Francis Duggan Poems

Those who condemn others for the building of Nuclear Energy Stations
Should practice themselves what they preach
What is right for them is not right for some others
Yet they themselves are like teachers without their degrees to teach.
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The poet who penned Dark Rosaleen is scarce spoken of today
He never left his home Country and and there his bones now lay
The National Bard of Ireland some have been known to say
And yet his flowering genius did seem quick to decay.
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I have praised Mother Nature in ballad, song and rhyme
And writing on Mother Nature is never a waste of time
And though I am not a Burns, Francis Ledwidge or John Clare
I am one of the many about Nature who does care.
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His three great fights with Muhammad Ali will live on in boxing history
Joe Frazier was truly a champion few heavyweights as great as he
He enjoyed his moments of glory though nothing in life seems to last
In boxing his name it will always be mentioned when they recall champions of the past.
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For to linger here in such a place perhaps is not that wise
What to many is good music to me seems only noise
A wiser thing is for me to leave a foolish thing for me to stay
When I can enjoy a cappucino in a far quieter cafe,
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I've met good people in my travels quite honest and generous and kind
But in every pack there is a joker and a villian is not hard to find
The windows to their souls are curtained and light it cannot enter in
When they cheat you out of your money they see your financial loss as their win.
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To be a master builder his claim to renown
The extraordinary man in an ordinary Town
In what he is good at he does take great pride
And as a master builder he is known far and wide.
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It bothers me a little since his eyes i can't see
The bloke wearing dark sunglasses who is looking at me
The windows of his soul from the World he disguise
There are few things more strange than a face without eyes
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Her natural ways you only wish to control
You who cannot love Nature you do not have a soul
Our beloved Earth Goddess the source of the poet's muse
The one who sustains us and her you abuse.
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I know the singer of the song though him i cannot see
His voice i knew in my younger years lives in my memory
The green he wears it blends in well with the foilage of the blackwood tree
Where he sing in the sun and wind in the warmth of January.
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