Mike Cullinane is a rare New Jersey native who has been writing for most of his life: postcards, letters, poetry, a brief journalism career, and spellbinding corporate presentations. He has previously contributed to The Galway Review, Failed Haiku, Sad Girl Diaries and anthologies published by Moonstone Art Center. After a moderately successful career, he spends most days as the project manager of his own life, serving friends and family when needed, while being mentored by his Grandson.
Kviv Metro Troparia
(February 2022)
The sun rises in the east unseen in the depths of Arsenalna station. Even here the explosions echo off the tile. Awakening, how did the morning prayer begin? “Having arisen from sleep”…The missiles ensured that we never really slept.
The prayer remains vague in the memory while wishing for coffee from Lviv Crossaints. Is it still there? “From my bed and sleep Thou has raised me…O God, through the Theotokos have mercy on us.”
Above, bless the Ghost of Kviv, flying over broken glass and rubble we hear it “fall down before thee. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.” Slava Ukraini!
Thank God for this sleeping bag between me and the cold floor. “Suddenly the Judge shall come, the deeds of each shall be revealed…”
Dnieper will protect us from the east, but what of the north? “With fear we cry out in the middle of the night…” And what of the south? “Through the Theotokos have mercy on us. Lord, have mercy.”
Bucha
Welcome to Bucha Mr. Xi,
Join us for a tour so you can see.
Quiet streets, no marching bands;
Silent ghosts with white armbands
Knotted so tightly.
Greetings from Bucha Mr. Orban,
Review the 21st Century Pogram.
On the outskirts you may still smell
Ukrainian lives that became living hell,
From paratroopers treatment inhuman.
Fear Bucha Mr. Lukashenko,
Russian soldiers’ bazaars are no go.
Looted goods were sold in your towns,
Stolen from victims who cannot be found.
No army can steal a sovereign soul.
You’ve forgotten Bucha J.D.,
A place of Russian inflicted misery.
In your view it’s unsound
For a nation to stand it’s ground,
So goes the country club populist’s elegy.
The Galway Review 