The Angel
I woke up from my nightmare
To find I’m not alone.
The intruder in my bedroom
Is no one I’d have known.
The stranger seemed not to notice
That their presence was discovered.
I did nothing to alert him
half hidden by the covers.
In Stature, he stood eight feet tall,
the same height as the door.
Hus massive shoulders bore his wings
Which trailed down to the floor..
My mirrored wall intrigued him-
By his own visage he’s obsessed
Perhaps he was hermaphrodite,
in white robes loosely dressed.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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It Is What It Is
“It is what it is”
-Such a popular phrase!
And folks spread it around
Like Fast Food Mayonnaise.
It’s been used to describe
Economic foment,
The state of the arts and
The high cost of rent.
A phrase often spoken
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Real American
November, Sixty-Seven, at the X ray landing zone
men of the seventh Calvary were outnumbered far from home..
The casualties were mounting, Charlie held the heights.
Four massed assaults repulsed that day, Terror ruled the nights
In the high grass and the heat they lay,
the wounded men and dying.
They thought their fate was set and sealed: No med-e vacs were flying.
Through shot and shell, into that hell, two brave men came flying
into the hot landing zone for the wounded men and dying.
Thirteen trips in all they made to keep some hope alive.
There are men alive today who, without them, would have died.
Ed Freeman and Bruce Crandall flew where angels feared to tread.
They bore the wounds of valor where others would have fled.
His medal of Honor was bestowed for conspicuous gallantry.
today we mourn, Ed Freeman’s gone
and Freedom’s still not free.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Out at the Plate
My teammates don’t know.
Surely none can suspect-
When I leave from the game
I don’t go home direct.
My lockers my closet,
And in it I hide
my alternate lifestyle
That some wear with pride
Reporters surround me
on the locker-room prowl
I patiently answer,
Dripping wet in a towel.
I’m a likeable guy
And I don’t duck the press
And they never suspect
How I look in a dress.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In Another's Garden
The sun was just about to set
when I happened on the scene:
A small and well kept garden
scented with Magnolia trees.
Someone had placed a wooden bench
beside a whispering pond.
I never knew this gem was here
In New York, most green is gone.
There were seasonals and perennials
competing for my senses.
A most welcome distraction
from my dark and somber penses.
So little time remained before
the light would fade away
and their beauty and their brilliance
would be shadowed, dark, and grey.
I thought about my childhood home
and the fruit trees that once grew there.
of the flowers and the vegetables
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Diamond in the rough
My teammates don’t know.
Surely none can suspect-
When I leave from the game
I don’t go home direct.
My lockers my closet,
And in it I hide
my alternate lifestyle
That some wear with pride
Reporters surround me
on the locker-room prowl
I patiently answer,
dripping wet, in a towel.
I’m a likeable guy
And I don’t duck the press
And they never suspect
How I look in a dress.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Umbrella
The sheets were still warm
from her last fleeting kiss,
Redolent of the perfume she wore.
Surely the memories of nights such as this
are what our existence is for.
They had met on the train
which was not at all strange;
they had noticed each other before.
That he shared his umbrella
and later, his bed
was a gift of the evening's hard rain.
Her skin was sun kissed
and she had bee stung lips.
Her eyes, a mischievous green.
True, she had an umbrella,
but why tell the fellow
she happened to meet on the train.
Let him think he had conquered,
It was she who had stooped.
Perhaps she would see him again.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Last Farewell
Last night we kissed hands goodbye,
never dreaming that it was forever.
Unsuspecting that you, my dear child,
soon would lie cold and still neath the heather.
The graceless Sun thoughtlessly shines
I would eclipse it forever.
The death I prepared for was mine,
but God twists the knife and is clever.
First your sister, thirteen summers ago
Then, soon after, I lost your dear Mother.
Now you, daughter- taken from me.
There's no chance this old man can recover.
The comet that shone at my birth
Will soon light its way through the heavens
I beg that it bears me away-
lets me stop being Samuel Clemmens.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Dante and Beatrice
A pleasing emerald were those eyes
that turned to look at me.
Although I was a boy of nine,
that fixed my destiny.
I scarcely thought of food or drink
so perfect was her smile.
I would be in heaven
were she to bide with me awhile.
I sought out the places she might go,
as we were of the same class.
Alas, I was a step too slow
to catch the echo of her laugh.
I saw her once, at Arno Bridge,
when she was sweet sixteen.
She saw me, smiled, and spoke my name.
I was a tongue tied teen.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Times Square Bomber
When death lurked just around the corner
My wife and I were sitting at a play.
Some immigrant –American was plotting
to turn Broadway into the great red way.
He'd parked his car bomb near the Times Square station
On foot, he bravely made his getaway
He took a rain check on the promised virgins-
So he might live to bomb another day.
Inside the playhouse buzzed with many rumors-
Why was the curtain held so long past eight?
It's unheard off to delay a Broadway curtain
just because some ticket-holders get there late.
You know the rest- the danger was discovered
The plot had fizzled, just like in our play
His car proved the star witness to convict him
He'll rot in jail until his dying day.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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