Wrong Island

I love the Macadamia nut
dipped in dark chocolate for me.
I enjoy a good cup of Kona
from those islands across the sea.

I delight in the scent of the flowers
(I do so enjoy getting Lei'd)
The sweet succulent taste of pineapple
could serve as my breakfast each day.

Roast pig is a treat at a luau.
Mahi Mahi, fresh caught from the sea
I do think I'm on the wrong Island-
stuck in traffic on the L.I.E.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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At Potter’s field

The Government runs free health care-
for veterans of our foreign wars.
Their philosophy of care is sly-
Delay, deny and hope they die.

There are veterans by the score-
Wounded in our bootless wars-
Now Shelter bound or on the street
With potter’s field their next retreat.

If Government can thus ride rough
On those who fell defending us.-
What's their plan for you and I?
Delay, deny and hope we die.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Grassy Knoll

I am older now
than you were then.
That day still lives
in memory

Did you hear the rifle's
echoing sound
as you passed me
in your Limousine?

The next,
like a Zapruder film,
plays out
in my unsettled dreams.

I saw a spray of pink
and blood.
I heard shouts
and a woman
scream.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Carbon Sinks

I think that I shall never see
a better Carbon Sink than M.I.T.’s

It helps keep green house gas at bay
By sequestering it away

The Carbon Sink works like a tree
but does it more efficiently

When trees in wintertime are bare
The Carbon Sink still cleans the air

And trees can yield up carbon once again
When Forest fires make them burn

Poems are made by fools like me
But Carbon Sinks are made by M.I.T

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Ghenghis Khan

Genghis Khan was a ladies man
on constant call for booty.
He’d conquer towns, and then sleep around
like it was his sacred duty.

He swept the steppes of maiden heads
on his own star search for beauty.
He tapped the ass of many a lass
from Princess to common cutie.

From his nomad home to just North of Rome
So widely spread was his chromosome
That this years Khan Reunion
Is scheduled for the Super dome

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Last Song - Whitney Houston, R.I.P.

A thoroughbred voice.
A stellar career.
A beautiful woman
singing songs sweet and clear.

Must I mention the millions
that flowed to her coffers.
Whitney could have enjoyed
what this world has to offer.

Then she married a punk,
not the least bit refined.
She drank a bit much
she did a few "lines"

A broken down voice;
missed notes and miss dates.
A fate like Monroe's-
Cut off young by the fates.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Good Thief

We die each night,
to sleep succumb.
Perhaps to dream,
remembering none.
Yet as we wait for
sleep to come,
we believe
we'll see
the morning sun.
Ten thousand million
days saw dawn
before the day
when I was born.
Ten thousand million
nights might end
ere ever I see home again.
If Being sees
in me no worth
perhaps this is
the last of Earth.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Hey, Cinderella

I got the part!

I’m feeling fine!

No more for me

the Chorus line.

The hardest part

Was that audition

Wait for call backs-

That’s tradition.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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For Edgar Allan Poe

She was careful that she was not seen
There, in the graveyard,
deep in the night.
A single rose in her left hand
A bottle of Cognac in her right.
She knew the path to his grave by heart,
How could it be otherwise?
The two of them had shared one heart,
Now in his tomb the Master lies.
Libation poured upon the stone.
She wets her lips with Hennessey
He, of course, Edgar Allen Poe
She, of Course, his Annabelle Lee

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Love Is Love

Love is Love
so do not tarry.
If Tom loves Dick
then they should marry.
If Anne loves Becky's
lovely Tush,
No more beating about the bush!
But what of Harry's secret flame-
The love that dares not bleat its name?
Ewe'll have to wait another round
of defining deviance down.
If you think this all perversion
please don't quote
the King James' version.
Lines at random from Leviticus
can make you seem
a tad ridiculous.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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