Survivor Guilt
I’d worked the previous night, the tenth,
programing applications.
When the alarm went off at four A.M.
I hit snooze- no hesitation.
Eventually my feet found floor,
I stumbled to the shower.
A routine usually done in ten
took me a half an hour.
I was running up the platform steps
but my train just left the station.
Great, I will be late for sure,
I thought, in consternation.
At least the day was perfect,
Warm and clear, no threat of rain.
I fished and found my monthly
and took the next westbound train.
The ”E” was fairly crowded
When I boarded it at Penn
I’d missed the first and I was glad
Another quickly came.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Until We have Faces (2)
I told Ellen that I had to go,
an old friend was in need.
Barbra, my former fiancée,
sounded quite distraught indeed.
Grandma Coleman died that day,
Her Grandpa was fading fast.
He shook from late stage Parkinson's
and clearly would not last.
The funeral home on Fordham Road
was packed with kith and kin.
Indeed, until last summer,
I believed me one of them.
James Coleman Higgins greeted me
without any trace of rancor
He'd thought we got engaged too young.
He'd been right upon that score.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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There used to be a ballpark here
The Ghosts of Ruth and Gehrig sat
Up in Tier 35
And wiped tears from translucent cheeks
As the final anthem died.
DiMaggio brought the popcorn
The Mick supplied the beer
He bought it up in heaven
Cause it’s cheaper there than here.
“An epic game”, the Babe enthused
“The best I ever saw”
he chowed down on some hot dogs
And looked around for more.
Gehrig glanced out at his bat
Atop the center pole
And wished to get it in his hands
And feel its weight once more.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Early Morning bar room,1919
English pub by hienbau_photos
Early Morning Bar room,1919
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.
Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?
I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.
Mom and child were doing well
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Garbo Speaks
I’d worked late each night that summer,
I had some free cash in Eighty Nine.
So, it was only natural
when I needed to unwind.
I’d grab a meal and have a glass
(or two) till final call
Then show up in the morning for
my stint at Broad and Wall.
The Blue bar at the Algonquin
was always my first choice.
Steve Ross was singing in the oak room,
I recall his lovely voice.
The bartender and the waiters
knew my wants without a word.
As I waited for my supper
a distinctive voice was heard.
Even in her eighties, Garbo struck a
regal tone.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Race
An injury in sophomore year
caused me to miss the springtime meets.
I was sitting in a cast
while my teammates won their heats.
I am no brain, I can’t sit still
No chance I’ll ace the S.A.T.
But medal wins in track and field
could mean a scholarship for me.
Near Lewis is a cinder track-
an oval of a quarter mile.
So I come here to do my laps
And dream of victory for a while.
A short fat man goes jogging by
In sweat drenched shirt and navy shorts
Gasping, like a fish in air,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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the Eternal Question
THE ETERNAL QUESTION
She was just a child, really,
A girl of sixteen,
when Stanford White took her
in a champagne fueled dream.
White was an architect of great renown,
He had designed the Garden at Madison Square.
He had designs on this chorus girl now,
whose raven haired beauty drew many men’s stares.
He had dined her and wined her
They had toasts with Champagne
On a red velvet swing
In his quarters they played.
In a room full of mirrors
A virgin lay down
When she awoke the next morning
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Mouse before Christmas
The Mouse before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a person was sleeping, all because of one mouse;
The glue traps were placed by the kitchen and stair
In hopes that St. Mickey soon would be there;
The children were hiding, afraid in their beds,
While nightmares of furry pests danced in their heads;
And mamma in her one piece and I in my wrap,
Had just finished baiting the last of the traps,
When down on my lawn there arose such a clatter,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Mayaguez Incident
Look and find our names upon The Wall,
Hargrove, Hall and Marshall were our names.
We were three men that were left behind,
three Marines still owed honorable graves.
Marines took back the hijacked Mayaguez
and recovered all her crewmen safe and well
But while our mission accomplished its objective
The Ninth Marines were ferried into hell.
The helicopters took us to the island,
Koh Tang, in the Southern China sea
The Khmer Rouge were dug in on the island
prepared for an assault from air or sea.
They say it was a failure of Intelligence-
The crew of The Mayaguez was moved before
The 2nd battalion forces first were landed
Upon that hostile beach, that deadly shore
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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