Francis Duggan Poems

Her marriage that started in love it ended in divorce
The hopes she had of love till death they seemed to go off course
Her husband often beat her till enough one day she cried
And on a restraining order placed on him by the courts he was forced to abide.
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Some people i do not like and they do not like me
Suppose this is the way that we are meant to be
But i cannot bring myself to hating anyone
Despite any wrong to me they may have done
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Since late seventy three i have been a rhymer and for much longer than that a rhyming buff
And i am one who has done a lot of rhyming i have penned pages and pages of stuff
I used to daydream that i would be a writer one seen to be worthy of the title of poet
Though i never became one worthy of literary of note
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Every morning i hear them in the park nearby in the gray of daybreak
The calls of the magpie larks none can mistake
Some name them by their distinctive song of pee wee
They build their cup shaped nest of mud on low branch of tree
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Where i was born and raised few nowadays would know me
Yet a Claraghatlea fellow is all i can be
A Claraghatlea fellow west of Millstreet Town
Where i used to live when my hair was dark brown
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What goes around comes around as some do say
And for my sins against others the price i must pay
Those who believe in Karma see life in this way
If human law does not get you Karma will one day
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My wonder of Nature only seems to grow
And so little about her i can claim to know
Yet she does have a lesson for me every day
We do never stop learning as some like to say
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In a World where impressionable people make small gods of elite sports people and football players
And where the majority of the wealth and assets is owned by a small number of billionaires
And the gap between the wealthy and the poor is growing wider by the day
In a fair and equal Human World it would never be this way
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He lives far south of his northern first homeland the cliffs of Hibernia's shore
And even further south of Duhallow and Sliabh Luachra the man from the road to Rathmore
He is far from Clara and Caherbarnagh and Gortavehy the old hill of stone
And trhe famous twin hills of Sliabh Luachra known to many as the Paps of Shrone
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He lived as a poet of the people with a rhyming style of his own
Winthrop Mackworth Praed is one who lives in his verses and his legend through the decades has grown
I do enjoy reading his readable verses they just seem to bubble along
His distinctive rhyme without his name to it once familiarized with it's author one should never get wrong
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