Francis Duggan Poems

Way up in the cold of the Yukon of freezing point fifty below
Where Robert Service penned his great poems going back many decades ago
The timber wolves howl in the darkness their loud wailings pierce the calm of night
One can visualize the snow clad landscape that looks ghostly in the moonlight.
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Broken down by the freeway traffic buzzing to and fro
Between the big towns at the peak hour slow
For the RACV I feel obliged to wait
My old car has not been running smoothly of late.
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She walks her three golden retrievers in the park by her home every day
A young woman with only the slightest accent though she came from a Land far away
A Geordie from distant Manchester with straight shoulder length blondish hair
Perhaps maybe in her late thirties so likeable and free of care.
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A Town on the cusp at the present that is what the wise woman did say
With new industry it well may prosper for years it has been in decay
The Local youth keep on migrating to big Cities from here far away
They have their dreams and ambitions to follow and here for them little to stay,
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Around my boots where I am sitting crumbs of bread they happily eat
The cheeky and colourful City pigeons so at home on the city street
Their cousins the rock pigeons of the Northlands in Town would feel so out of place
They once were the very same species though now quite a different race.
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Charlie Brown the labrador puppy is as strong as an ox one might say
Whilst out walking when he see other dogs he pulls towards them wanting to play
A handful for Shane and for Lisa most puppies it would seem are that way
But with lots of good training and patience he will make a good dog one day.
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A billionaire in his mid thirties quite famous and very well known
But money and fame it cannot make him happy he just wants a life of his own
To live where he would feel a stranger though for him there is no such a place
From his fame 'twould seem he cannot hide for his is too well known a face.
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A poet in the style of Kipling he pens such readable rhyme
Yet the literary critics dismiss him saying he is not one of our time
This is the 21st century the age of the modern poet
A poet in the style of Kipling nowadays not worthy of note,
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She was nineteen years old the Rose of the Town
With brown eyes and shoulder length tresses of brown
But the reaper on all of our lives has the final say
And all is quiet and dark now where she does lay.
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The stuff that I pen I could not hope to sell
And here's for posterity one more doggerel
The migratory waders long gone north to breed
And the thistles of Autumn have matured to seed
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