Francis Duggan Poems

With holes in his shoes and holes in his socks
He has his degrees from the college of hard knocks
Unshaven with long uncombed hair he wears shabby clothes
One cannot say of him that he scents like a rose
...

My lack of material success does not bother me
And though not wealthy i do not know of poverty
And old age creeping on me five years with three score
I want to live as a better person that and nothing more
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Like millions of others i know all too well
That life in it's down times can be Earthly hell
And though i am a writer of mere doggerel
I am one of many with stories to tell
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I have only heard stories of Tureengarriffe Glen
And the rebels who fought there now long deceased men
It is out of gun battles that heroes are made
And the flags are waving in the passing parade
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Far inland in miles from Hibernia's shore
Above the high fields of green old Claramore
The dark barn swallows chirping as they fly
In pursuit of flying insects across the gray sky
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In poor suburbs and refugee camps from here far away
The battles of survival go on every day
Where poverty and hunger gives rise to worry and stress
And just to survive is seen as success
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Far from his old home place the years have left him gray
But he doesn't pine for Kilcorney far away
The eldest of his grandchildren his namesake grandson
On his next birthday will turn twenty one
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One would have to go back some five decades in time
Since Freddy the Dancer was in his prime
But for his age he is lively and on his feet light
And at the bowls club on Saturday he dances all night
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We live in the now that is how it must be
But wherever i go to my past follows me
In my flights of fancy i hear and i see
The male red breast singing on a leafy birch tree
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I long to be far from this loud city street
Where the creek from the hill and the river does meet
And the shrike thrush does sing on the black wattle tree
The beautiful place lives in my memory
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