John F. McCullagh Poems

Her parents weren't there to cry
The day that sleeping beauty died.
First Dad, then Mother, slipped away
as their comatose daughter slept each day.
...

In the empty stands
Our champion sat.
Sans fans
and sans applause.
...

We have many faces
but we are all the same:
the drudges of existence,
the drones in life's great game.
...

They died; they all died, without a moan;
their final passage writ in stone.
Dark shadows here and there you see
where Jews passed to eternity.
...

I stumble forward in a daze
with shackles on my wrists and feet.
The room is cold and very bright
As I approach my final sleep.
...

The water laps against the hull
Just like that time before
Just like that Sunday morning
That exploded into war.
...

There is a spot
atop a hill
beneath an old shade tree.
It is the place my parents rest
...

He itemized his medical bills,
Maxed retirement deductions.
He's given cash to charities
and Democratic functions.
...

The trees outside their classroom door
so recently were green.
Now they all are bare and brown;
great evil they have seen.
...

The sides are drawn and chosen,
Neutrality has been lost.
Dread war is coming upon us,
Caring not if we can bear its cost,
...