A Man for All Seasons

The sunlight is too bright for me-
I was in prison for so long.

My trial, a show staged by the Court,
condemned before I spoke a word.

I thought, by silence, to preserve
my family from Penury.

I counted not on Richard Rich-
compensed to commit perjury.

“Lieutenant, help me up these stairs
I’ll find my own way down, I think.”

Though weak, I stand and face the crowd
Some bravely bless me as I speak.

“I die loyal servant to my king
But I give primacy to God.”

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Evergreen

I’ll sleep within these woods tonight,
That much, at least, is plain.
I’d hiked for several hours
And not much day remained.
The shadows on the ground grow long
As it’s that time of year
when leaves on branches are few or none
and shadows sinister appear.
There is a clearing up ahead;
A friendly glow is seen
A solitary camper sits
beneath an Evergreen.
His smile is warm and friendly
He bades me to remain
with gestures warm and welcoming
Speech lyrical and strange..
I share with him a simple meal
Of pan fried fish and beer.
The meal seems like a miracle
As I know of no lake near.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Road to Emmaus

Did you ever wonder why,
As you hung upon the cross,
we weren’t ready for your words?
if we were worth the price it cost?

At a place they call the skull,
hung upon a tree to die,
With nails that pierce your wrists and feet,
and dying thieves on either side.

“Others he did save,
but he cannot save himself”
Executed like a slave,
By a Rome malignant to itself.

As you spoke your final words
And then hung your head to die
Did you fear you were heard only
By the sparrows and the sky?

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Dangers of Smoking

She had been through so much,
Her right lung was removed.
Now six weeks into Chemo
My wife had not improved,
despite the best care
that our coverage affords.
The cancer had spread
to her breast and lymph nodes.

My wife's been a smoker
since she turned sixteen.
Through the years we were married
and the years in between.
Now though she gasped
like a fish brought to shore.
her long term addiction
had her craving one more.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Wings of the Morning

It is quiet, even peaceful here,
out past Hana on Maui’s Isle.
Near Palapala Ho'omau Church,
This is where I have come to bide.
To listen to the Ocean’s roar,
to find what peace is left to me.
I could not hide from you, oh Lord
Not in the uttermost depths of the sea
My time is fast approaching when
I will lose this quarrel with disease.
The air is warm and liquid here,
It has a perfumed fragrance that
would bid a younger man to stay.
but Cancer bids me to fade away
As I will, I’ve seen the stone,
simple enough to mark my space
In the Churches’ graveyard here
my friend Sam has made a place
I recall, when youth was dawning,
You gave me the Wings of the Morning.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In Vino Verities

Think of it as a thirst for Truth
That can’t be quenched by dry Vermouth.
Those souls who in the bottle find
a sauce of solace for troubled minds.

Because I can conceive of wine,
Somewhere there grows a fruitful vine.
Existence made certain by concept possible-
an essential premise Ontological.

From the grapes sweet nectar flows
To please the palate and charm the nose.
Its mysteries bring blurred speech and vision
At bottle’s bottom they find religion...

Some seek their Truth on distant peaks
From Fakirs dressed in linen sheets.
Some in bare ruined choirs dwell
With thoughts of Heaven spiced with Hell.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Axe Concerto

Grandfather John, my mother's dad,
remarried later on in life.
When he passed on his vast wealth
passed largely to this second wife.
Thus did her children benefit
from the bulk of his estate.
My mother and my Uncle John
relatively little, sad to state.
Sometime after the internment date
a piano was shipped to our home.
A piece Step- Grandma didn't want
She didn't play and lived alone.
When my mother was a child
living up in Marble Hill
She'd learned to play the instrument
that now she merely wished to kill.
In mortal rage she grabbed an axe
and like a batter swung away
It was a fair bit of exercise
(She had played baseball in her day.)

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Runaway Slave

I strain my ears at every sound
As I flee from Masters vast estate
I dare not walk upon the road-
must not be seen, alone, this late.

I hear the baying of his hounds
My absence has been noted there
Men with torches, men with guns,
My soul freezes me with fear.

I am the fox, his are the hounds
that I must run a desperate race
To fail is to be chained and whipped
Then sold – a horrid fate I face

The dogs grow close, but the river's near
I leap and overcome my fear.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Et Tu?

The Ides of March had come
but its Sun was not yet cold
when Spurinna reminded me
what his augury had foretold

Some good men tried to warn me
About the risks I take-
But Caesar has no need of guards
I look Death in the face.

Calpurnia asked me not to go
Based on her silly dream
But the Parthian war won’t be derailed
By some Republican’s scheme

The supplicants surround me with petitions,
Bur I, impatient, moved to turn away.
Casca grabbed the draping of my toga
and bared me, awkwardly, to start the fray.

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Temptation

We have many faces
but we are all the same:
the drudges of existence,
the drones in life's great game.
My best days are behind me,
my race is nearly run.
I get up for work each morning,
its been years since its been fun.
I am wedded to a woman
whose passion has grown cold.
I have worry lines around my eyes
to remind me I am old
* * * * *
I met this girl on Thursday,
The memory makes me hard:
Perhaps she was the Devil's snare,
Perhaps a gift from God.
Her perfume was alluring
Her hair brunette and long.
Her posture was inviting,

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poem by John F. McCullagh
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