A Little Bit of Brooklyn
A little bit of Brooklyn fell
From out the sky one day-
And landed in Corona
Near the subway and the bay
And when the mayor saw it
Sure it looked so green and fair
He said suppose we fund it-
And condemn the junkyards there
So they issued us some tax free bonds
To make the grandstands grow
And charged too much to sit in them
even up in the last row
'It has a brick rotunda
Makes one think of Ebbets Field
And once they sold the naming rights,
They called it... 'Citifield! '
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Love is an Accident
Love is an accident
Waiting to happen
Despite all precautions
It catches us napping.
Sometimes it sneaks up
On innocent youth
Or blindsides some victim
Who‘s long in the tooth.
It lurks in our schools
But prefers crowded bars
(It’s occasionally found
in the back seat of cars.)
It often times chooses
a boy and a girl
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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R.I.P. Bob sheppard
The 'voice of God 'is silenced-
He's reached this Journey's end.
Now he's with Mel Allen
in Yankee legend land.
Oh we will still hear Sheppard's voice
when we enter at the gate
and he's still announcing Derek
when he steps up to the plate.
But though your fine voice resonates
Through the new park’s hallowed halls
It’s only a faint echo
of what you meant to all.
The old park's walls have fallen
beneath the wrecking ball
and now the legends follow
til' we've nothing left at all.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Pro Patria Mori
World War 1 Soldier Tailem Bend by Illawarrian
Pro patria mori
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
For generations
we've sold these goods
to young boys
who burn for glory.
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Indeed, how sweet,
Pray tell
Poppy covered warrior.
Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
How sweet was the Somme?
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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For a Granddaughter
Since the Days of Rome,
It's been well known
to the point of certainty.-
That a home that has a Julia
is a happy home indeed.
A Julia is a gentle soul,
unfailingly wise and kind.
She'll barely even raise her voice-
If fed and changed on time.
She'll have her mother's beauty
Her voice a songbird's call..
I think I hear her warming up
In the nursery down the hall
So Jennifer, you've given us
a J.E.M. to hold, a treasure.
May she never cause a moments grief,
But always be a pleasure.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Poetential
Dull sublunary lovers need
the help of 3D glasses
to ever seen things differently,
or grasp just what romance is.
We poets see things differently
because we take more chances.
The seen and unseen, we embrace
without cardboard enhancers.
Could Love even express itself
without our helpful similes?
Honor or Courage, without our help,
would be just pale facsimiles.
We are the guardians of the words
that hollow men would empty.
Poetential is our flaming sword
against their verbal entropy
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Her Breasts
The young girl disguised her nervousness,
sucking in her breath.
The cool air made the nipples stand
upon her naked breasts.
I rubbed my hands to warm them.
I gently felt the nodes.
Slightly tender but not swollen
were those perfect milky globes.
A subcutaneous cyst was all
her breast exam revealed.
I smiled and told her
she could dress.
I saw she was relieved
Those breasts which lately caused concern
once more a source of pride.
I made notations on her chart.
'Your Mom's waiting outside.'
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Babe
She was wearing a white linen suit,
the skirt just above the knees.
Of course her hair was golden.
Of course those breasts were D's.
Her golden tresses framed a face
with eyes, Aeolian blue.
Those hips could launch a thousand ships,
if Helen's myth be true.
I slowed down for the orange light,
not my modus operandi.
My wife became suspicious-
then she spotted my eye candy.
“Don't be staring at that girl.'
she said, petulantly.
'What girl? ' I said,
the light turned red,
disingenuously
poem by John F. McCullagh
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When Sleeping Beauty Died
Her parents weren't there to cry
The day that sleeping beauty died.
First Dad, then Mother, slipped away
as their comatose daughter slept each day.
Through forty two years of dreamless sleep
Her loving family did their promise keep.
A drug reaction was the cause
of her coma irreversible.
By the power of
Unconditional love
The faint flickering flame
Of life stayed possible.
Until today did beauty lie.
Until today did life endure.
Today she smiled and opened her eyes
Only then did beauty die..
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Corn Silk
Beautiful, most men would call her
Five foot two, not one inch taller
Her golden hair, a corn silk hue,
Her eyes, a deep Aegean blue.
Sweet William dead, my wife away
We’d meet in secret at a play
At racecourse with box lunch packed
Or at dinners off the beaten track
A polymath, I swear it's true
An amateur musician too
She wrote the songs
and sang them too.
Alas my life's not free to share
She met another, it's only fair
In my memory she never ages-
Just grows more beautiful by stages.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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