Jack McCann – Four poems

jack mccann photoJack McCann is a plastic surgeon and grandfather. Much of his poetry is inspired by his work in Ireland, Albania and Kosovo. He has published two poetry collections, “Turning On A Sixpence” (2011), “Escaped Thoughts” (2012), and is a contributor to “Off The Cuff” (2012), a collection of poems and short stories by KARA Writer’s Group.



Which is worse,
the power
of addiction
or the addiction
of power?
usually kills
the addict.
Addicted wannabies
have sacrificed themselves
not realizing they were hooked,
not able to turn off the tap
that sustained them
yet killed them.
The power addict
usually kills
many others.
Power hungry dictators
have annihilated generations.
I am addicted to you.
Does this mean that
I will die?


Is Love Alive?

How can one tell
if love is alive inside?
If love is there at all?
If it is, does love conquer all?
Have you tasted love?
What is it like?
Is it sweet, juicy?
Does it stop the world
or make it go round?
Does it shout from the rooftops
Or does it not make a sound?
Love is in your voice, your smile.
Love is in the air you breathe.
Your heart beats love.
My heart beats in unison,
absorbs your love, fills me.
I taste it and it is real.
Love is there,
it is alive.


The Water’s Edge

I walk the water’s edge,
eyes scanning water, sand and stone.
Everything cleansed with the tide,
bringing a newness, an expectation.
A nameless piece of wood
from the hull of a sunken boat
with traces of blue
scratched by fish and rock
and devil knows what
to lie on the shore in front of me,
rolling the possible picture
of the last hours
of that ill fated vessel.
Did her Master go down with her
or is he still walking the water?
The vision of the white wrinkled hand
comes back to haunt me,
thrown out of the sea
by a crashing wave
to land at my feet
and forever frighten me.
Never matched to the rest of its frame,
it lies in some morgue
awaiting its claim.
It still sends shivers down my spine,
every day since I was nine.
There is a bottle bobbing on the water
with a stick sealing its mouth,
as if sticking out its tongue
to all who rest their eyes on it,
compelling its retrieval in cold frothy water
to show it does contain a message
saying “Save me ’’, signed Ireland.
Sorry Ireland, the boat is already sunk
And the hand severed!



Standing alone,
tears stream down her cheeks.
Fingers point,
sniggers carried in the air
settle on her shoulders,
weigh her down.
Names are thrown
at her ears,
pierce her
until she cries out.
weakened by constant
verbal assaults,
shaken by alienation,
she is dying inside.



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