushes comes
the soulful melody of a horn..
All else is still, no sound intrudes
upon the bassist and his song..
Above us Ninja squirrels fly
And bomb the path with acorn shells
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Light before Dying (Dark humor)
She had been through so much,
Still, the cancer had spread
Now six weeks into treatment
She's confined to her bed.
My wife's been a smoker
since she turned sixteen.
Through the years we were married
and the years in between.
Now though she breathes
like a fish brought to shore.
her long term addiction
had her craving one more.
Who am I to judge her
or deny her last wish.
She is not getting better,
I've no heart to resist.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Cry in the Night
A Cry in the Night
From the courtyard far below
We all heard the woman scream.
Faces at the windows saw
The masked assailant stalk his prey.
“Stop that”, someone shouted down.
but none went to the woman’s aide.
Not even did we call police
while she still might have been saved.
She screamed for help but no help came,
Her hands bled from defensive wounds.
Her killer made a final thrust
And she folded in a swoon.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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State of Grace
The bachelor and the spinster
stood together, hand in hand,
before the Priest who’d wed them
in the chapel Kilmainham.
With two prison guards as witnesses
there in Kilmainham gaol,
Joseph Plunkett and Grace Clifford
wed at midnight goes the tale.
At dawn a firing squad awaited
her brave bold Fenian man.
She’d remember their one, stolen, kiss
and the ring placed on her hand.
Her Joseph chose a dark way home
when he tweaked the lion’s tail.
In martyrdom he found a way
to rouse the sons of Gael.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Freddy Sez
Bang the pan slowly, for Freddy is dead.
Grasp the spoon firmly in hand.
Aim for the Shamrock that graces the pot
That for years Freddy used at home stands
Retire the signs so colorfully made
That he used to urge his Yankees on.
Sheppard is dead, Steinbrenner’s gone
Freddy Sez follows behind.
From the time he retired till the day that he died
He faithfully followed his team.
He outlasted the House Ruth brought in being
A twenty eighth win was his dream.
He wandered the stands from bleachers to field
With the pan and his colorful signs
Has any among us not handled the spoon?
Will anyone bid him goodbye?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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