Francis Duggan Poems

On volcanic Mt Rouse where the thistles grow tall
They spread their seeds around in the warm winds of the Fall
And with each passing year their numbers multiply
For to control their spread people no longer do try
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Since I'm not a literary critic nor I'm not inclined that way
What is good or bad writing is not for me to say
But without all sorts of writers there would not be a Wordsmith trade
Though so few become famous and so few make the grade.
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She was a former Rose of Port Fairy where the white waves of Pacific roll
But the years have left their mark upon her the years on us all do take toll
Though for one in her mid to late fifties she certainly does look okay
With anti ageing cream she hides time wrinkles and with brown dye she covers her gray
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We all do have our own daydreams though for so few daydreams do come true
And so many feel disappointed at lack of success they feel to them that's overdue
The idea of success to everyone is different one's dream of success to another seems small
What one sees as a successful existence to another not successful at all
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John Howard in retirement he lives the good life
With Janette one can say his devoted wife
His term as Australian Prime Minister by the voters was brought to an end
But with fame and money he won't go short of a friend
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The white backed magpie singing in the sunshine his song is such a pleasant thing to hear
His kind are known to sing in every Season they can be heard every day of the year
Their flute like notes can never be mistaken at their breeding time they even sing at night
How pleasant whilst you lay in bed to hear them piping in the lamp of the moonlight
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The last day of December 07 a high of forty degrees
And the sun glowing in the blue sky and there's great warmth in the breeze
That blows down from the old hill by the warm days left brown
Along the quiet and wide streets of the old country town
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Far north of here my journey through life began
And by distant hills I grew into a man
But since I'm not a seer why should I pretend
That I know where the journey for me will end
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A symbolist in many ways Austin Clarke the beauty in his words with me remain
A throw back to the Celtic bards of Ireland and will we see the likes of him again?
Yet as a poet he is not highly rated which seems away beyond me to explain
His lost heifer has strayed into the bogland and is disappearing in the mist and rain.
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With human man I know no peace or ease
To him I'm just a spreader of disease
He kill my kin and wage war against me
As if I were his greatest enemy.
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