Steps
My life was changed when you arrived,
I moved from Rock to lullaby.
I watched you as you grew and thrived
Just Daddy and his little guy.
When first you learned to ride your bike
and, wobbling, you sped away
I had a weird sensation that
I had just grown a touch more grey.
through every step of life with you
from nursery school through your degree
I paid the bills, I gave the rides
Life's afternoon you walked with me.
Afterwards, out with your friends
some beauties' eyes attracted you.
You stayed out late with your dates.
and I could not wait up for you.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Meaningful Games 2
Meaningful games
The air of September has turned crisp and clean,
with a hint of past autumns remembered,
as I take the field with the rest of the team
to battle the other contender.
Just like a knuckleball released to the plate
Our season has seemed to meander
In May we seemed sure of a World Series date-
But now the blogs call us pretenders.
The lead we enjoyed in June and July
has steadily melted away.
bad luck and the heat had led to defeats
while our foes seem to gain every day.
The faces around me are a mix old and new.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Juggler of God
Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.
He was just a simple juggler
He could not read or write.
He performed his simple tricks
for children’s laughter and delight.
In return for food and shelter-
for he had little use for gold-
He travelled from town to town
until he at last grew old.
When arthritis swelled his joints
He grew stooped, his fingers cold
When at last his gifts had failed him
He turned attention to his soul.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Catfish Hunter
Hard rubber plate there in the dust
and just beyond, a mound.
With difficulty Catfish turned
and paced the muddy ground.
Even with the walker
these few steps were hard indeed.
Shoulders weak, steps faltering
from Lou Gehrig’s sad disease.
The blue sky stretched above him
so infinite and vast.
With difficulty Catfish reached
back, deep into his past.
He did not think of trophies
or recall his perfect game.
Not at all about the millions
he once got to sign his name.
He was pitching for the Yankees
against men in Dodger Blue.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Mind the Gap
For years she took the morning train
from Auburndale to Penn.
Now the economy had turned cold
And her long run neared its end.
You need to get there early-
Parking's at a premium.
That meant for years she‘d risen
on the wrong side of 4 A.M.
For several years she'd lived
in the town house all alone-.
First separation, then divorce
once the children were full grown.
She'd poured herself into the job
with commendable devotion.
She'd brought much business to the firm
She deserved a big promotion.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Tiger's Apology
Thank you, friends, for coming here,
and sitting quietly,
While I read the sixteenth draft
of my apology.
I’m sorry that I hurt my Mom,
my fellow pros on tour,
my charitable foundation too,
by thoughts and deeds impure.
I’m sorry that I let you down.
These last three months were tough
I’ve entered into therapy
to curb my taste for muff.
It’s truly my entire fault.
There’s no one else to blame.
Not one of those platoon of Ho’s
Who’ve cashed in on my name
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Sacred Flame (A tale of the Neanderthals) l
The newcomers killed my woman,
Ransacked my cave and killed my child.
My brother and I had been out hunting,
The only reason we’re still alive.
We noticed first as we drew closer
The sacred fire had gone out.
We dropped our catch and sniffed the air-
When I smelled blood I grabbed my axe.
My spirit dropped, my heart was saddened
My woman and my child lay dead
The newcomers had speared the baby
A club caved in my woman’s head.
My brother took the child to bury
I built a rock cairn for my mate
I stroked her matted hair in sadness
I stoked the fire of my hate.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Meaningful games
The air of September has turned crisp and clean,
with a hint of past autumns remembered,
as I take the field with the rest of the team
to battle the other contender.
Just like a knuckleball released to the plate
Our season has seemed to meander
In May we seemed sure of a World Series date-
But now the blogs call us pretenders.
[...] Read more
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Last Dance
He’d offered her his hand to dance
Politely, she’d declined.
“I have promised many others,
-perhaps another time.”
He accepted this with all good grace-
“Perhaps another time,
When your dance card is nearly full,
The last dance shall be mine.”
The night was young and she was fair,
Men clamored for their chance.
In some eyes she saw routine lust,
In others- true romance.
Her card was signed by many
There remained a single line.
She stopped back at her table
for a final cup of wine.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Alcoholics Unanimous
ALCOHOLICS UNANIMOUS
The head of blended Spirits
saw his future looking bleak.
The case sales for Scotch Whiskey
trended downward week to week
What was the cause of this decline?
Why were sales weak as water?
To find out he relied upon
his party loving daughters.
When they reported back to him
He nearly died from shock:
Folks weren’t merely “buying down”
because they were in hock.
Instead they met in basement clubs
And sat on folding chairs
Pouring out their troubles
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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