Francis Duggan Poems

Of my worth as a writer i have reason to doubt
But every day something new for me to write about
In more than four decades i have not run out of rhyme
And on going back the Seasons this does seem a long time
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What most of us receive from life is only our due
And that we get the politicians we deserve only happens to be true
As they become our reflective mirror after election day
This applies to those who voted for the successful candidates anyway
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One never runs out of material for to write rhymes about
Not even me from the waterways of the brown trout
In early March in early Autumn in the sky blue and gray
The sun shining bright on this nice warm day
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Port Fairy in the Moyne Shire voted the World's most livable small town
Though this is not it's only claim to renown
On nearby Griffith Island a huge short tailed shearwater colony
Though sadly the island of predators of their young not totally free
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Port Fairy in the Moyne Shire voted the World's most livable small town
Though this is not it's only claim to renown
On nearby Griffith Island a huge short tailed shearwater colony
Though sadly the island of predators of their young not totally free
...

Physical work of thought process does get in the way
This is not going for to be a good rhyming day
Above the noise of the chainsaw the birds i cannot hear
Inspiration to me is not anywhere near
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In Tullig House on Tullig Hill Esther Cashman first saw light of day
But her life's journey ended in London from there far away
The yearn for the wander took her to elsewhere
One who was to grow old in the big World out there
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Those who talk of untalented people do not know what they say
For everyone is gifted in some sort of a way
That everyone is good at something does happen for to be true
Though not everyone receives the credit that ought to be their due
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Though far from where he was born and raised he lived his last night and day
Among his ancestors in Drishane's old cemetery John Anthony Murphy's last remains lay
From his birthplace in Ballydaly some three miles away
The love of home strong as the wise one does say
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The morning is drizzly with a damp March chill
In the freshening wind blowing down from the hill
The Boggeragh Ranges are cloaked in the gray fogs of rain
And brown storm water flowing in every field drain
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