John F. McCullagh Poems

He gives voice to your anger.
His eloquence draws tears.
Strange, he's not quite so loquacious
when no Teleprompters near.
...

We had quite a run old girl,
nearly all of it was fun.
A rose is my final gift to you.
I, too, am nearly done.
...

On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
...

I stand before the wrack of it;
The home where I first learned to read.
The humble house of all our hopes.
Our refuge in our hour of need.
...

Like a treasured heirloom painting
dulled by passing time,
its colors, sadly faded,
this tricolor of mine.
...

She had been condemned to silence
since the stroke, two years before.
The lovely lyric voice I loved
seemed vanished evermore.
...

Summers by the Jersey shore
Have always called to me,
As though a Siren lived beside
our cottage by the sea.
...

The President assessed the scene
and gave a terse command.
His caddy grabbed his putter
and put it in Obama’s hand.
...

It seems, today, a peaceful place,
a sandy beach, a wine dark sea.
The grand assault, the thousand ships;
It rivals Troy in myth-story
...

I’m not ashamed,
Nor should I weep.
Sometimes, into dreams,
Old memories creep.
...