Modern Romance
Together, alone
Forever apart.
Dichotomies reign
in modern hearts.
Messages sent
By E-mail or phone
Together, apart
Forever alone.
One takes flight
The other stays home.
Forever apart
Together alone.
On a long winter’s evening
Each will practice their art.
Together, alone
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Fair Exchange
We collided that day in the market,
old fart and a pretty colleen.
Your eyes were the green of an emerald,
Your long tresses as red as I’ve seen.
Your keen hands, at the time, slipped my notice-
as they pilfered my wallet away.
If you don’t mind, dear, I’d like back my photos.
The cash you earned, making my day.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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50 Years on
Twelve thirty five
three shots ring out.
The Presidents been hit.
He's dying, no doubt.
A ghost stares down
at the Motorcade.
Another clutches his throat
as lifesblood is splayed.
Their drama plays out
at Dealy Plaza
Without the blood
or the Dura mater.
A great Man murdered,
A vision gone
November twenty Second
Fifty Years on
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Eagle
Soaring on the updrafts
From the canyon far below
My silhouette is made a shadow
by the evening sun’s red glow.
Between heaven and earth suspended
I hover in the sky
My eyes searching intently
as my dinner scurries by.
I pitch myself into a dive
My talons slash and kill
Hunting from the evening sky
Has never lost its thrill
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Judas Kiss
A simple kiss upon your cheek,
A gentle, loving kiss.
Not amorous or passionate,
Not connoting love remiss.
Thirty years ago
we were an 'item' as they say.
I broke your heart
with my callousness
when, hurtfully, I strayed
I'm not proud that I hurt you.
Sad that it comes to this-
To kiss you like a stranger
feels like the Judas Kiss.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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You look like Her
You look like her.
No, not in the full light,
nor to the searching
and discerning eye.
But glimpsed briefly-
En passant-
By a mind preoccupied
Like a ghostly image
You look like her..
You, of course, are you.
The resemblance is
Superficial
It is like touching
A woman on her shoulder
Thinking, wrongly,
That she was one
I had loved.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Artist Unknown
Much of our literature
has come from his pen-
or was He a She?
I can't say I ken.
When not writing poems
or dabbling in prose
Beautiful songs
Anon oft would compose.
Anonymous never gained
fortune or fame.
The works are immortal,
Their maker, unnamed.
Since the first of his line
painted Bison on stone,
Anonymous is
the artist unknown.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Twenty one steps
Despite the wind and driving rain,
At their posts they must remain.
In woolen garb and white glove dress,
Twenty one steps, no more no less.
They honor those who came before
Who, unnamed, fell in foreign wars
Entombed forever far from home
in their sarcophagus of stone.
For duty and honor they remain
Despite the wind, despite the rain.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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5-5-5-5
The call went out
It meant one thing.
Death in the line of duty
Women keen
and Grown men weep
at the loss of youth and beauty.
The empty locker,
The ownerless gear,
silence that is a presence.
Brave Liam lies dead.
The fireman’s friend
Pity the parents their loss
The ownerless toys,
The master less pets,
How to make sense of it all?
poem by John F. McCullagh
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In the Garden of Remembrance
A simple curved stone bench
Set in a rustic niche.
Outside, this city bustles,
here, time passes by the inch.
There’s a fine array of roses
and stone tablets on the wall.
The inscription is in Irish,
It tells of a rise and fall.
As I sit, quiet, here
Near the bronze children of Lir
The reflecting pool brims full
of my races’ gathered tears.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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