This Child of Bethlehem

This child will teach us how to love,
and let us hope again.
This child draws nurture from a girl,
protectiveness from man.
This child can make a family
where there was none before,
and make us crave the crafts of peace
and not the arts of war.

This child, now born, will change the world
from mundane to Divine.
The wisdom of this innocent
trumps all the years of mine.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Claim Check

Its true girls come with baggage,
be she starlet or plain Jane.
The trick for guys is finding one
whose baggage they would claim.

Its said all girls are crazy,
and experience proves it true.
the secret is to find the girl
who’s crazy about you.

Its not as if we’re perfect,
We have baggage of our own.
It‘s the burden we must carry
if we’re to every have a home.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Living In Dog Years

When your best friends a canary,
you've been too long in the mines.
The dust that marks
your skin and lungs
is never far behind.
Paler than a Vampire,
hidden from the Sun.
Long hours digging with your pick
wherever the seam may run.
Sometimes the dust
constricts your breath.
Some times you feel undone.
When you're living life in dog years,
you can count on dying young.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Happy Mother's Day

Pressure intense
around my head
and shoulders.
I am pushed
thrust
towards a distant
glimmering light.
My perfect
world
collapsing.
I am pulled
unwilling
into a world of bright
and cold.
Pummeled
by a white coated
assassin.
Made to weep
forced to breathe.
They lay me down

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Parliament of Whores

There are some, who serve big business,
who spread them wide and smile.
Some others say they’re populists
“Spread the Wealth’s” their style.
Some are just obstructionists.
For them, delay is fun.
They all butt heads together
And by default get nothing done.
They are the US Congress,
I wish they’d close their doors.
A plague on both your houses-
you Parliament of whores!

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Rumpelstiltskin's revenge

Rumpelstiltskin’s Revenge

A worthless scrap of linen
On which Ben Franklin’s printed
Can buy you one tenth ounce of gold
An eagle freshly minted.

Our Quantitative Easing
Has made Rumpelstiltskin sore
Our turning paper into gold
Means there’s no need for straw

As far as barbarous relics go
Gold Eagles are quite nice
But as gold doesn’t grow on trees
They’ll have to raise the price.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Patti Smith, by Maplethorpe

The shirt is borrowed, as is the tie
All else is mine to give, no lie.
Like a sweet symbiont song
I am true word and true chord.

Immortal here I seem to be-
Forever young, forever free.
You took me with your S.L.R.
Exposed for all the world to see.

Though it seems I would undress
And though it’s true my hair’s a mess
I’ll go no farther- what a shame
I’m stuck here in this picture frame.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Amber

A Prehistoric Dragon Fly

Encased in amber, on display

Caught my eye as I passed it by

in the museum yesterday.

Encased in amber, as if time

itself was stopped and held at bay.

You will never know decay

Or another summer's day.

[...] Read more

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Falling in snow on a frosty Evening

I’ve fallen and I bruised my rump.
I was out shoveling near the stump.
I was trying to get the driveway free.
A plow had just come by, you see.

I had a shovelful to toss
When suddenly, my footing lost,
I was sailing in the air
destined for the snow pile there.

I have bruises on both knees
My ribs are sore, it hurts to sneeze.
I think I should have stayed inside
And worst of all -It hurt my pride.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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Celtic Cross

In the hills above Strabane
in a little churchyard there
stands a Celtic cross of stone
That marks my father’s parents’ grave.
The Day is raw, a spit of rain
The wind sweeps low across the plot
In time their names will disappear.
The force of nature serves to blot.
Still the Celtic cross endures
long after the inscription fades,
to be a sign of what they were,
when of their names, no clue remains.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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