Francis Duggan Poems

Don't talk of hell to Bill the fluter he knows of Earthly Hell
And he doubts the life hereafter since none of it have come back to tell
He says the dead he knew are silent without a word to say
About the promised life hereafter all is silent where they lay.
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In green old Ballydaly between Millstreet and Rathmore
Thousands of miles north of here far inland from the ocean shore
Above the rushy field by the river the lark carols as upwards he fly
And Nature in all her splendour on a morning in July.
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Such wild and chilly weather with heavy showers of sleety rain
That flood the spouting and the creek and the storm water drain
And the paddocks around the Powlett river seem like an inland sea
And water everywhere about as far as the eyes can see.
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For eleven years Prime Minister of the Nation and yet to power he desperately does cling
The lust for power is an extreme addiction and such addictions are not a good thing
You won't hear many say that he is special and you won't hear many say that he is great
Election day with every hour is nearing and the voting public will decide his fate
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She is in her middle sixties but she does not look her age
And she is wise and intelligent one might say a female sage
And though perhaps she use some dark dye to cover her ageing gray
She does look young and healthy Indira from Bombay.
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I have never been a soldier and risked my life in war
And I'm not a well travelled person though in miles I do live far
From the Land where I was born in where I first saw light of day
By the windswept Boggeragh Mountains north of here and far away.
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Young Al believes our destiny is beyond our control
Three months back the factory he worked in went into liquidation he now is on the dole
And of unemployed young people plenty and of jobs for them too few
And that the gap between the haves and the have nots keeps widening only happens to be true.
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In the World of Literature his will never be a renowned name
And though he may be a Poetaster allow him to dream of fame
He writes as good as some of the so called poets some credit he is due
He is as good as most if the truth be known for poets as we know are few.
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When you gobble with the turkeys with eagles you cannot soar
One wiser far than I said that and 'tis one you've heard before
The Judas sheep up the slaughter ramp to slaughter his own kind lead
But he will not die for he is one the butchers tomorrow need
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I do not want to know where you came from or your Hometown or your home place
And I do not want to know of your religion or your tribe or culture or race
Or if you came from a near Nation or to get here you did travel far
The only thing I wish to know of you is what sort of a person you are?
...