Francis Duggan Poems

Those who tell you they own the land have got it all wrong
For how can we own to what we do belong
To the land that does feed us we return to one day
But the land does remain life works in this way
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Why do we define people by their material or financial success
By their so called social standing or their postal address
By the size of their home, swimming pool and car
These things tell us nothing of the person you truly are
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A beautiful day of only a slight breeze
And birds chirping and singing on the sunlit trees
In the blue sky woolly looking cumulus of gray
For April the first quite a beautiful day
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You may be highly educated with college and university degrees
But searching for the meaning of life is like searching for money on the bushes and the trees
Or a poor mangy dog who is never at ease
And goes without sleep as it scratches for fleas
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A beauty in her younger years though beauty until death with few does stay
The former Rose of Carriganimma where might she be today
Does she like many others in hair dye cloak her gray
And with anti ageing creams smooth age wrinkles away
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If you wish to know what success is ask one other than i
For if i told you i did know i would be telling a lie
For success in ways can be viewed very differently
The one who is successful to you may not be so to me
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Many people have some addiction it does seem
Many of which does not enhance one's public esteem
Some of which alcohol abuse gambling or using narcotics which for finances or health not good in any way
But humanity is made of all kinds it does seem true to say
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He has resigned as Deputy Prime Minister and leader of the National Party Barnaby Joyce
In the end it does seem he was left with little choice
Due to his infidelities and alleged sexual harassment against him he swallowed his pride
And to go to the back benches and take a huge cut in salary he did decide
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Of successful writers there are only a few
And this is not saying anything that is new
And so many from writing who never know of wealth and fame
Though rather good writers so few know of them by name
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I write I do not know for wealth or fame
And not even one mention of my name
And there is little reason to my rhyme
And I feel lost and years beyond my prime.
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