Francis Duggan Poems

You have your own worries and I have got mine
That will take more to solve than a good glass of wine
I am not a pschyiatrist for help you go elsewhere
So many in trouble in the big World out there
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The so called elite of this small town may feel like upper class
But for the very ordinary in a bigger town they would pass
They have their social gatherings where one must be invited to attend
If one sees you as an enemy to none you are a friend
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I am such a lucky fellow though I am not a millionaire
I could have been born in some third World Country where paupers are not rare
Slowly dying of malnutrition without a penny to my name
Where two per cent own ninety per cent of the Country's wealth and know all of the glory and the fame.
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In Killorglin Town at old Puck Fair she sat on her pinto pony
With wavy brown shoulder length hair i recall her name was Joaney
A member of the travelling clan she looked so fit and active
In her early twenties at the most so young and so attractive.
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It first dawned on me at least five decades ago
That so little of Nature I do seem to know
New lessons from Nature I learn every day
Yet from me she does hide her secrets away
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There is an old time saying that his dog is a man's best friend
That too should apply to women for why should we pretend
That a woman does not love her dog as much as any man
Women have loved their canines since human and canine friendships first began.
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The flute like notes of the grey shrike thrush so pleasant to hear
He must know the first day of Spring it is near
For the last week of Winter this is a nice day
The Goddess of Spring less than a week away
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Will you love me when I'm ninety when I'm unsteady on my feet
Will you put your hand in my hand when we shuffle down the street
Or will you have left me for one younger found a new love in your life
For many years now we've been happy together as man and wife
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I sing not of the celebrated I sing of the unsung
And I sing not of the legends in the days when I was young
I sing of the quiet achievers my toasting glass to them I raise
Of every unsung hero or heroine I'll gladly sing their praise
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Those cruel to animals can be cruel to people they find their pleasure on inflicting pain
For cruelty to the cruel is a power thing gratification from seeing their victims suffer they gain
Cruel people they have lost their human compassion the window to their soul shaded to light
They even are bordering on the psychotic in distinguishing on what is wrong from right,
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