The Loved One
“The grief therapist will see you now.”
the perky redhead told us.
Her rolling hips then led the way
majestically before us..
Final arrangements must be made.
as our loved one is gone;
Melvin joined the choir invisible
by singing his swan song.
He had been fading badly,
and we knew the end was near.
Now he’s a mortuary client,
ready for his final bier..
Thank God for prearrangements
or we truly would be gored.
It gets to be quite expensive
when you’re sleeping with the Lord.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Gold Medal Blues
Please hide the newspapers-and turn off the news.
Please, nobody talk. I’ve got the gold medal blues.
No radio talk show can cure what I got.
Why couldn’t Sid hit the post with that shot?
America’s team gave it their best
We beat those Canadians on the first test.
We out skated the Swiss, steamrollered the Finns-
yet only got Silver for all of our wins.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Victim 0001, a poem of 9/11
Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
Above him the North Tower Burned
like South Tower just next door.
The chaplain of the firemen,
Mychal was a Catholic priest.
Born and bred in Brooklyn,
He was no stranger to these streets.
When he heard word about the planes,
his safety he ignored..
He had to go be with his boys
His trust was in the Lord.
The people in the towers had
the choice to burn or fly.
So many that day took the plunge
preferring not to fry.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Man in the Arena
The Man in the Arena
Find what you love, to that be true
Care less for what “they“ think of you.
Follow your internal muse
Dare to take risks and pay your dues.
Some such succeed and triumphs gain,
Others strive but all in vain.-
For both their place can never be
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Faded Photographs
Some pictures hang upon my wall
Of baseball players from the past-
Gionfriddo’s catch of DiMaggio’s ball-
Lou Gehrig standing at the mike-
Babe Ruth pitching in the Bronx-
And the one place that links them all.
They happened at the lumberyard
The place on River Avenue
The place where Bombers came to play
Now sad, diminished, and by Fall-
a victim of the wrecking ball.
One other theme is intertwined
Within the pictures on my wall
Each enshrines the final time
These men enjoyed a curtain call..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Semper Fi
(Note: This poem is a fictional re-imagining of the poem 'Mother' written by Padraig Pearse the night before his execution in 1916.
It has a changed point of view and had been moved to Afghanistan,2009. I apologize to all who misconstrued this to be about the death of a specific marine lance corporal)
This loss is very hard upon his mother:
To endure first his birth and then his death.
The time between -scarcely a generation
But in that short span of time he proved his worth.
They are too few, the proud who wear the emblem,
And fight our countries battles in our stead.
Where they found him, his position was surrounded
By the bleeding bodies of Jihadist dead.
Enroll his name among our Countries’ heroes
Remember him for all of time to come,
But put away the medal they awarded-
I need no medal to recall my son.
My brave strong son who first fought in Fallujah,
and battled militants in Kandahar.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Thigh Way (Song Parody of 'My Way')
to the tune of 'MY Way'
And now, my weigh-ins near
and my poor scale faces destruction
I've cheated, had some LITE beers
then gotten quotes for liposuction
I've eaten way past full
and then had one more for the highway
I've gotten old, I've gotten fat
don't diet my way!
Bagettes, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention
I love my salty snacks
but that's what gave me hypertension
I planned each 3 course meal
at greasy spoons along the highway
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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One Chistmas Eve,1938
The snow was gently falling,
the gusts of wind the only sound.
The branches of the trees were white,
Snow drifted on the ground.
The couple walking through the snow
wore layers of warm clothes.
Their cheeks, half frozen from the cold,
the only skin exposed.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Lilly
I called her tiger Lilly
As she favored clothes with stripes
But I did not back away in fear
when she flashed her pearly whites.
There’s a chapel on the campus
And we both so liked to sing
There was just one little problem
Lilly wore another’s ring.
She’d been six months separated
From her lawful wedded mate.
She’d suffered two miscarriages
love had started to abate.
It still of course was possible
That they might work it out
But I found myself falling
Every time she was about..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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If She were my Daughter
I’m a real estate man
In a suburban wasteland
And I’ve opened many doors in my time.
A lifetime of regrets,
But I cannot forget
What she said to me over the line.
“ If I was your daughter, and getting divorced”
What would you tell me to do?
“With two children at home
Abandoned, alone”
Do I sell out or stay? ”
“What to do? ”
Her husband had left her
Pregnant, adrift.
with their five year old son at her side.
Post partum, alone
She’s on the phone
What should I tell her to do.?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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