Farewell To My Fans
A farewell to my fans
When I am just a faded memory,
and my dimensions shift in your mind’s eye-
think back upon the nights you spent at me
around a field of green beneath the sky.
For you were here the night back in 04’
The night that Jeter dove into my stands
When Yanks and Red Sox played a thirteenth Frame
he caught the ball but had to leave the game.
And you were here when A-Rod hit three bombs
Against the cy young candidate Colon-
you stood expectant in my left field stands
To catch the fourth if ever it should land..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Soliloquy of the first time buyer
To buy, or not to buy: That is the Question.
Whether it is better in the end to suffer
The moods and whims of some outrageous landlord
Or take A.R.M.S. against your future earnings
And end up owning something? In hock, for years;
Pay rent? And by paying rent to say we end
The heart ache and the thousand natural shocks
Home ownership is heir to. Reduced Consumption?
No Politician’s wish! To rent? To lease?
To lease, perchance to own? Ay, that’s a thought
For in the grip of debt you’re paying bills
Till you have shuffled off this mortal coil
It gives one pause. That’s the aspect
That makes calamity of adjusting rates
For who would bear the years and years of debt
Fine dining now reduced to happy meals,
Buyers remorse, and the long delays.
The Questionable title and the risk
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quote by John F. McCullagh, inspired by William Shakespeare
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Just before the Harvest
That day stands sharp in focus
Whenever it's called to mind;
A peaceful Sunday Morning,
just before the Harvest time.
They held a picnic benefit
Each year on public land
For the Widows and the Orphans
Of the firefighters clan
.
All gladly paid to enter
and bought chance books besides.
The old men brought their families
The young men brought their brides.
Bouncing on the rides and slides
erected for them here-
The children had the best of times
as their mothers hovered near.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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George Steinbrenner, the Boss
He bought the Yankees for a song
From CBS and Michael Burke:
He worked restoring Yankee Pride
It was his life's great work.
The House that Ruth built long ago
Was then in disrepair
Where aging veterans stumbled through
long seasons of despair.
With Crafty Gabe Paul at his side
He made some dandy trades-
Deals that worked out better
than the one Mike Kekich made.
The boss was quite the artist
And his medium was rare.
Free agents flocked to sign here
Sacrificing facial hair.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Out at Home
Jackie Robinson is exalted
as the first Black man to play,
but far fewer fans remember Glenn Burke,
the first ballplayer openly gay.
Like Jackie, he played for the Dodgers-
(different coast and a different time.)
Glenn came up to the Majors
In the summer of 79'
Burke was strong and tall and fast
And some teammates called him " King Kong"
Though he roomed with Reggie Smith on the road
most nights Reggie Smith slept alone.
Burke befriended Young Tommy Lasorda
which was why he was traded away.
Old Lasorda couldn't deal with the rumors,
Nor acknowledge his own son was gay.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Narrow bed
When last I lay with you my Love-
lay with you in your narrow bed
in your room, off campus, near the mall.
in your last semester of Pre- Med.
That day I’d helped you move your things
And after our feast of pie and beer
You were loathe to let me go
In your narrow bed you held me near.
Your hair was then a fiery red
Your milk white breasts had known no sun
I kept eye contact as I inclined
to worship Venus with my tongue.
Later as our climax neared
Your ankles locked around my back
You gasped as we, together, came
A delightful little death was that.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Day they Murdered Camelot
.
One afternoon in Dallas, Texas
November, Nineteen sixty three
A brace of shots were fired
That would enter history
With Jacqueline beside him
in the presidential Limousine
John Kennedy was waving
taking in the happy scene.
Coming out of Dealy plaza
They made the turn on Elm
No shots had yet been fired
The day was mild and warm.
From above, Oswald was waiting
In the book deposit loft
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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He Sang those Songs Without Words
When they brought him to the Hospital
He was listed as John Doe.
He would have liked the irony-
as Harry Chapin fans well know..
His hair was like a lion’s mane
His face both kind and strong
Though doctor’s tried and nurses cried
Harry had sung his last song.
Like Wednesdays’ child with far to go,
He’d been on the road that day.
He was scheduled for a concert
For which he’d take no pay.
He sang songs for the suppers
of the poor and the deprived.
He may not have been “Religious”
-but he lived life sanctified-
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Wise Child
When they called the role next morning
His was among the missing names.
So many of the Bravest
had perished in the flames.
That firefighters’ widow
Had special reason to be sad:
The baby she was carrying
might never know his Dad.
New Yorkers mourned the fallen,
even as they fought the flames.
The embers of September
would not cool for many days.
In May of the year following
She took her little one
to his Father's graveside
to show his namesake son.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Copse of Trees
We started out like Armistead
from the shelter of the trees.
The wind whipped by like a Fusillade,
the high grass at our knees..
The wind blew cold that autumn day
As we started up the rise-
The prospect of the copse of trees
Before us was the prize.
The flower of Virginia once
Paraded where we stepped
Until the double canister
Decimated those still left
Our force of two, no longer young
Stumbled up the hill
Numb with cold and short of breath
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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