The Night Patrol, Laos 1962
My point man had died where he stood.
The rest of my squad dove for cover.
My helmet had tumbled and fallen
and I clung to the ground like a lover.
The lifespan of a second Lieutenant
is measured in minutes I’m told.
I rolled and I rose to my knees.
I fired a mag from my piece.
There was movement out there in the trees.
Visceral fear shook my knees.
Novak had tossed a grenade.
In seconds a blast splintered wood.
The bark of three M-60's. then
cut through the growth like a scythe
The foe, in black silk pajamas,
In violence departed this life.
My radio man slid up beside me
Headquarters was on the phone.
I told them one dead and three wounded.
I sensed we were still not alone.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Nativity Scene
It seemed an inauspicious birth,
another mouth to feed on earth.
A stable in a crowded town,
the only lodging to be found.
Caesar Augustus had decreed
a census of his realm proceed.
As Bethlehem is David’s town
Its narrow streets were filled with sound.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Santa Conspiracy
From ages back in Time,
A Bishop with his coins
Gave succor to unfortunates
And funds to dower daughters.
Although this saintly Nicholas rests
Through centuries of slumber
Something of his spirit lives
When we love one another
.
A gentle vast conspiracy
Arises round this man
A tale told to the innocents
By parents in all lands.
His myth now robed in red and white
His beard now white and flowing
He dashes round the world by sleigh-
Even if it’s snowing
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Twenty Seven!
We entered last night at gate four,
the precious tickets in our hands.
The Anthem’s ending drowned in cheers
as we took seats high in the stands.
“Godzilla “had a monster night.
He was a one man wrecking crew.
Pedro couldn’t get him out.
Nothing really he could do.
Here and there the Phillies tried
To stage a rally, beat the best.
But Andy always held them down
while pitching on just three days rest.
When “enter Sandman” starts to play
It’s like a Frank Sinatra score:
Game over for the Phillies’ reign
They weren’t coming back, down four.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Shonin
These eyes have seen the fire from the sky
I felt the heat a thousand clicks away
At first no screams, just people turned to shadows
A sunburst touched to earth one fatal day.
These eyes have seen my City turned to ashes
I have heard her women sobbing in despair
I stood alone amidst my city dying
No God above to whom I’d make a prayer..
And now I stand before a Buddhist temple
A different city and a river view.
This city seems most beautiful and vibrant
Hiroshima what has become of you?
The historic statue of Shinran Shonin, founder of the Judo Shinshu school of Buddhism, now stands in front of the New York Buddhist Church on Riverside Drive in New York City.. This statue of Shinran Shonin survived the atomic bombing of Hiroshima, in which 150,000 people died, and 90 percent of the buildings in the city collapsed or burned.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Homecoming
Grandfather built, with his own hands
The house we children called our home.
A fine expanse of stone and brick,
a castle that was ours alone.
That was before the threatening storm
turned us into refugees
The howling wind, the battering surge
Let loose the Ocean's enmity.
Of our fine home scant trace remains:
Some stone and the foundation walls
Keepsakes and memories long displayed
Sadly we have lost them all.
No loss of life, no death to weep
But still a sense of loss pervades.
The certainty of Youth is gone
And fallen trees can give no shade.
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Wicked Witch from the West
(parody to tune of the Beatles “Lady Madonna”)
Nancy Pelosi, looking none too sweet
If we paid for your face lift, hope you kept the receipts.
Who pays out the money for your private jet?
Don’t think that is helping the environment.
Your face pulled tighter than a tambourine skin
Your botox treatment botched and overdone
You’ve got a face that terrifies small children
See how they run! !
Nancy Pelosi, the taxpayers oppressed
as you donate their savings to the “poor distressed”.
Nancy Pelosi, lying to the press
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The Goose who Loved Golf
On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.
Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.
The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.
The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Unusually Uncertain
Things are getting better,
Except of course they’re not.
The bailouts have worked miracles
with business gone to pot.
The Nation should experience
Slow growth or slow decline.
We should know soon, unless we don’t-
I can’t make up my mind.
Over in the Eurozone it’s Deutschland uber alles
If Greeks would work like Germans
I’d be sure this market rallies.
If P.I.G.S. escape the barnyard-
We’ll face ruin in our time.
We should know soon, unless we don’t
I can't make up my mind.
Greenspan always soothed my fears,
inchoate though he was.
Bernanke, on the other hand,
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The Transfiguration
When he rose to speak, I pitied him,
that tall, ungainly, man.
His speech was high pitched, regional,
but clear to understand.
An inner fire burned in him,
his spirit fairly glowed.
His eyes and voice enchanted us
despite his rustic clothes.
The constitution was his text;
By chapter verse and line
He taught us what the founders meant,
the thoughts that filled their minds.
He said a true Republican
would not bid slaves to rise.
John Brown was no Republican,
his actions were unwise.
He explained the Government
could forbid slavery's spread.
The Union is a sacred trust
and must be preserved, he said.
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