Francis Duggan Poems

Many who have been looked up to into disgrace did fall
The potential for evil it is within us all
There's none of us quite perfect though some more so than most
Yet to those with kindness and compassion none ever drink a toast
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The travellers parked their romany horse drawn vans at the Shannaknock Cross when when frosted fields were bare
But despite the cold and damp weather they did not seem to have a care
Their pinto horses with ropes tied to trees munched on bunches of hay
And old Clara Hill wore his hat of snow on a cold February day
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The pleasant natural aroma of meadows mown for silage or hay
Come wafting to my memory from places far away
And the sun at intervals shines through the gray clouds of the sky
And cattle in lush fields chew their cuds at ease in the warmth of July
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I see him one might say too often the fellow I'd rather not meet
We nod to each other in passing whenever we meet on the street
His thinking to mine is so different that each other we'd rather not know
The like minded we tend to gravitate to I do believe this to be so
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In the Human World most seen as successful know how to use propaganda and spin
To lie to them comes very easily lying to some is never a sin
Yet many of the wealthy and famous go to the church of their choosing to pray
Though without saying so their God it is money they are not how they seem one might say
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On medication for clinical depression the years have left him sad and gray
Old Jim he is in his mid seventies he has known a far better day
Three years ago his darling Kate died suddenly she was the great love of his life
His soul mate and mother of his children and to him a devoted wife
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A major English poet of Nature his type are so rare
And posthumous fame is useless to John Clare
Millions in money spent in a court case over his poems copywright
Yet in his sad lifetime he was seen as a lesser light
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Dipossession and marginalization the lot of Indigenous people Worldwide
By the descendants of their oppressors equality of them is denied
Fringe dwellers in their own Countries 'tis the conquerors who rule
The descendants of the people who took pleasure in being cruel
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Even though I've never known success and my better days long gone
Always something for to write about so I go penning on
Even though some I know do tell me I ought to call it a day
Their words of wisdom I ignore I'll never give writing away
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The dark river bird with breast as white as snow
The dipper sings where the babbling waters flow
Through the old fields where the rank rushes grow
By ditch and by dyke and many a hedgerow.
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