Francis Duggan Poems

We look at life one might say quite differently
And on very few subjects we seem to agree
The opinions you express are quite different to mine
What you think is your business and that suits me fine
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Around the flower beds the white butterflies play
How can one feel grumpy on a day like today
A high of a beautiful 25 degrees
And the birds chirp and whistle on the bushes and trees
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Your given and family names not that important of you much they don't say
What matter most is that you be a good person and live in the decent way
Yet our society judges even judge people by their postal address
Though a scoundrel with an honorary title them does not fail to impress
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If damnation awaits me well that suits me fine
Try to save your own soul sir you cannot save mine
I do not believe in an afterlife or of a heaven or hell
I am just one of those blokes who pens doggerel
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Some people worry about little problems and worrying makes them prematurely gray
Suppose that they were born to be worriers since what we are we are meant to be that way
Such people are not rare or never will be i meet one or two of them every day
They feel that the whole World is against them we are what we think we are seems true to say
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Con Murphy was a man from Ballydaly he lived about four miles from Millstreet Town
The first Irish person executed for possessing arms by the then Government of the British Crown
By all accounts a brave and decent person his life was cruelly cut short in his prime
But his merciless judges gave to Ireland one more hero whose legend lives on through the years of time
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Young surfers ride the white waves of Port Fairy on a sunny though cool and windy day in late Spring
One sees them surfing in all sorts of weather the gift of youth it is a marvelous thing
Above the ocean din i hear a blackbird fluting his notes on foreshore tree nearby
At times the sun from view does become obscured as rain clouds gather in the evening sky
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Us humans are a motley lot why otherwise pretend
A dog can be a man or a woman's best friend
Whilst some prefer the friendship of a horse or a sheep or a cat
Our trusted friendships seem varied quite varied at that
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In Cullen in Duhallow where the Araglen waters flow
The cold winds of November across the old fields blow
Upon a naked beech tree a silver back hooded crow
Familiar in his harsh cawing on a day threatening to snow
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He talks of old fields and woodlands far away
In Nova Scotia where he first looked on the light of day
The Winters were cold there the ice and the snow
But greenery returned when warmer winds of Spring did blow
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