Francis Duggan Poems

For him as for many life does not seem fair
He struggles to cope with his moods of despair
In his physical prime of life just twenty three
Yet he feels unhappy as the word can be
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The weather for April is windy, wet and poor
But the nesting birds singing in old Annagloor
And the old fields resplendent in their Nature's flowers
And the grass lush and green from the recent Spring showers
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In that beautiful place where the river meets the sea
The magpie he pipes on a stringybark tree
And the silver gulls mew on the white beach nearby
As the dark shades of twilight are crossing the sky.
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Of Nature so little I can claim to know
Yet my wonder of her never does cease to grow
From her we do learn something new every day
She lives by her own laws and in her own way
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Where others are doing their best to drag you down
Who wants to be known as the tops of the town
Just leave me to live as unsung and unknown
I like it that way since my life is my own.
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For them I do still have a place in my heart
But from my friends of the past I have grown apart
The most of them I have not seen for sometime
Like me they are many years past their life's prime
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So many far too many out there who of poetry do profess to know
And though for their years one would expect from them more sense their ignorance and arrogance they like to show
In expressing their unsolicited opinions on others as they try to define poetry from doggerel
In their harsh unsolicited verbal attacks on fellow writers
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In their breeding Season birds have their borders to defend
And their own kind to them they don't treat as a friend
'Tis not of a sense of joy or for love of the Spring
But for to proclaim his borders that the male bird does sing
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'Tis ungenerous and oppressive people create refugees
The people who risk their lives in leaky boats on the dangerous seas
In search of a better and safer life in a Land far away
From where they first looked on the bright lamp of day
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Each time I pass a cemetery the thoughts come back to me
That such places do remind us of our own mortality
'Tis said that they do rest in peace though in death they had no choice
The dead for themselves cannot speak death robbed them of a voice.
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