John F. McCullagh Poems

The enemy of my enemy
Is not, necessarily, a friend to me.
Sectarian based enmity
In Syria abounds.
...

He gives voice to your anger.
His eloquence draws tears.
Strange, he's not quite so loquacious
when no Teleprompters near.
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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.
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On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
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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.
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Hands trembled but their hearts did not
On that Independence Day.
When they signed the Declaration
Many signed their lives away.
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In Detroit, the 'motor city'.
The wheels are off the cart.
Auto coverage? unaffordable-
four thousand just to park!
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“Till death do us part.”
Is a comforting phrase
To all those who repent
their impetuous days.
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Without the wind, without the rain
The stone of Earth would stone remain.
Did not the breath of Boreas blow
to form the canyons here below?
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When he returned from Vietnam
it was in part, not whole.
Something akin to jungle rot
had seeped into his soul.
...