Once upon a time
My song concerns a buried grief
Another place and time
A sorrow that our clan endured,
In the days of Auld ang Syne.
Our parents’ lives hold mysteries
We seldom can divine
Like why my Dad would leave the room
When he’d hear Auld Ang Syne
The faces at the table change
The names effaced by time
We struggle to remember them
Back once upon a time
His sister, Kat, nursed old and sick
In the Flu Pandemic times
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Dead Girl
At first I didn’t see her, .
There, half hidden in the leaves.
In the early morning darkness
Nothings ever what it seems.
The leaves were wet and sticky
but not with morning dew.
The smell of blood assaulted me
Now what was I to do?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Boxer
His pressure was mounting
along with his weight.
He got into training
a little bit late.
In the grey light of morning
He'd be seen on the street.
sweating it out
on sneaker clad feet.
He sparred with his partners.
with few in the stands.
Then pummel the light bag
with lightening fast hands.
The fight date was approaching
and no one in the State
gave him much of a chance
of escaping his fate.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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It's Not Me, It's You
Mary was on time, as usual.
As per usual, John was late.
“He’d be late for his own funeral! ”
Mary fumed and cursed her fate.
They’d first hooked up in freshman year
at a frat house mixer bar
John got sick from too much beer
and hurled in Mary’s car.
They were pursuing the same major
and they lived in the same dorm.
He was always in her classes,
and they both worked at the Mall.
It was natural that they bonded.
It‘s said opposites attract.
His folks were alcoholics
from the wrong side of the tracks.
Mary came from Celtic stock
Hence her saintly name
She always called upon the Lord
when, infrequently, she came.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Tyler Clemente
At the railing of the bridge,
the water far below.
One step and there is no return-
I fall if I let go.
Standing at the railing now
The cold rain drenches me
And hides these tears upon my face
The world will never see.
One step into eternity-
What stops me letting go?
Such an easy thing to die-
until it's time to go.
Yet why remain to face the shame?
My tormentors are free.
They used a web cam to record
my lover kissing me.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Monkey Business
The markets up, the Markets down
For weeks it just meanders.
Alas, my stocks are always down
Each time I take a gander.
GM, Lehman, Citicorp
My broker bought for me-
And you can guess the net result-
IHe bought a yacht, not me.
Those friends who don’t avoid me
Say I’ve reversed Midas’ touch.
I don’t turn things I touch to gold
I turn gold into rust.
I’d heard dart tossing Simians
Can best the S & P
So I went to the Zoo this March
to consult a Chimpanzee.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Naked Girl
When Liberty lies bleeding
And the politicians laugh
Its poets who must rescue her
Or write her epitaph.
When Liberty lay naked, scorned
Upon the cobblestones
I gave my coat to be her robe
And brought her to my home
More dead than alive she seemed
I gave her tea to drink
She shivered at the memory
Of how low some people sink.
“My people once were proud and free”
She shook her head in shame.
“But lately they submit like slaves
To politician’s games”
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In the Company of Heroes
In the Company of Heroes
The 506th is aging
Passing into history
Dick Winters now has fallen in
with Easy Company.
He did not like to speak of war,
once He was safely home.
-Excepting at reunions
Or, infrequently, by phone.
Still the story needs be told
to the generations next:
How they parachuted into France,
How they fought Hitler’s best.
How many left their youth behind
In hedgerows or in fields,
Or in the snow around Bastogne
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Cash for Keys
They'd struck the best deal they could manage.
Then the movers showed up at the door.
The home they had loved, they departed
It hurt them that the neighbors all saw.
With two girls, both boarding at Stanford
they'd refinanced their home to raise cash.
Just before J.P. Morgan acquired
Bear Sterns and before Lehman crashed.
By the Spring, Susan's work became part time.
Ronnie threw out his back in the Fall.
With income down half from the boom years,
foreclosure was hard to forestall.
In Riverdell, there are some mansions
that people pay millions to own.
Although Susan's place was more modest,
the river ran right past her home.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Sleeper
If you’re ever in Chicago, , and you have some extra time, .
There’s a baseball legend buried there, a sleeper of a kind.
He won’t help you win at fantasy. It was long ago he played
For forty years or more he has been waiting in his grave.
John Donaldson was a Monarch on the Kansas City team,
perhaps the greatest pitcher ever in the Negro League.
His fastball was like Feller’s when Bob was in his prime
He had a Curve like Mathewson’s, a Giant of his time.
He is buried among teammates who never made the Show
A three hundred game winner that true fans ought to know.
In little towns and hamlets he won renown and fame
He never made the majors, they were then a white man’s game.
His victories and strikeouts have been obscured by time.
He was born a bit too early to ever break the color line.
He was working toting mailbags on his final fatal day
When, like his famous slider, he would break down and fade away.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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