The Gift by A donor
Perhaps I’ll save a life today,
-and help a child in pain.
-and give a cancer patient hope,
when hope is on the wane.
When I roll up my sleeve today
And watch my life’s blood flow-
I never know the faces or names
To whom my gift will go.
My hope is the recipients,
Their crises safely past,
Will recall this gift I gave-
This day was not their last.
I don’t look the heroic type-
A faceless friend to you-
But I stand tallest when I lie
upon a cot of blue.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Ipocalypse Now!
We're headed for Ipocalypse!
June eighth will soon be here.
IP addresses running out.
What will we do? Oh dear!
Four Billion addresses weren't enough
for every thing that beeps:
Desktops, laptops, mobile phones
and GPS in Jeeps.
Fear not! June eighth will be the test
of a higher protocol
and if the system doesn't crash
they'll be numbers for you all.
But if IP V six
should crash and burn
You should not be dismayed
The internet won't disappear
but slowly will degrade.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Perfect Ice Cube Recipe
A cup of cold branch water,
triple filtered, extra dry.
Bring it to a rolling boil-
in a moment you'll see why.
Pour it into ice cube trays
and place it in the freezer
This recipe is tried and true
obtained from an old geezer.
Wait two hours, then remove
the ice cubes from their tray.
Notice they are crystal clear,
never cloudy cracked or grey.
Place some in a six ounce glass
making sure that none are wasted
then add a single malt and sip
the best ice cubes ever tasted.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Secret Smile
I know that I'm not perfect
that sometimes I'm much less-
But love can make our future
much better than our past.
I think sometimes that you forget
How beautiful you are.
You see yourself a bit player
where I see you, the star.
I wish that you could see yourself
in the mirror of my eyes.
So that when I'm just a memory
You'd still have cause to smile
The miles between us can't erase
my heartfelt love of you.
That's why when no one else can see
You'd catch me smiling too.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Shakespeare replies to Cuthbert Bundy
King James demands a Scottish play
and believes in witches three
Look close and see they are the fates
that set our destiny
I can't write about his mother
or the murder of her clerk
One whisper about Darnley
and we'll all be out of work.
After that unhappy business
about Essex and the Queen.
I won't risk another incident
no abdication scene.
Keep the text, in time to come
it will prove rare like gold
I kept it shorter than King Lear
your attention span to hold.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Clock Radio
Unwelcome and unbidden
You break into my dream
You rouse my still hung over brain
And make me want to scream.
Four forty in the morning
I’m not enthused to view.
Not even” snooze” begins to soothe
The hate I feel for you.
I could have slept through music
Ignored a talk show too
But your blasted beeping buzzing
Always bores right through
I reach across to silence you
You foul and thoughtless thing
For God sakes it’s my one day off
What possessed you now to ring?
poem by John F. McCullagh
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That Which Endures
The artist, with his canvas before him,
was upset with the uncertain light.
Glowering clouds cast their shadows
on the scene he'd attempt to impart.
The dust of an angry volcano
made splendid the end of this day.
Mere memory couldn't encompass
the sunset that before him lay.
He hurried to capture the moment
as the willful Sun dashed off t0 play.
The result was a chiaroscuro -
a shading of light into dark.
Though, sadly, his vision is failing,
what endures forever is art.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Twin Towers
When I was but a tiny child
Back when the world was new
My parents like twin towers stood
And everything was true
My father died at Eighty one
Peacefully asleep
My mother lived ten years alone
In the house up from main Street
The Century turned over then
In the new millennium
When Mother in the nursing home
reached her journey’s end.
Your first impulse must be to cry
When towers fall, when people die
If Brick and stone- you build anew
If of flesh- the monument is you.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Angel of Death
An Angel without pity,
No conscience ridden whore,
She haunts the field of battle.
She’s seen the cost of war.
In the faces of the dying
She’s reflected in their eyes.
She coming to collect their souls,
Not listen to their sighs.
She clearly fascinates them
As they gurgle blood and die.
They find her mesmerizing
Like the hunting cobra’s eyes.
To the dying she‘s a beauty
unlike any seen before.
Still they’d rather be in Paris,
Smoking Gitaines with some whore.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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True confessions
In my youth I was often told
That confession is good,
good for the soul.
In a darkened wooden booth
I was expected to tell the truth.
First a good act of contrition,
Confession and then absolution
Penance would be meted out
Thus expiation came about.
Nowadays that’s thought
Old fashioned.
My local barkeep
hears my confession.
Of course he grants no absolution,
He pours Absinthe
and shows compassion.
And I may or may not
Tell the truth
While contemplating
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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