Make me Proud
Young Morrison was at the plate
The bat gripped in his hands
His Father, Tom, was in the park,
down in the left field Stands.
His Father has lung cancer
and cannot fly on planes.
So he came to Citifield
aboard an Amtrak train.
It was young Logan’s birthday
And he hoped for something great.
He got a pitch that he could square.
He hit it flush and straight.
Not high enough to clear the wall-
Still over Beltran’s head
He hustled as they tracked it down
and made third base instead.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Strand
I saw my father’s face last week,
across the gulf of time..
I chanced upon a photograph
That you had left behind.
His hair shock white, his shoulders large
from years of heavy toil,
His eyes pale blue, his hands were rough
from working with the soil.
I thought I saw his face again
Across a crowded room
It must have been a trick of light-
a product of my gloom.
I saw my father’s face last night-
within a vivid dream.
We walked familiar streets of home
in forty year old scenes.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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In A Dark Wood Wandering
The moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
English Harry has won this day
on this wet and muddy ground.
So many high born men laid low,
but I am still around.
It was my blood that ransomed me
when others’ blood was shed.
I am the Duke of Orleans.
A poet, some have said.
In the aftermath of battle;
wounded, left to bleed.
Sir Richard Waller found me
and attended to my needs.
So today I am his prisoner,
we’ll become friends in time.
Now I am bound for England
as a “guest” of the English crown.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Undress for the T.S.A (tune of Come to the Cabaret)
What good is sittin' alone in your room
Hop on a flight today,
First Take off your coat, your hat, your shoes
Undress for the T.S.A..
We’ll scan your suitcase, your ipod and phone
Mister, we have all day,
Undress for the T.S.A. you scum
Undress for the T.S.A..
We grope the guys, we fondle girls
Best of all our acts are legal
Because we’re working for the Eagle
No use permittin' a Prophet’s buffoons
To Wipe every smile away, yes
Undress for the T.S.A. you scum
Undress for the T.S.A!
What good are privacy rights anymore?
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Burning Bush
The Taliban has lost many men.
And some others vacation in Cuba.
Marines hunt the villains in
Tunnels and caves
While Osama hides out in Aruba.
Yet, in theatre, the Taliban spreads
Like some Santa Ana fed fire,
Out of check, out of control
Like weeds on a grave, ever higher.
How many more must be tortured and killed
Before Arabs throw shoes at your dome?
How many soldiers and sailors deployed,
-nevermore to see family and home?
Shock them and awe them
And level their homes.
Take out yet more Chinese loans!
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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No Comfort, No JoY (Christmas at the Social Security office)
You came into our office hopping on a wooden leg
You said if not for S.S.I. you’d surely have to beg.
I’ve bad news but there’s good news too
And this should cheer you up:
We all chipped in to buy you a tin cup, a tin cup
When you hit the streets you’ll have a new tin cup
You said you were disabled and you thought that you would die
Our team of crack physicians has determined it’s a lie.
There are lots of jobs that you can do with one leg and one eye
We regret that your claim has been denied, been denied
From the contents of your tin cup you’ll get by.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Our House With The Rotary Phone
I sit in a room that no longer exists
On a chair long since splintered and gone
While I pick at a meal I once would devour
in our house with the rotary phone.
I sit in the room that doesn’t exist
Enjoying my choice of ice creams
Recalling the window in Tiffany glass
Forgive an old man his daydreams
A simple “A” frame with three beds and a bath,
obsolete, yes, but our home.
It stood with its’ sisters on Queens borough Hill,
where the L.I.E. jams are well known.
I had known for some time that her best days were gone
A plywood fence circled our home
Title had passed to a contractor’s hands
Neglected, our house looked forlorn
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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One Hallow's Eve
There's a graveyard down, beside the glen
near where the shop man dwells.
The woods are deep and none dare sleep
when the banshees scream and yell.
That's where two brothers lay a trap
to scare their sisters dear.
Their sisters, returning from the dance,
by twilight would be here.
Some bones they'd found
from some dead beast
long buried in the bog.
They'd lit a Candle in the Skull
and practiced moaning loud.
There's a graveyard down, beside the glen
near where the shop man dwells.
The woods are deep and none dare sleep
when the banshees scream and yell.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Resurrection of Moshe gimp
The Einsatzgrupen rounded up
the Juden of SWIEBODZIN.
They first led out the men and boys
The younger children crying.
The Germans forced us to disrobe,
I saw my Father naked.
We faced a pit dug in the ground
then began the murder.
My father pushed me to the ground
as machine gun fire raked the line.
I found myself beneath the pile
of the bleeding, dead and dying.
A single gunshot here and there
They finished all who moved.
But I played dead convincingly
My Dad would have approved.
When the Germans tossed in lime and dirt
I didn’t make a sound.
There was air, foul, but fit to breathe,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Dessert Storm
No one saw it coming,
that warm September day-
Not the workers at the pudding shack
Who mixed sweet treats for pay.
Not the Rookie at the pressure valves
Not the people in the town
It was the Rookies’ rank incompetence
That set in motion what went down.
Nine vats of Snack Time pudding
Exploded with a roar
Three hundred thousand gallons
Went oozing out the door
The workers never had a chance
On this, their final day
Ending up like Easter bunnies
For a giant’s holiday
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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