John F. McCullagh Poems

“The trust fund, Men, is nearly spent.
The well is running dry”
“What will we tell the peasants
who expect pie in the sky? ”
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Somewhere a woman’s keening’
Crying piteously,
It’s coming from the harbor.
Her name is Liberty.
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Remember, Remember to vote in November
put all the incumbents to rout.
I know of no reason
their fiscal near treason
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The Highway of Exce$$


I'm just another failure
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Bury me at Irish Hill
a shroud of linen on my face
do not embalm my mortal flesh.
or box me in expensive wood
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The day is hot, no hint of a breeze
As I kneel down on ancient knees
At the grave of you, most brave,
who died in Omaha’s first wave.
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For the artist, Joanne Cooper, on the occasion of her eightieth birthday
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On this, the Last night of our world
We, together, naked, lay
Upstairs in your parents house
in the middle of the day.
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Beautiful, most men would call her
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Michael Jackson is still dead-

He sleeps alone these days.
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