Francis Duggan Poems

So you feel life is tough on you just going by what you say
Yet I know of a woman in her late sixties who sleeps in a disused factory doorway
With one blanket to keep out the chill on the cold concrete she lay
If you had to live as she does you would complain night and day.
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Out there in the high country under a starry sky
The boobook owl is calling and I hear the vixen cry
Perhaps she is out hunting or searching for a mate
The time is ripe and time doesn't wait for her to copulate.
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Though many of her secrets from us she keeps hidden away
Of Nature we learn something new every day
Though some things about her she is willing to share
That of her I know little I am all too aware
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Have you ever thought of your hometown far away
And the friends and relations you have not seen for many a day
Though happy in your adopted hometown do you ever think of what used to be
Or is the past a fading ember in your memory
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In the local pub he did enjoy his beer
And he sung between drinks the old balladeer
And always for him there was a loud encore
As the patrons they begged him for to sing some more
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Not everyone loves Smitty he is not everyone's friend
But Genevieve and Graeme on him can depend
To protect their home from burglars when they are away
No stranger his territory will enter if Smitty on it has the say
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The old poetess Ann sat by the fire she was in the mood for rhyme
Her thoughts were of her younger years when she was in her prime
When she was with the sheep shearer Dave the great love of her life
The man who fathered her son Joe and who took her for his wife.
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What's life about the years and months go by
And are we only born to age and die
And is there life beyond the grave of death
Or do we die forever when we draw our final breath?
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The potential for goodness is in all of Humankind
And in the very worst person some good traits you'll find
It is just that something in their thinking in some way has gone wrong
And some human frailty is even found in the mentally strong.
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In Claraghatlea by Millstreet Town where I once did reside
The dreams I had of poetic fame in those old green fields died
I never did become a poet for poets are very few
And dreams of course are only dreams and dreams seldom come true.
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