John F. McCullagh Poems

The moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
...

When she saw brown dots upon the rug,
and more upon a chair.
The poor housewife was certain
several mice resided there.
...

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.
...

A doubleheader in the Bronx.
Bright sunshine floods the end of May,
Old number Seven at the plate,
Mantle on his last good day.
...

Did George Bush err in making war?
Was his pretext false, his premise flawed?
Was force deployed in the Middle East
just when we can afford it least?
...

When they walked along the trail of tears
The freedmen toted gear.
These blacks, who once were owned as slaves,
would be tribesmen, it appeared.
...

Father Mychal Judge bent down
to the woman on the floor.
His right hand made the cross in sign
like oft he had before.
...

The old lady at the terminal
had seen this show before.
Travellers removing shoes-
but the TSA wants more.
...

She was wearing a white linen suit,
the skirt just above the knees.
Of course her hair was golden.
Of course those breasts were D's.
...

Of all the souls that I have known
while walking around in flesh and bone,
hers was the sweetest and the best,
especially when seen undressed.
...