Embedded
How can I write the story
of a battle fought and won,
when lying close beside me
Is the body of my son?
He was ordered to this field,
a place where his unit bled.
Wounded, left to die,
when even surgeons fled.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Liberty's Torch
In New York Harbor, long ago,
The prison ships rode upon the tide.
Ten thousand Patriots crammed aboard,
Starved, abandoned, and left to die.
They sacrificed sweet life you see
So we might enjoy Liberty.
When the Philadelphia ran aground,
hard by the shores of Tripoli.
We sent Marines to fire the ship
That she not fall to piracy.
Again upon Saint Mary's Heights
at Fredericksburg, a sight to see.
Ten Thousand Union casualties:
white men dying to set blacks free.
Can you recall the names of those
who did not want to live forever?
They died in France in the Great War, .
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Red Streak
It was a dry, sunny day in June.
that fact she would never forget.
It was the day she lost her partner
to a surfeit of regret.
She had taken their little daughter,
the product of donated sperm,
to the nearby Hillside Park
and picnic'd on the side of a berm.
Jane had declined to come with them.
Jane was in one of her 'moods'.
Perhaps she shouldn't have left her,
but she thought Jane just needed to brood.
Jane was her beautiful partner
erratic, mercurial, bright.
Jane, who could light up the heavens
like a bolt from the blue in the night.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Circle unbroken
I remember a day somewhere in time,
Before these words were spoken.
When I was still your little one
And our circle was unbroken.
.
Then I came to the foot of your bed
Watching, , helpless, sighing
Shallow breathing, then a gasp
Then silence. Someone crying.
In this grey world I dressed in black
In somber tones of night
I walked like one still in shock
Uncertain of the light.
Sometimes I sat here in your room
Quiet and alone
As if the presence of your things
Could lure your presence home.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Ghost of Tower Two
The piled debris had been removed
The smell of death was gone
The first time she appeared to me
one cool September morn
Translucent and ethereal, to my disbelieving eye
Like many a wingless angel who’d tried and failed to fly
Whatever was she doing here, why now and not before
peering in my window on the forty second floor.
I felt a chill – a sense of dread I’d never felt before
My superstitious peasant brain was coming to the fore.
And yet I sensed no threat of doom, no anger out of you
floating there before me, the ghost of tower two.
There was sadness in your eyes for all you had foregone
Deprived of youth and love and life-all vanished now and gone
As morning light began to glow you faded from my view
But I will not forget you soon, the ghost of tower two.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Photograph and Memory
In my hands I hold a photograph
That, for years, I hadn't seen-
It's the only one I've left now
from when we were seventeen.
You head cocked slightly to the right,
You strike a playful pose.
Your blue eyes fairly sparkle
above a button nose.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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At the Foot of the Cross
At the foot of the Cross stood the Magdalene
with Mary, his mother, and John.
Jesus was now in extremis-
the curious people had gone.
The mark of the whips were upon him,
an ugly bruise under his eye.
Blood filtered down from the crown made of thorns.
dripping down from his face to one thigh.
Mary watched as her eldest was dying.
Bore her pain with incredible calm.
She wished that, his agony over,
She’d hold him once more in her arms.
With breath that was labored and shallow
He spoke with his life nearly gone
He commended young John to his mother
And commended his mother to John
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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On the state of things
My once rich topsoil clouds the seas
Man’s pesticides are poisoning me
This creature talks about his “right”
as he ushers in forever night.
What about the rights of those
Who did not wear designer clothes?
Those who fur or feathers wore
and eked out life by tooth and claw.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Not Tonight
Like a Siren calling me
Relentlessly to death,
My latent love of alcohol
haunts my every breath.
It started out quite innocent-
A scotch sipped here and there-
Progressing by degrees into
a sordid love affair.
A beer or three drunk at the game
And I was good company.
But, starting in the parking lot
I got disorderly.
Once a few drinks were consumed
Cold winter evenings lost their gloom-
Until my wife divorced me-
Now I live in rented rooms.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Until we meet again
I will not let my hand let go your hand.
How little time together here remains:
Dear sister- looking old, frail, and confused-
lost somewhere in Morpheus’ gentle dreams.
The taxi that I called is downstairs waiting,
and shortly I must tear myself away
Knowing that our parting will be final-
We will not meet again till Judgment day.
We started out Depression era babies
When we were young we slept in the same bed
We had little, except each other, sister
but I would want for nothing else instead.
We’ve lived full lives and counted up our loses:
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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