With every step we take
Twenty miles, then twenty miles,
then twenty miles again.
We’ll keep on walking, day by day,
towards breast cancer’s end.
With every step, with every stair,
We train to walk this path
To raise the funds to fight the beast
And consign it to the past..
It will be hot, It may be wet
As we traverse the miles
and when we rest, beneath the stars,
We’ll sleep like stones awhile
With every step, with every mile
We’re walking towards a cure
And we would walk a thousand miles
To end its’ reign for sure..
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Beauty and the beast
In face and feature, line and grace,
a beauty like few others.
The first blush of her youth now past
Found her a wife and mother.
Her husband was a brutish man
Of gentleness devoid
His psychiatrist’s opinion read:
“Schizophrenic- paranoid”
Beauty’s son was with some friends.
Her bag was packed and ready.
She’d make a clean break with her man-
She’d found a job already.
He’d just been RIF’d that fateful day.
And spent it in a bar
The drink but fueled his darkening rage.
He could barely drive his car.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Pumpkin Cheese Cake
We were waiting at the trattoria
for our friends to arrive,
when she walked in,
Aphrodite alive.
Her skin, olive brown,
gently kissed by the sun.
A fertility goddess if
there ever was one.
A picture of symmetry
long legs and great hips.
Neapolitan eyes
and, of course, bee strung lips.
Magnificent mammaries,
barely contained
in the briefest of dresses.
as I stared, unashamed.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Q.e.ii
Q.E. II
If at first we don’t succeed-
still more debt is what we need.
If foreign lands refuse to loan-
To hell with them, we’ll print our own
To posterity far down the line
We send the bill for our good time.
To big to fail? Not in the Black?
-Just lean on Bushie and Barrack.
When losses can be socialized
It helps to share the pain.
Banks never were this generous
When asked to share their gains.
Pay for this by printing that
Raise some taxes, pass the hat.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Hwang Yang
His mother goes there every day.
His dried blood stains still mark the spot.
She gets down on her knees and prays.
Such grief will never be forgot.
Her son was murdered for his phone.
A single bullet to the head.
A single gold shell case was found
not far from when he was found dead.
He was his mother's only son
coming home from work at night.
Police came and took his Dad-
for victims must be identified.
Such suffering must one's heart bear
remembering that final day
to see him silent on a slab.
over and over it replays.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Man with the Thousand Yard Stare
He sits with a stoic's resistance,
his son in the casket lies there.
No line of a tear mars his visage-
the man with the Thousand yard stare.
He sits in the front row of mourners,
His dear sobbing wife by his side
in silence he keeps his sad vigil
and stares up at Christ crucified.
The mourners pass by him in silence,
touch his hand or say meaningless words,
for his part he stares straight on through them
as if nothings felt, nothings heard.
The Parson commands us to silence
and struggles to lead us in prayer-
but half of the room has forgotten the words
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Eye of the Tiger
Tiger, Tiger burning bright
hunts his prey by neon light
Real or bleached, you know the kind
big up front with a sweet behind..
Tiger, tiger, none too bright
Left his cell phone in plain sight
When Elin saw his contact list
She grabbed his driver in her fist.
Four hundred yards straight off the tee
Tiger drives that easily
But when his little wife went clubbing
His face and lawn both took a drubbing
Tiger Tiger burning bright
Doesn’t like the bright spotlight
Yet on his off days he’d resort
To pros who play a different sport
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Eight minutes
High above the Canyon’s edge,
Far above the ancient clay,
The helicopter hovers there
Like a dragonfly at play.
With my jet pack on my back
I coolly, calmly step away.
Gain separation from the blades,
Freefall starts my epic day.
On stubby wings the jet packs fire
I’m Daedalus in the morning light.
I soar across the canyon’s rim.
Laughing like some hell born sprite
One hundred eighty miles an hour,
The wind whips cold despite the sun
I glide toward my landing zone
The jet packs sputter and are done.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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One Night Only
When I was young and callow
and could run for twenty miles
I met a woman, Karen,
both sophisticate and kind.
We met while on vacation,
I was her junior by five years.
Her eyes a vivid, limpid blue-
marred recently by tears.
She was on the rebound
from an instance of heart break.
I was young and willing
and, to be honest, a mistake.
It was a thrill to take her hand
and be invited in
I watched her undress slowly
so our passion could begin.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The relay race
I may have been the slowest child
to ever run in track and field
I was a foodie even then
with not the fastest set of wheels.
I still have the medal that I won
for finishing in second place.
awarded to our relay team
In a two team relay race
I was the anchor(aptly named)
they could have called me 'ball and chain'
The other three were none to spry
We were well matched those three and I.
By the time the baton reached my hand
My competitor neared the promised land
I set out full steam(for me)
as he crossed the line to victory.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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