Dark Victory 11/11/18
The Bells ring out great Peals of joy.
The war is won, Great Albion.
It merely cost a million dead,
a generation lost and done.
To you, fate tendered victory sweet,
to the Germans, a bitter peace.
There, fatherless boys, abed, asleep,
plot revenge for their deceased.
In the Wilfred Owen house;
no alloyed joy to meld with sorrow:
That day they learned their son had died
They'll dress the house in Black tomorrow.
His mother knew before word came,
she had a sense her son was gone.
That he'd be among the last to fall
for the glory of Great Albion
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Prince Liam the Brave
Young Liam loved Orange
and liked to wear ties.
To his firehouse friends
He was one of the guys.
He had his own locker
a slicker and hat.
He also had cancer,
and a bad one at that.
From early on in his life
he fought neuroblastoma;
An invasive tumor
a metastatic carcinoma.
His family who loved him
labored to save
their dear little child
Prince Liam the Brave.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Arbusto Hotel (a song parody)
tune Elvis' Heartbreak hotel (Chorus 1) [Chorus 2]
Now since Juan left the Pueblo,
He’s found a new place to dwell-
An S.R.O.* in Farmingdale
The Arbusto Hotel
(And Juan is so lonely
Juan is so lonely
He’s missing Juanita
Juan is so lonely, he could cry)
Now Juan waits on the Corner
He’s waiting for a van
They drive away, he mows all day
He’s working for the man.
(And Juan is so lonely
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Anchor Baby
At the Empire's fringe
A woman and man
Traveled by night
over oceans of sand.
The woman, quite pregnant,
rode their sole beast of burden.
Her time; near at hand,
Her child's fate; uncertain
They saw a light in the distance
from a sheepherder's ranch
The couple was fearful
but saw it was their best chance
an abandoned outbuilding
on the outskirts of the spread
It had a tin roof
and some straw for a bed.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Helen Thomas
In her time she's seen them all:
Johnson's anguish and Nixon's fall
From Camelot's dissolution
In a grieving nation's tears
Helen Thomas was a witness
to the history of my years.
She held a place of honor
Where all to her deferred:
Senior writer in the press corps
Well respected, sometimes feared.
Now she's fired and disgraced-
banned from her accustomed place.
The arbiters of elegance
took umbrage at her words
Her statement lacked “correctness”
As per the beltway herd
She's a racist and a bigot, An old and senile shrew-
They have no need of sticks and stones who know what words can do.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In Tents
In Waltham, on a Soccer field
A city of pink tents was pitched.
A neighborhood with real thin walls
Some chat, some snore, some mainly itched.
In the distance, thunder rumbled.
Streaks of lightening split the sky
Soon, I knew, the rain would come here.
We must find shelter, you and I.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The door to Yesterday
I walked this campus in my youth,
forty years ago today.
The air is sweet from recent rain
here on the quad lawn where we played.
It's changed, of course,
that building is new.
Jefferson Hall is next, they say.
I graduated here in May.
I need not give the year away
I 'll only say it was a time,
like now, of great uncertainty.
I remember you like yesterday,
Your eyes a deep cerulean blue.
Your long and flowing auburn hair.
Those bee stung lips so sweet and true.
On impulse, just then
I tried the door.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Newcastle,1936
In a humble little cottage
in a poorer part of town.
A tea kettle was whistling,
And the rain was pouring down.
Grandpa turned back from the window,
To where “mother” poured the tea.
“I’ve made some soda bread,
why don’t you come an sit with me? ”
Grandpa did as he was bidden-
A cup of tea was just the thing,
in a delicate bone china cup
which bore a picture of the King.
As a stranger in a strange realm
He had worked the mines for years.
He had put food on the table,
He had endured this vale of tears.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Bob Forsch R.I.P.
His heart, like a knuckle ball,
fluttered in his chest.
A most unwelcome pressure-
he felt his chest compressed.
One week before he stood in awe
upon the mound at Busch.
Cameras flashed as he let fly
the ceremonial first pitch.
A champion in eighty two,
A Card for fifteen years.
Bob Forsch, A loved familiar name
brought out before the seventh game.
The first pitch that he threw that night
would also prove to be his last.
The Cards went on to victory
adding to their storied past.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Devil Dogs
Through grain fields with bayonets fixed,
from Belleau Woods the Germans came.
The sixth Marines in shallow pits
unleashed a deadly metal rain.
The French collapsed upon the left
Their flank exposed by craven fear
The Marines held fast when urged to flee:
'Retreat? , Hell we just got here.'
By June the sixth, it fell to them
to take a Hill to save the French.
A German company with machine guns
waited for them well entrenched.
With tactics from another war
Audacious yes, but not too clever
'Come on, you bastards' Dan Daly roared,
'Do you really want to live forever'
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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