Nowhere town

by

Francis Duggan

It is a journey only for poor people the narrow roadway that winds up and down
Beyond the woods and beyond the distant mountains that leads you to the streets of nowhere town
And as you walk that road you grow poor and poorer still with every passing day
And you'll be broke and penniless and helpless when you reach nowhere many miles away.

You hear them say he's on the 'road to nowhere' but every road at some point has an end
And by the time that he reach the town of 'hard luck stories' he'll find that he don't seem to have a friend
And nowhere is still miles from hard luck stories and at his journey's end he will be broke
And he will end his days at distant nowhere a homeless penniless and worn out bloke.

You won't find any well to do's at nowhere and the people there are poor as poor can be
The buildings there are old and looking shabby it is a town of utter poverty
For the forgotten the end of their journey is on the sidewalk of a nowhere street
Exhausted and worn from their long hard journey dark rings around their eyes and blistered feet.

It is a winding road narrow and bumpy that leads you to the far town of nowhere
And there you will not meet the rich and famous only the poor and forgotten live there
The dingy streets and dilapidated buildings surrounded by poverty and decay
Beyond the woodlands and the distant mountains in the town of the forgotten far away.

---

The aussie magpie

by

Francis Duggan

The aussie magpie is a true australian
His flute like notes once heard you can't mistake
I've often heard him singing in the moonlight
In very early spring before daybreak.

The aussie magpie is a fearless fellow
And when on attack he is not one to pretend
He and his wife have even injured people
When they had eggs or nestlings to defend.

The magpies build their nest of wire and sticks and plastics
On higher branch of gum or deciduous tree
Where the female lays her eggs brown spotted bluish
And from the ground their nest not hard to see.

From late summer to midwinter this renowned songster
Is not inclined to defend territory
He pals around with other aussie magpies
And they live in flocks as one big family.

In spring and summer and through the fall and winter
The magpie sings the twelve months of the year
And even when the temperature's at zero
Those distinct flute like notes you often hear.

I often heard him singing in the moonlight
Towards end of winter hours before daybreak
The silver billed white backed australian magpie
His flute like notes you never could mistake.

---

Big Annie

by

Francis Duggan

Around her mouth big annie has laugh wrinkles
The wrinkles people have who laugh a lot
Her hearty laughter is a thing of beauty
She has a gift that many have'nt got.

Big annie has the marvellous gift of laughter
And in our town her's is a well known face
She has the knack of making others happy
And the lighter side of living she embrace.

Big annie is a plump and jolly woman
In her mid life her curly locks of brown
Hang loose in small ringlets around her shoulders
She is the best loved person in our town.

She has two teenage sons joseph and andy
And her husband jimmy works on the railway
You never once hear big annie complaining
We have so much to be thankful for she say.

There ought to be more people like big annie
Her mirthful laughter makes for a happy sound
You never see her sour looking or moody
And she spreads her gift of happiness around.

Big annie is a friendly and humorous person
And she always has a big smile on her face
And without her and her marvellous gift of laughter
Our town might be a dull and boring place.

---

The glaciers near franz josef

by

Francis Duggan

In franz josef and fox's glacier in south island's wild south west
Where amongst the rocks and boulders the famous kea parrots nest
Are two ice rivers known as glaciers since the ice ago froze in time
Balladeers have sung about them and poets have honoured them in rhyme.

On a sunny day in summer mountain winds gave me the chills
It was cold out by those glaciers on the wild south western hills
I did not venture on those glaciers at the bottom i did stay
Though i spoke to a group of climbers who had climbed up to halfway.

Glaciers remnants of the ice age from all those centuries ago
When the world was frozen over covered deep in ice and snow
I would have thought that they would have melted in the summer sun and rain
But there's a mystery in nature that's way beyond me to explain.

In the south west of new zealand the cheapest accomodation dear
But for only one known reason world travellers flock each year
To see the glaciers near franz josef high prices don't keep them away
Such natural wonders an attraction as such you don't see every day.

In the south west of the south island natural beauty meets the eye
Snow clad mountains wild and rugged reaching upwards towards the sky
And near franz josef two ice rivers since the ice age froze in time
Balladeers have sung about them and poets have honoured them in rhyme.

---

She played upon her zither

by

Francis Duggan

She played upon her zither a song from long ago
Some of the words i had forgot though many i still know
The music stirred a memory and it took me far away
And i could see the sunlit meads and scent the new mown hay.

An old time tune from distant land in northern hemisphere
I heard again the pipits sing it brought the home fields near
I heard the airborne skylark sing a small speck in the sky
And lambs were bleating on the hill on morning in july.

I see again the old hometown and the high fields by the hill
And see jackdaw fly to chimney top with stick for nest in bill
Old friends seemed glad to welcome me a handshake and a smile
'Oh' it is good to see you back not seen you for awhile.

The fading memories came to life the past returned to me
The robin piped his happy notes on branch of hawthorn tree
And swallows o'er the meadow grass were winging to and fro
And through the music i could hear the shy cock pheasant crow.

She played upon her zither a song i used to know
A song that i often heard sung some thirty years ago
When i was young and stronger and nearing my prime day
In my old home place by distant hills a half a world away.

---

A january morning in knocknagree

by

Francis Duggan

It's cold in duhallow this morning and the fields that were green yesterday
Lay chilled to the frost that the night brought a cover of silvery gray
And the little dunnock on bare hedgerow too cold and too hungry to sing
On nude branch he perch sad and silent the hardship that january can bring.

The robins and sparrows by back door like beggars they wait to be fed
In hope that when breakfast is eaten the housewife might throw out some bread
With no thought for song or for nesting their battle is to stay alive
How many will live to see april? the winter so hard to survive.

The first heavy snows of the winter have fallen on the higher ground
On clara, shrone and caherbarnagh the hills are so white all around
The blackbird and thrush on the bare branch their feathers fluffed against the chill
And hare has come down to the lowland there's nothing to eat on the hill.

But i can remember the bright days when sun shone on the leafy tree
And robins and thrushes and finches piped in the woods of knocknagree
And to her nest on barn rafters the sparrow brought feathers and hay
And out on the dandelion meadow the pipit sang all through the day.

Young calves and young lambs in green pastures were full of the frolics of spring
And joy too had come to the river the song of the dipper did ring
And moorhen was out with her babies and she chirped loud if human was near
Her first lesson to them survival to teach them the meaning of fear.

It's cold in duhallow this morning the thrush silent on the bare tree
And gray on the fields and the hedgerows and gray over all knocknagree
But i can remember the bright days when nesting birds piped all the day

---

last line

by

Francis Duggan

And hedgerows and woodlands and meadows smelt sweet with the blossoms of may

---

Kippagh mountain lake

by

Francis Duggan

The skylark sing above the bracken hill
That voice once heard one never can mistake
And sunlight down the silent mountain steal
And light the dark waters of kippagh lake.

The lake trout to the shallow waters swim
They like to feel the warmth of the sun
And tiny rill that has spring as it's source
Down from the mountain through the bracken run.

In centuries gone i heard old woman say
The gaelic bards to kippagh mountain came
And found the inspiration for their songs
In land too wild and rough for man to tame.

They sang their songs but never wrote them down
And the bards have gone and with them died their fame
And old culture gone and people have changed too
But kippagh mountain lake still look much the same.

I know of a lake surrounded by high hills
Where gaelic minstrel sang his final lay
A place too high and wild for man to tame
Beyond the seas thousands of miles away.

---

An evening in birds paddock

by

Francis Duggan

An evening in birds paddock a mild december breeze
Start countless green leaves dancing on the sunlit gum trees
And merry songbirds singing wattlebirds and magpie
And mynas and the blackbirds and bellbirds tinkling joy.

On green reeds on the lake side the little warbler sing
His song of mid december has such a pleasant ring
Then he flit above the water and snatch a dragon fly
In movement almost too quick to be caught by human eye.

A black duck with her childer i count them one two three
And dusky moorhen swimming out with her family
Five tiny baby moorhens like tiny feathered balls
And they'd almost go un-noticed save for their squeaky calls.

On gum tree branch male eastern rosella is chirping merrily
As beautiful a wild bird as one might wish to see
He's got all the brilliant colours the pink and green and gold
One of australia's fairest and lovely to behold.

From sun browned bank of birdslake a woman and her child
Feed bits of bread to feral geese who now live free and wild
And willy wagtail on fence post his tail switch to and fro
And he is such a wise bird where flies are willy know.

The red browed finches chirping and tiny blue wren call
Australia's tiniest songsters and beautiful is small
December in birds paddock eight days from christmas day
Sun shine and songbirds piping and life with me okay.

---

The last one of his race

by

Francis Duggan

At corranderk a patch of sacred ground
With miles of open country all around
And grass from summer sun bleached gray and brown
Near healesville fifty k's from melbourne town.

In unkept grave the final resting place
Of last chief of the yarra yarra race
And headstone inscribed to mark the memory
Of man who died in year 1903.

Barak last link to the historic past
And of his tribe the very very last
His ancestors ruled these parts till white man came
And now only yarra river bear their name.

O'er healesville paddocks welcome swallows fly
And bushlark pipes his summer notes of joy
And sun shine brightly in late summer sky
And peace and a wild beauty meet the eye.

And in corranderk the bones of dead chief lay
And he died a christian so the record say
But what matter most when history book we trace
We find he was the last one of his race.

---

The cattle egrets

by

Francis Duggan

The cattle egrets known to travel far
And you always see them near where livestock are
Insects, beetles, toadlets and such they eat
That fly or hop clear of big trampling feet.

The cattle egrtets whiter than the snow
Associate with cattle everywhere they go
They keep insects and harmful slugs at bay
And in so doing help farmer no small way.

As members of the heron family
They build their nests on higher bush or tree
On lake or river, sometimes estuary
On nest of sticks pale blue eggs often three.

Oft seen them in narre warren in winter time
These cattle egrets favourite birds of mine
In paddocks with the herds they spend their days
Eating insects flushed by cattle as they graze.

The cattle egrets that you see today
Tomorrow may be many miles away
Nomadic birds their journeys take them far
But you'll always see them near where cattle are.

---

War mistake

by

Francis Duggan

Through darkened sky the b 52 pass
And the pilot whoops tonight 'we will kick ass'
He release his bombs a loud bang in the dark
The sky light up the bombs have hit their mark.

He return to base to be told we've made mistake
You've left hundreds of civilian corpses in your wake
T'was a civilian shelter that your bombs ripped through tonight
But what's done is done and cannot be put right.

We just mapped the wrong target out for you
And t'was our mistake though our mistakes are few
And we must try to counteract the bad publicity
By shifting the blame on to the enemy.

In war there is no wrong and all is fair
And we'll tell the world that the civilian targets were placed there
You don't go to war to lose you go to win
And enemy civilian deaths to us no shameful sin.

In war there is no guilt there is no shame
And for civilian deaths we'll not be taking blame
And all wars down through the ages been the same
The more you kill the greater is your fame.

---

On seeing white ibis

by

Francis Duggan

I've seen them out by woori yallock way
On insects, grubs and grasshoppers they prey
In mid november latter days of spring
A time of year when young birds take to wing.

White ibis is the name most know them by
Though others call them sacred wonder why?
Some say the sacred link could easily be
With famed sacred ibis of egyptian antiquity.

Juveniles with more dark on them than white
And large flocks of them quite a familiar sight
I love to watch them floating in the sky
As they do look very graceful as they fly.

They build their nests on trees by inland lake
And hoarse like grunts the only sound they make
The sacred ibis birds i often see
In suburban park or way out the country.

---

The spotted pardalote

by

Francis Duggan

Uncommon birds don't see them every day
And so confiding in their own quiet way
Perhaps australia's tiniest little birds
And beautiful for them the perfect word.

Of human kind they show so little fear
And they don't fly off if human standing near
Human company they do seem to enjoy
They let you get so close then off they fly.

They love to show themselves or so t'would seem
And they perch on low branch where they can be seen
And they never try to hide from watcher's eye
A thing of beauty is a thing of joy.

Had i the genius of a nature poet
I might describe the spotted pardalote
With small white spots on back and wings and head
And yellow, dark and gray and fawn and red.

They hunt for insects, flies and little bees
On branches and leaves of gum and wattle trees
The fairest of pardalote family
A bird i know but not so often see.

---

Violet town

by

Francis Duggan

As the train approach the station it slow down
And the conductor shouts the next stop violet town
At the station platform it grinds to stand still
And the melbourne v line whistles loud and shrill.

A mum and dad hug their daughter goodbye
Tell all our friends in melbourne we said hi
And do be wary of those city men
And don't forget to ring us now and then.

She leaves the bush the peaceful country life
To live in world where sin and crime is rife
Eighteen years old brown locks and eyes of brown
A lovely young woman from violet town.

Some of those in the melbourne v line train
May never pass by violet town again
But they may recall in city far away
That they had brief glimpse of violet town one day.

And i'll recall brief glimpse of violet town
And lovely young woman with locks of brown
Who boarded the train that took her from country life
To live in a world where sin and crime is rife.

---

She got it from american indian

by

Francis Duggan

She got it from american indian who to the spirits talk
The symbol that he chose for her the northern goshawk
The raptor of the valleys who wander wild and free
She do not feel restricted by thoughts of boundary.

She flies above the valley and spends part of her day
Scanning the earth for movement in search of smaller prey
She has no sense of right or wrong she has to kill to live
The raptor of the woodlands don't have sins to forgive.

She showed me a picture of her bird her monarch of the sky
Who builds her nest away from man in places wild and high
I searched for good descriptive words and three words came to me
Her symbol stands for innocence, courage and liberty.

She got it from american indian who to the spirits talk
The symbol that he chose for her the northern goshawk
The wild free living raptor who wander at her will
Above the grassy valley, above the wooded hill.

---

The legends of the incas

by

Francis Duggan

The great kings of the incas their spirits live today
Where the condor o'er the andes is soaring far away
And the ghost of athahualpa is forever looking down
On that country he ruled over in his decade of renown.

The spanish did not spare him though to them gold he did give
But when pizarro's name is forgotten athahualpa's will still live
And the great gods of the incas will outlive the gods of spain
And the legend that grew with them to this day with us remain.

Since the glory days of the incas near five centuries have gone
But the legacy of pachacuti and topa inca forever will live on
And though the great kings of the incas did not have a lengthy span
Theirs was a glorious era in the history of man.

One hundred years of glory till pizarro and his army came
And in the history of human kind another blot of shame
Their kings were executed and statues of their gods destroyed
And their last manko and his followers to the jungle fled to hide.

O'er the mountains of the andes where the mighty condor soar
The spirits of the incas looking down forever more
And when the name of pizzaro from the history book is gone
The legend of the incas forever will live on.

---

The woman who loved roses

by

Francis Duggan

The woman who loved roses where might she be today?
T'was said she left our valley for a land far away
At daybreak she hear the birds sing in the quiet of her bedroom
And out in her front garden the rose trees are in bloom.

The colours are amazing the red and pink and white
And the purple and the yellow make for a pretty sight
She waters her flower beds and her rose trees before the heat of day
In her garden by the meadow that smell of new mown hay.

The woman who loved roses has not been sighted for some while
She was a lovely lady with sunshine in her smile
Around our old green valley her's was a well loved face
We missed her for we loved her and none to take her place.

The woman who loved roses she passed on years ago
And above where she is resting a little rose tree grow
Yet she has been seen often in her garden far away
Watering her flower beds and her rose trees before the heat of day.

---

Kate ewenson

by

Francis Duggan

The sister of jude and gippsland artist mark, kate ewenson has passed on at the young age of thirty four
Last saw her ten months back i now remember and did not realize then that i'd not see her never more
She wilted like the rose that bloomed in summer she did not live on for to grow old and gray
But i cannot believe that she is gone forever i would rather believe that she went away

To live in a world of joy and love and laughter where roses bloom the twelve months of the year
In a sunlit paradise of greenery and beauty where human soul has never shed a tear
Where in the leafy groves the birds are always singing and fruit trees laden with fruit all year round
Kate ewenson lives in that world of plenty and true happiness she finally has found.

Weep not for kate her suffering is over but weep for the living who suffer instead
Where she lives now she is feeling young and happy with an eternal life of happiness ahead
On this planet she knew a lot of suffering and she'd been through a life of hell and pain
Her trials and tribulations all behind her and she's found joy and happiness again.

The kate i knew was a spiritual person and she was very likeable and kind
And in my memory she will keep on living her equals would be very hard to find
The grim reaper he came and took her early she did not live on to grow old and gray
And she now lives in a world of joy and sunshine and of eternal youth where she won't age a day.

---

Memories of the allow

by

Francis Duggan

Through fertile fields old allow meanders down
Through groves and by hedgerows and on through kanturk town
Through old duhallow every night and day
It's waters journey on their sea going way.

Long centuries before the first man came
Before this old land ever had a name
When planet earth was in her infancy
The allow journeyed down land towards the sea.

I first saw allow when i was young boy
Some forty years ago how time did fly
On willow tree i heard a chaffinch sing
By that old river in kanturk in spring.

I watched a fisherman casting for trout
I saw him haul a near two pounder out
An allow brown gleaming like brown stained glass
He flipped about on the ankle high grass

I said the biggest that i ever see
But he smiled what's big to you not so to me
Last week i caught far bigger trout than he
And this one won't live in my memory.

Perhaps his son and grandson fish today
From allow banks all those long miles away
Where little chaffinch on the willow tree
Repeat the same ancestral melody.

---

The gum tree is australian

by

Francis Duggan

The gum tree is australian as aussie as can be
And there's no more australian than the eucalyptus tree
They have been in australia perhaps since life began
Thousands and thousands of years before coming of man.

The mountain ash the big giant in forest park stand tall
He tower above all others beside him they seem small
The stringybark and ironbark familiar to the eye
You know them by the bark they wear the gum trees never lie.

The manna gum and flowering gum all different none the same
The gray gums and the scented gums so many one could name
A few hundred different species of australian gum tree
And all of them belong to eucalyptus family.

Man took gum seeds to italy and to the u.s.a.
And now they grow in foreign lands thousands of miles away
But the gum trees grown on foreign soil are aussie as can be
For there's no more australian than the eucalyptus tree.

---

How come it always has to be this way

by

Francis Duggan

Why do it always have to be this way
I don't like him or her they don't like me
I get involved in the mind games people play
And my own weaknessess i fail to see.

How come that i dislike that other man
Since he has never did no wrong to me
And why i don't like him i don't even know
And yet i treat him as an enemy.

We dislike in others what we see in ourselves
A wise old woman to me once did say
And though that was many, many years ago
Her words i still remember to this day.

The faults i have i tend to overlook
And i judge others as if it were my right
But i don't have god given right to judge
And my darkened soul t'would seem receives no light.

As i grow older i feel more withdrawn
And with myself i tend to disagree
I question the strange ways of humankind
And i even question my own sanity.

How come it always has to be this way
I don't like him or her they don't like me
I get involved in the mind games people play
And my own weaknessess i fail to see.

---

I've not seen many cormorants today

by

Francis Duggan

I've not seen many cormorants today
Just four or five on rocks close to the shore
Whilst on other days i've seen large flocks of them
Twenty to thirty and sometimes even more.

Perhaps the sea too rough for them to fish
And to inland lake they've gone to spend the day
The wild waves crash against the foreshore wall
And sea rage violent out on blackrock bay.

Close to the shore like cork amidst the waves
The smallest member of grebe family
The little grebe at home amongst big waves
He holds no terror for the violent sea.

When sea is calm and sun shine in the sky
Large flocks and different types of birds i see
The black backed and silver gulls, the little grebes
And cormorants out fishing in the sea.

I've not seen many cormorants today
Just four or five on rocks close to the shore
Whilst on other days i've seen large flocks of them
Twenty to thirty and sometimes even more.

---

A perfect ending to a perfect day

by

Francis Duggan

The sun goes down beyond the western hill
And the sea this evening seldom so tranquil
And i feel peace it quietly comes to me
On silent wings across the silent sea.

The ocean seems asleep no breakers roar
And gentle waves lap gently on the shore
And scarce a puff of breeze on blackrock bay
And a perfect ending to a perfect day.

T'would seem to me that the sea too has a soul
And all her stronger emotions under control
All the anger that she felt she did release
And the sea this evening with herself at peace.

A nip of winter in the frosty air
But i feel free of any stress or care
And i feel peace it gently comes to me
On silent wings across the silent sea.

---

Pied wagtails

by

Francis Duggan

When mountains wear their winter hats of snow
And cold winds down from the cold northlands blow
And fields from heavy frost are looking gray
Pied wagtail in the farmyard spends his day.

In feathers mostly dark and gray and white
Distinctive even in his undulating flight
On flies and insects he ease his appetite
And he's one you will remember from first sight.

Pied wagtails even live in rural town
And as they walk their tails wag up and down
But to nature's finer minstrels they do not belong
As many others sing a finer song.

They build their cup shaped nests of moss and grass and leaves
In cavities in walls or under roots or eaves
And five to six whitish speckled eggs they lay
From april onwards through the month of may

They like the watery places it would seem
And they often perch on rock in rill or stream
And i've often seen them jump to catch a fly
Or insect o'er the water passing by.

The memories of a bird i used to know
From places far away and long ago
And pieces of my past with me remain
And wagtail comes to visit me again.

---

A memory ofn first love

by

Francis Duggan

She was quite young not even in her twenties
And i was two years younger seventeen
And i loved her but the thought of love it scared me
For to the ways of love i was still green.

I met her in the famous castle ballroom
The old dance hall where young love used to bloom
Perhaps nowadays she might be a grandmother
My first great love from barrett's place macroom.

She was'nt tall if five foot five no taller
But she looked lovely she had beauty rare
A cuddly girl and she was warm and caring
With sandy coloured to dark blondish hair.

Eileen from barrett's place i still remember
The flower of first love never easily dies
She has'nt aged or grown old in my memory
And her youthful beauty i still visualize.

I've often wondered did she marry and mother children
And would i recognize her now if we came face to face
Does she still live in mid cork or does she live far
From macroom town and from old barrett's place?.

My youth and prime are gone from me forever
For youth and prime with anyone don't stay
But the memory of first love as fresh as ever
As such memories never seem to age a day.

---

By burning the flag of their country

by

Francis Duggan

By burning the flag of their country their heritage they have denied
For their ancestors in bloody battles for love of that old flag have died
Even those who oppose war will tell you their country's flag is a sacred thing
You burn the flag of your country and shame on yourself you will bring.

By burning the flag of their country they spat upon the soldier's grave
For love of that flag and it's colours in battle the young man died brave
He carried that flag into battle and it waved where the gunfire was loud
And that flag to him more than a symbol of his country's flag he felt proud.

Before they set fire to the flagpost they should have taken the time to pause
For by burning the flag of their country they only did harm to their cause
Their grievances are with the government and with the government alone
And to burn the flag of your country is not what the masses condone.

By burning the flag of their country they brought upon themselves disgrace
Still the flag it will live on forever since a replica waves in it's place
They tried to embarass the government but they went about it the wrong way
The cause they espouse now is tainted for stupid act a price to pay.

Perhaps they lost use of their reason in a moment of anger and hate
When they burnt the flag of their country that waved by the parliament gate
By trying to embarass the government they embarassed themselves instead
For by burning the flag of their country they spat on the graves of the dead.

---

I see my reflection in other faces

by

Francis Duggan

On every street i see unsmiling faces
The coldness of urban humanity
And when i notice the indifference in others
My own reflection i can only see.

I am a stranger in urban surroundings
Amongst the throng one more unsmiling face
The day is warm and the sun is brightly shining
But i've seen more happiness in a colder place.

I see my reflection in other faces
And i dislike in them what i dislike in me
They pass me by as if i were invisible
How strange and cold some others seem to be.

The lorikeets are chirping in the sunshine
And noisy miners pipe on bush and tree
And the air made cooler by the freshening breezes.
That blow up through suburbia from the sea.

And yet despite the warm and balmy weather
A coldness in the people i can see
But i'm only looking at my own reflection
And i dislike in others what i dislike in me.

---

Nancy Blane

by

Francis Duggan

In each human life it's said you'll find a story
And everyone has a story to tell
And even some children of quite wealthy parents
Have been through mental torture and through hell

And nancy blane is that sort of a person
Her parents they are multi millionaires
But she looks old for one in her mid twenties
And she feels sad and she is worn by cares.

She has two siblings a brother and sister
The youngest of a family of three
And in every family there is a 'black sheep'
And she's the black sheep of her family.

The black sheep of her family due to her mental illness
For circumstances beyond her control
For the past six years in and out of institutions
She's worse off than those living on the dole.

Her mum and dad have chosen to disown her
And they do not claim her as one of their own
As do her brother jim and her sister betty
And far apart from them all she has grown.

They do not understand her mental illness
And when she needed them from her they turned away
They only worry about their own egos
And what their wealthy friends might think or say.

The people living in the urban ghettos
Are born poor and as poor they remain
But at least their parents had little to offer
And they are better off than nancy blane.

The poor sad daughter of millionaire parents
For one so young in premature decay
She's only twenty five but she looks much older
Her light brown hair already turning gray.

---

Ivy

by

Francis Duggan

Many of you who have the power to help out others
You have not helped out ivy 'what's her name'
She's sixty years and on the street and homeless
And for her plight you won't take any blame.

You act as if it's her fault she is homeless
But her wealthy landlord on her rose the rent
He would not settle for a couple of dollars
He wanted a rise of forty per cent.

And forty per cent to one hundred is 140
By any standards a substantial rise
And the poor woman on a benefit of 170
That she is homeless now is no surprise.

She gets some help from the salvation army
The salvos to the less well off are kind
It's the bureaucrats and the well off politicians
Who to the sufferings of the underclass are blind.

They do not want to know the likes of ivy
To them she's just a woman on welfare
Their buddies are the wealthy and ambitious
And with their wealthy mates they only share.

One of the city's homeless is poor ivy
The huge hike in rent she could not afford to pay
The rich get rich and the poor keep getting poorer
Why do things always have to be this way?

For every millionaire at least five thousand
Must live close to if not in poverty
And how can i say that all people are equal
When i can see such inequality.

---

The young fellow next door

by

Francis Duggan

The young fellow next door barracks for hawthorn
And after school he kicks the egg shaped ball
He wants to be as great as jason dunstall
And that his name football historians will recall.

He wants to don the brown and gold of hawthorn
And star in a grand final winning team
But the road ahead won't be easy for tony
If one day he's to realize his dream.

If he is to be a great footy player
He must train hard for twelve months every year
He must impress the coaches and football scouts
And stay well clear of narcotics and beer.

The young fellow next door says he'll be famous
And that for the hawthorn football club he'll play
And that he will be the talk of all australia
Ten years from now on the grand final day.

A nine year old with big dreams is the schoolboy tony
He says i'll be an aussie sporting great
And i will lead hawthorn back to glory
And the footy fans my name will celebrate.

On every street there is one like young tony
Who has this dream of an enduring fame
Who is the hero of the great grand final
And kicks the famous goal that wins the game.

---

What do a bunyip loook like

by

Francis Duggan

What do a bunyip look like i asked joe
He said i've never seen one would'nt know
But they grow huge or so i have been told
And they live to be hundreds of years old.

They have inspired the bards and poets to song
And they live deep in the deep billabong
They stir up mud make waters look unclean
And in murky waters they cannot be seen.

But most still claim they've heard it all before
And such stories are just myths and nothing more
And that at billabong bottom only yabbies crawl
And bunyips never did exist at all

John manifold the great australian poet
In his poem the bunyip and the whistling kettle wrote
Of the camper who went for his moonlight swim
And of how a hungry bunyip made a meal of him.

If you want to know what bunyips look like don't ask joe
For he will tell you that he would'nt know
But that they look big and ugly he's been told
And they live to be hundreds of years old.

---

Pied currawong

by

Francis Duggan

From dawn to dark they pipe the same, same song
Sounds very much like curra currawong
Day in day out their music still the same
And humans call them currawong by name.

With feathers mostly black they look much like a crow
But they are different very different though
As they've got white tips on their wings and on their tails
And yellow eyes a yellow shade of pale.

Some people call pied currawong a pest
And to rid australia of them try their best
And by farmer it has often times been said
That currawongs are better by far dead.

Pied currawong man set out to destroy
But race of currawong refused to die
They blamed them for the spread of 'prickly pear'
But man oft in his judgement prove unfair.

They congregate in flocks in early may
And nice to hear them on a winter's day
A curra currawonging on gum trees
A pleasant sound that never fail to please.

---

Django Reinhardt

by

Francis Duggan

Django reinhardt was born in belgium as the record of his life show
At liberchies of gipsy parents over ninety years ago
And he died in france at fontainebleau in nineteen fifty three in may
From the most humble of beginnings he had gone a long long way.

He lost a few fingers of his right hand when he was a twelve year old
In a fire in his caravan so the story has been told
But this did not deter django he still played violin and guitar
He was destined to be famous and his music would be known far.

In the world of jazz he's famous he is in the hall of fame
And he will live on in his music his is an immortal name
Those who love jazz revere django and his name will never die
He will only grow more famous as the years keep rolling by.

Goes to show if you have talent obstacles won't keep you down
Circumstance of birth or social status are not barriers to renown
Born poor and poor you'll remain that's often been proved a lie
Look at dark haired django reinhardt he was once a gipsy boy

Django reinhardt died a young man but his music still remain
And how some have in them natural genius is beyond me to explain
In his lifetime he was famous and in death the legend grow
Of the boy born to gipsy parents over ninety years ago.

---

The old roads of Sliabh Luachra

by

Francis Duggan

From barraduff the mountain road leads to the paps of shrone
Through a mountainy land of famous bards some of the finest known
And left along the narrow road that leads to rathmore town
And the old roads of sliabh luachra keep winding up and down

From rathmore to gneeveguilla up the hill to knocknagree
And from the village on the hill great beauty one can see
Old clara in duhallow and caherbarnagh heights
And one can only marvel at such splendid scenic sights.

The old roads of sliabh luachra i see them in my dreams
And i hear the dippers singing in the free flowing mountain streams
And i hear the skylark singing as towards heaven's gate she fly
High above the gorse and bracken just a small speck in the sky.

The old roads of sliabh luachra i see them every day
And they still are very near to me though i live far away
From the cork and kerry border where i spent my youth and prime
And the memories i thought were fading have not been erased by time.

From barraduff by the paps of shrone and on towards rathmore town
The old roads of sliabh luachra keep winding up and down
And when i visualize i hear the hill sheep bleating on the hill
And the old fields of sliabh luachra i visit them at will.

---

The jingles in my brain

by

Francis Duggan

Out of writing verse so few have made a fortune
And many see it as a waste of time
And what mother now would wish her son to be born with
The once great gift the gift of writing rhyme.

Yet in my soul the rhymes are ever stirring
And the jingles keep on jingling in my brain
And believe me i'd not be penning verses
If i were hell bent on financial gain.

On windblown gum i see the white backed magpie
And i am in the mood for rhyme again
His feathers drenched and yet he pipes so sweetly
Why do birds always whistle in the rain?.

To write of birds and beasts and natural things to many
Seems such a waste of precious energy
And such effort do not put bread on your table
Of what i know of they keep telling me.

It's sad so sad to think that many people
See nature as an unimportant thing
They clear the wood of trees for to build factories
And man made noise where songbirds once did sing.

Human society revolves around greed and money
And many of the most successful people of today
Are those who have defaced the natural landscape
And they'd clear more land if they had their own way.

I know yes i know that this paper that i write on
Not long ago part of a beautiful tree
And i too have cut down trees far too many
And the hypocrisy of mankind too in me.

The jingles in my brain just keep on jingling
And i've been trying to find my soul in rhyme
And i'll continue piecing rhymes together
Though many see that as a waste of time.

---

You made the right decision

by

Francis Duggan

I loved you but you dumped me i remember
You said that you would never be my wife
And though i pined and i felt broken hearted
What choice had i but get on with my life?.

Some end their pain of sense of loss in suicide
Though such a thing never once crossed my mind
I endured love's pain and i got on with living
What's past is past and i put the past behind.

In retrospect you made the right decision
When you told me that i was not for you
Your parents did not see me as your equal
That life together was not for us two.

I felt such hurt at your words of rejection
But on looking back that now seems long ago
And if i met you on the street tomorrow
Your once familiar face i might not know.

This thing called love is not all joy and laughter
It often ends in tears and mental pain
But i've lived through love's heart break and recovered
And i've found love and happiness again.

In dumping me you made the right decision
And you did what was best for you as well as me
And i hope you found love and joy in a soul mate
And thanks a million for love's memory.

---

Hope

by

Francis Duggan

You feel like one lost in a deep dark tunnel
And you call for help and in the darkness grope
For a way out of the blackness that engulf you
And the only thing that gives you strength is hope.

The hope that keeps you going on through your hard times
It is your only friend against despair
Your dream of happiness and success now seem broken
But a broken dream is not beyond repair.

You feel that everybody is against you
And with simple problems now you cannot cope
But there is always one willing to help you
And to give you inspiration strength and hope.

And remember everyone is not against you
Though you only can see enemies about
Your circumstances seem to cloud your judgement
And you still have friends though you feel down and out.

You feel now that the whole world is against you
And that you are sliding down the loser's slope
But there are people out there who will help you
And through the dark will shine the ray of hope..

---

Goodbye to you french island

by

Francis Duggan

The yellow tailed black cockatoos called in the darkening skies
And rain was gently falling as we bade our last goodbyes
The bus took us out the dirt road out towards departure pier
Good bye to you french island we may return next year.

The koalas on the gum trees they doze their life away
Not native to french island though you see them every day
Man brought them from the mainland where clamydial is rife
And on disease free island they live a healthier life.

Goodbye to you french island surrounded by the sea
Where island man with nature live much in harmony
And nature's foe developer as of yet to take a hand
Not wanted by the islanders not hard to understand.

Near 4 p.m. on sunday the twenty first day of july
The rain was gently falling and the black cockies did cry
Goodbye to you french island so brief too brief our stay
But we'll be back to visit in not too distant day.

---

Canungra at foot of mt tamborine

by

Francis Duggan

On flowering trees in park where grass is brown
The friar birds call in queensland mountain town
The afternoon is hot no puff of breeze
And it must be close to thirty five degrees.

The canungra hills dark from a recent blaze
It has'nt rained for over ninety days
The trees on goat track hill as black as coal
From bushfire that had burnt out of control.

The queensland mountain people are sun wise
They wear hats and sunglasses to protect their head and eyes
Skin cancer caused by ultra violet ray
Ignore the sun the price too high to pay.

I spoke to one who had lived since childhood here
A gray haired man well past his sixtieth year
His only wish i hope, i hope t'will rain
But forecast for tomorrow hot again.

I've lived in canungra since i've been young boy
And in all those years i've not seen it so dry
These hills right now with lots of rain could do
A week of heavy rain or even two.

I had come at the wrong time or so t'would seem
To canungra at foot of mt tamborine
And queensland mountain people hope for rain
But forecast for tomorrow 'hot again'.

---

Thelma

by

Francis Duggan

Thelma know all about life's sadder side
Since her only child jan in her forties died
But in public places thelma hide her tears
So noble for one in her twilight years.

I've not seen her in melancholy mood
And i admire her for her fortitude
Where lesser soul might crack under the strain
Brave thelma never known once to complain.

She's eighty seven or so i've been told
And some may look on that as very old
But thelma's health is good, her mind is sane
And she don't ail from any ache or pain.

That look of wisdom in her soulful eyes
She's gentle and kind hearted and she's wise
But thelma know about life's sadder side
Since her daughter jan in her late forties died.

---

What right have you to judge the man

by

Francis Duggan

What right have you to judge the man he's done no harm to you
He has not harmed your kids or wife nor beat you black and blue
The man has never done you wrong and yet you put him down
And doubtless if you had your way you'd run him out of town.

What right have you to judge the man he's guilty of no crime
He's never been before a judge or in jail house spent time
He's never done nobody wrong nor beat his kids and wife
And he works hard for his livelihood and he lives an honest life.

What right have you to judge the man he has no crimes to forgive
And you've heard it said so many times to live and to let live
But you are not one to let live or it would seem that way
You try to taint your fellow man by cruel things that you say.

What right have you to judge the man he don't speak ill of you
He has not harmed your kids or wife nor beat you black and blue
The man has never done you wrong and yet you put him down
And doubtless if you had your way you'd run him out of town.

---

Peace little birds

by

Francis Duggan

They mostly like to hide from watcher eye
But today around the thicket verge they fly
And utter forth their squeaky warning cry
The white browed scrub wrens have their young nearby.

The scrub wrens worry for their family
Two little babes at least or maybe three
In grass nest cloaked by leaves on grass near ground
In scrub with heavy thicket all around.

Peace little birds you have no need to fear
Your babes in nest i will not venture near
No need for you to worry about me
I will not harm your little family.

The scent of gum a gentle summer breeze
And young birds chirping on the sunlit trees
As from scrub wrens territory i walked away
Out of the wood into december day.

---

The pigeon woman

by

Francis Duggan

The pigeons from the rooftop watch as she shuffles by
And they recognize their food source and down towards her they fly
On the grass margins by the pavement the pigeons mill around
As she opens her paper bag full of grain and spreads it around.

Between two and three P.M. seven days a week in weather wet
or fine
She brings with her a small bag of grain in hail, rain or sunshine
And around two o clock on the rooftops the pigeons congregate
They know that feeding time is near and on her arrival wait.

On her next birthday in february Claudia will be seventy four
And she has been feeding pigeons for sixty years or more
She fed them with her grandma as a child in Italy
Before migrating to Melbourne by the pacific sea.

She is one of those people who love creatures great and small
But pigeons are her favourites and she loves them best of all
She fed them with her grand mother when gran was old and gray
And she too will be feeding them until her dying day.

She's known as 'The Pigeon Woman' by those who of her know
And people in their fifties say they saw her years ago
Feeding pigeons by the pavement when she was in her prime
And they were young school goers and that's going back in time

The pigeons seem to know her as she walks down the street
They fly down from the roof top and them she always greet
With a paper bag full of seed and grain which they eat hurriedly
And every day t'is feeding time betwen two o clock and three.

---

A memory of St Davids

by

Francis Duggan

In St Davids in Wales I picked potatoes in my early twenties
And though that was more than thirty years ago
On looking back in time it don't seem that long
The months and years did not drag on that slow.

The picking season lasted three to four weeks
And in the farmer's galvanized pickers shed we stayed
The work was hard you well might say back breaking
And by the bag the farmer always paid.

In St Davids by the sea the nights are chilly
The weather there is never warm in may
And though I had but one blanket for cover
I did sleep sound tired from the tiring day.

There's easier ways by far of making money
And potato picking only for the young and strong
And the rewards of our labour went too quickly
A few nights drinking it did not last long.

I won't be hurrying back to old St Davids
For till the day I die I will recall
A sign that read 'Potato pickers here not welcome'
On notice board nailed to the restaurant wall.

The ignorance of class discrimination
All 'Tatie hokers' were inferior they implied
I never darkened the door of that restaurant
For I too have my sense of worth and pride.

But I met some nice people in St Davids
Can't knock a whole village for the snobbish few
They showed a genuine warmth towards tatie hokers
And our mutual admiration for them grew.

It's been a while since I was in St Davids
And from where I now live it seems far away
I picked potatoes there when in my early twenties
And by the bag the farmer used to pay.

---

Darren

by

Francis Duggan

There is this little boy his name is Darren
And he has this dream that one day he will play
Top class cricket in the colours of Australia
In test matches in countries far away.

He dreams he'll be as famous as Don Bradman
And his portrait hang in cricket hall of fame
And that with his bat he'll top all previous records
And cricket people will revere his name.

He will be nine years old on his next birthday
And to his mum young Darren often say
You will feel proud of me when I'm an adult
For I will be a famous man one day.

But Darren will never play cricket for Australia
As circumstance has already seen to that
The doctors say he won't walk from his wheel chair
Still in his dreams he swings a cricket bat.

The young fellow next door his name is Darren
He sits on wheel chair by the garden gate
He says I will be famous as Don Bradman
And for Australia be a cricket great.

---

Alone with nature

by

Francis Duggan

September just a few miles out of Belgrave
And the gray shrike thrush pipes on a blackwood tree
I climb the high paddock that skirts the woodland
Alone with nature my old dog and me.

I feel a deep love for this grand old country
From the high ground such splendid scenery
A pleasant day with sporadic spells of sunshine
The better things in life are always free.

The rufous whistler whistling in the woodland
Pipe much the same notes over and again
Long after he has finished with his singing
His music in my memory will remain.

On quarter acre affected by dieback
On faded trees the green bellbirds I hear
Their bell like notes can never be mistaken
And they sing all day and twelve months of the year.

I love these times alone with mother nature
In quiet place away from noisy street
And I love the high paddock just out of Belgrave
By the woodland where peace and beauty meet.

All alone with mother nature and my old dog
From the high ground such splendid scenery
On a day in spring and all the birds are singing
And the better things in life are always free.

---

A showery October afternoon

by

Francis Duggan

It is a showery afternoon water drips from the trees
But it's not cold a mild spring day perhaps twenty degrees
In late October in the hills you do get days like these
When morning sun give way to showers though cool enough the breeze.

The black faced cuckoo shrike is back from places far away
A bird you never can mistake in cloak of silver gray
And in the wood the high pitched voice of the gray currawong
These birds you come to recognize by their distinctive song.

On the high gum tree in their nest young magpies chirp and call
And October in the Dandenongs the loveliest month of all
The high paddocks of Belgrave south are looking lush and green
And mother nature beautiful as lovely as I've seen.

The migratory welcome swallows back in the hills again
They fly low o'er the paddocks the flies are low in rain
My favourite season of the year has always been the spring
In storm and rain and sunshine the wild birds chirp and sing

This morning pretty butterflies flitted around the flowers
But the afternoon turned cloudy and sun gave way to showers
In October in the Dandenongs you do get days like these
A day of showers and sun shine water dripping off the trees.

---

The wake of 'Jack Will Bill'

by

Francis Duggan

It's been almost fifty years as I remember
And many autumn leaves gone with the flooded rill
Since I first saw the face of a dead person
The silent remains of old 'Jack Will Bill'.

I recall that evening I walked through the fields of Lisnaboy upper
With my aunty Mary and my uncle Dan
To Jack Will Bill's son's farmhouse where the wake was
For to pay our last respects to the old man.

His friends and neighbours around his corpse assembled
All sad faced they gazed on the face of death
In Lisnaboy he farmed his fields and raised his children
And in Lisnaboy he drew his final breath.

Eyes closed in death he lay upon his death bed
A ghostly figure he looked pale and gray
His hands joined on his chest as if in prayer
And all signs of life from him had gone away.

Between his stiff bent fingers was a black rosary bead
And of all of life's cares and sufferings he was free
And between the spells of silence in the wake room
They said a decade of the rosary.

Dressed for his coffin in a dark brown habit
By Cullen church his final resting place
We sat around the waking room in silence
Gazing on his pale and lifeless wrinkled face.

A tearful old lady wearing a black shawl
Whispered to another 'he now is with the angels up above'
He was a saint a fly he would not harm
And his soul was full of kindness, warmth and love.

As we walked home through the moonlit fields in the early morning
The freshening winds blew with a rainy chill
And my aunty said 'the countless stars were shining'
For to light the way to god for Jack Will Bill.

---

On seeing a Willy wagtail's nest

by

Francis Duggan

The day was warm and scarce a puff of breeze
And as I walked by a strand of sapling trees
A little cup shaped nest wedged in fork caught my eye
And a Willy wagtail around me did fly.

No more than a metre above the ground
And the bird annoyed that her nest I had found
Chirped and flew above my head in a threat display
As she tried to hurry me upon my way.

From where I stood her eggs not hard to see
Palish with light brown spots I counted three
In a tiny nest formed with painstaking care
Of lichen, spiders webs and strands of hair.

One don't see such things of beauty every day
Close to the road and not hidden away
And one might have thought she'd have found a safer place
For to insure the survival of her race?.

As I walked on she returned to her nest
For to warm her eggs to life beneath her breast
And shrike thrush's song it cheered me on my way
On a warm though not so breezy summer's day.

---

We only read about the wealthy few

by

Francis Duggan

We read of Michael Jordan who has millions,
Of the British royals Camilla, Charles and Di
And of Michael Jackson and his many scandals
But still another child of hunger die.

We read of Fergie who has squandered millions
And of Kerry Packer on a gambling spree
And of Hugh Grant and the beautiful Liz Hurley
But do we want to read of poverty?.

We read about Madonna and her baby
And Courtney Love and her new great career
But in a war torn land ravaged by hunger
A mother weeps 'her sobs we do not hear'.

We read of Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltzin
And of the travels of his holiness the Pope
But the young mother found drowned in the Yarra
We dismiss her as one who could'nt cope.

We read of Hollywood the rich and famous
The sporting greats and wealthy billionaire
But we don't read about the struggling mother
Who has to raise her children on welfare.

We read about the trials of O.J.Simpson
Some say he's guilty others say he's not
But we don't read of the victims of the war lord
They are not important they must be forgot.

We do not read about the poor and hungry
The suffering and the hardships they've been through
Their stories are not worthy of our interest
We only read about the wealthy few.

---

Miss Revair the Bellydancer

by

Francis Duggan

Miss Revair the bellydancer for perfection she still strive
Some say fifty six on her next birthday whilst others mention fifty five
And others say she is much younger forty two or forty three
But that she is a classy dancer on that every one agree.

Miss Revair is quite a lady free of any sort of guile
She always looks young and happy and she charms you with her smile
She don't use tints dyes or colours those who know her better say
And yet through her curly locks of light brown you will not see any gray.

Her potrait painted by famed artists and poets have honoured her in rhyme
And people say with some amazement she can't be beyond her prime
In her soft skin there's no wrinkles and she is one you won't upstage
And she looks as young and more attractive than many even half her age.

Miss Revair the bellydancer every time she takes the floor
People stare in sheer amazement and at the end a loud encore
Some say she is in her fifties whilst many tend to disagree
And others claim she's in her early forties, forty two or forty three.

---

On Premier Bracks

by

Francis Duggan

He's no better or worse than Jeffrey Kennett
Except of course he has a bit more guile
And to Labor he wooed the Victorian voters
Perhaps his secret it is in his smile.

Steve Bracks the Labor party leader and Premier of Victoria
Has yet to help Victoria's many poor
And just like Jeff his haughty predecessor
The wealthy with him don't feel insecure.

The only difference between Bracks and Kennett
Is that Kennett to his colours was more true
The Liberals never represent the battlers
They only care about the well to do.

Premier Bracks the leader of Victoria's so called Labor party
A Labor party in name little more
The rich grow richer and the poor keep getting poorer
And the cost of living seem to soar and soar.

What Australia needs is a proper Labor party
A party in it's roots that can take pride
A party that will represent the battlers
The lower paid workers and the unemployed.

But what Australia has is three conservative parties
Which gives some voters not much of a choice
Like the Liberals and Nationals, Labor now is right wing
Labor principles for power that is their price.

Steve Bracks the Labor Premier of Victoria
In the public opinion polls he's riding high
But he and his government of not much help to the battlers
As per usual they must struggle to get by.

---

On reading poems of W.W.Gibson

by

Francis Duggan

If I could write verse half as good as Gibson did then I would be referred to as a poet
For at many poetry gatherings and readings from his poems a verse or two is often quote
Amongst the Georgian poets of Great Britain he still is rated as one of the best
His poems of genius works of inspiration born of his sympathy for the oppressed.

A friend of Rupert Brooke's and a war soldier and as a poet not many great as he
The poet from Hexham a down to earth fellow and for the poor in his poems you see empathy
He died in sixty two when I was a teenager at the ripe old age of eighty four
The poet may be gone to the grim reaper but in his poems he'll live forever more.

I love the poems of Wilfred Wilson Gibson you see in them originality
And you see in them the hallmark of the genius the majic of the poet in his poetry
'Flannan's isle' and 'The Hare' works of great beauty and I've read and re-read 'The Dancing Seal'
The poet in his poems will live forever and his marvellous verses border the surreal.

One of the great poets of the Georgian era his poems live on in literary history
You read the poems of the great poet from Hexham and they will live on in your memory
And through his poems the poet will live forever for as long as poetry lives his name won't die
And in his poems the hallmark of the genius and he left them for others to enjoy.

---

Joy and Sorrow

by

Francis Duggan

One can hear the voice of sorrow sobbing, sobbing endlessly
Yet it hides in dark recesses sorrow you can never see
It's a black and brooding creature with a voice that aches of pain
And all of those who have met with it hope not to meet with it again.

Joy is always bright and breezy joy has got a laughing face
And where ever joy is present you will find a happy place
Joy is loved by everybody the scars of grief it can repair
It is such a happy creature joy is welcome everywhere.

There is not one who likes sorrow you will not hear some one say
I've met with sorrow this morning and meeting it has made my day
At the mention of the name of sorrow people pretend not to hear
But joy always bright and happy greets you with a lusty cheer.

Sorrow it is dark and tearful and it hides in a dark and lonely place
But joy is always bright and cheerful and it greets you with a laughing face
And everybody hates old sorrow as it always gives rise to woe
But joy the happiest of the happy the one all people wish to know.

---

On hearing a Boobook Owl

by

Francis Duggan

I can hear the boobook calling in those woods not far away
He is calling in the gum wood bird that hide from lamp of day
Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook is a calling when the woods are dark and quiet.

Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the wood mouse cringe in fear
For he know his life's in danger when the boobook's voice he hear
And he take the safety measure and he quickly go to ground
For the safest place his burrow when the boobook is around.

Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the tiny silver eye
Awaken from her slumber and to safer place she fly
And the silver eye remember and she know too well she know
That the boobook is a killer t'is her mother told her so.

Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the yellow robin wake
And she fly off from her roosting perch for her own safety sake
And her instincts tell the robin for to find a safer tree
And she know that boobook show no mercy for small song bird such as she.

Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook owl is calling and the woods are dark and quiet
And the wood mouse and the robin and the tiny silver eye
Go in search of safer shelter when they hear the boobook's cry.

---

She went for old Willie instead

by

Francis Duggan

You might say she's not unattractive well educated and well read
And she is in her early twenties and her best days in life are ahead
She could have had a man of her own age as two fancy her Johnny and Fred
But she refused both their advances and she went for old Willie instead.

On his last birthday Willie was fifty twenty eight years older than she
And her friends they ask her quite frankly whatever in him do you see?
For gray haired Willie is five times a grand dad and his eldest son is thirty three
But she says I find young men boring and Willie much better for me.

Blond Jenny was raised by her mother and she has never known her dad
And she has found in older Willie something she craved but never had
She has found herself a father figure and filled the great gap in her life
And in her womb carries his baby and soon she is to be his wife.

Well educated young and good looking but she's with a silvery haired man
One three decades older than she is in human years a lengthy span
She could have been with one of her own age but she rejected Johnny and Fred
She had yearned for the love of a father and she went for old Willie instead.

---

By the cover you can't judge the book

by

Francis Duggan

It has been said by those who profess to know
That our body language our personality show
That a truthful person will look you in the face
Which seems a 'load of bull' in any case.

And that every liar eye contact will avoid
As if the soul has secrets for to hide
But if by the cover you can't judge the book
Then how can you judge people by how they look.

It's been said that conceit in one you can see
By their body language perhaps this well might be
But many of the people who seemed to me conceited were not that way at all
And thought has often proved me wrong I now recall.

A few people that I had grown to trust
Proved sly and two faced much to my disgust
And one of them even stole from my purse
And though proven guilty me he did not reimburse.

Psychologists even have been known to disagree
Whether on body language one can read personality
And if by the cover you can't judge the book
How can you judge people by how they look.

---

It was Padraig Cronin told me

by

Francis Duggan

It was Padraig Cronin told me how the ghosts of Ireland died
When the Irish freedom fighters only had one place to hide
And that was in the graveyards in the tombs they hid away
And their fear of ghosts then vanished that's what Padraig used to say.

I was just a little boy then and much too young to understand
How the black and tans those bad men chased the ghosts out of Ireland
And I thought Padraig was only joking when he said the black and tan
Rid the fear of ghosts and spirits from the freedom fighting man.

But now I know how right he was their superstitions fed their fear
And when the British ravaged Ireland their phobias did disappear
They found safety in the graveyards and the British never knew
Where those who offered most resistance for safe hiding place went to.

All the ghosts who lived in Ireland are forever dead and gone
T'was the black and tans who killed them though some ghost stories still live on
When I was a little fellow on a bright and breezy day
It was Padraig Cronin told me as he built a rick of hay.

---

To Doris

by

Francis Duggan

She said I come from a land flanked by the warmer seas
A flat brown land that stretch for miles with hardly any trees
In my dreams I see the big game parks and the open plains I see
'Oh' Africa my Africa I hear you calling me.

I hear the male lion cough and roar and the wild hyena scream
And the natives dance before my eyes so real to me they seem
I hear them singing in the night and their drumming I too hear
And Africa close to my heart though miles away from here.

Doris accent is a give away as accents often are
You'd know that to get to this great land that she's had to travel far
Her lovely South African accent one never should mistake
The migrant may live far from home but ties that bind are hard to break.

A farmer's daughter from South Africa her life story ought be told
A woman close to eighty years though she don't look that old
A teenager in the thirties the hard life she has been through
Her only brother a prisoner of war in Europe in world war two.

Her ill mother convinced her son had died lost the will to live on
And he returned home to the tragic news that his mum was dead and gone
There's sorrow blood and tears in war and tragedy as well
And for mums with sons on battlefields life must be living hell.

She raised five sons in South Africa and one died at twenty five
Brain damaged by measles as a child she helped him to survive
And Doris with great sadness says that her son's life was far too brief
There's ups and downs in life she says and there's happiness and grief.

With her son and daughter in law she lives east of Melbourne now by road off 'One tree hill'
A woman from a far country and suppose she always will
Feel homesick for her home country, I love Australia she say
But my homeland is South Africa the brown land far away.

---

Dick Spence

by

Francis Duggan

Dick Spence is an old fellow from New Zealand
He lives in Dalyston with his daughter and son in law
And his pride and joy his wee grand daughter Jackie
Now learning to talk to scribble and to draw.

He's sixty eight but than that he looks younger
And he always looks well dressed and neat and clean
And though he is one who has to live with asthma
For man his age he looks quite fit and lean.

His mum and dad migrated to New Zealand
From England more than half a world away
And though no longer in the world of the living
He still talks of them with reverence today.

He says his mum and dad were special people
And from them he learned the lessons of right from wrong
And they always led the way by good example
And his bond to them had always been so strong.

Dick Spence has lived for most of his life in New Zealand
In the South Island many miles away
But now he's happy and content in Dalyston
And t'would seem he's in Australia for to stay.

---

I see them every morning

by

Francis Duggan

I see them every morning in the early morning sky
And they pierce the silence of the dawn with grating harsh like cries
The sulphur crested cockatoos towards feeding paddocks fly
What's grating to the human ear is beauty to the eye.

A beautiful white cockatoo with palish yellow crest
And in spring and early summer in hole in tree they nest
Two white oval shaped eggs are laid and on rare ocasions three
And the average life span for these birds a half a century.

On roosting trees in fading light they make a lot of noise
And they jostle for good feeding perch as the moon begin to rise
They squabble for good sleeping spot on high branch of gum tree
But most times they tend to agree and live in harmony.

These noisy big white cockatoos in large flocks congregate
And I see them every morning and in the evening late
And though they don't have pleasant song to sing it is breath taking sight
To watch them fly towards feeding grounds in the early morning light.

---

A holy war

by

Francis Duggan

I've always thought that the word holy involved prayer
But the muslims of Ambon in Indonesia say they ought declare
A holy war on all christians living there
And religious tolerance seems strained beyond repair.

But a holy war there is no such a thing
For death and sufferings war can only bring
And even war that's fought in allah's name
Cannot be seen as a lesser act of shame.

The words holy and war are different as chalk and cheese
As different as the birds are to the bees
They are not compatible in any way
Forgive them if they know not what they say.

Don't ask me who is wrong or who is right
The muslims or the christians in this fight
But since they cannot seem to live in harmony
They are as bad as each other it would seem to me.

One must go back to the crusades and that's back far
When men for god declared a holy war
When religious fervour gave rise to inhumanity
Yet mankind has not learned from history.

That men go to war over boundaries and land
Is something that I try to understand
But a holy war there is no such a thing
As death and sufferings war can only bring.

---

The life of Charlie

by

Francis Duggan

'The life of riley' a saying from long ago
It means the good life he or she only know
To Prince Charles of Britain those words must apply
Born as a prince and as a king he'll die.

'The life of Charlie' for one with everything
For the man who one day will be Britain's King
When his mum the Queen decides she will step down
Her eldest son the one who wears the crown.

The British Royalists to their monarchs bow
And in India they have their sacred cow
And each one need someone or something to admire
But is Charlie Windsor a man to inspire?.

'The life of Charlie' the man has it made
And by his subjects he is grossly overpaid
And in newspapers his photo far too often seen
The will be King whose mother is the Queen.

Will Charles and his Camilla one day wed?
Too much of that been written and been said
For in a world of so much poverty
He's a symbol of inequality.

---

Don't worry mate

by

Francis Duggan

For weeks on end now you've been in despair
You are stone broke and feel that life's unfair
Refused for small loan from your so called friend Ted,
Don't worry mate there's better days ahead.

Your erstwhile friends don't call you on the phone
And you feel sad and very much alone
The faithless rats your sinking ship have fled
But don't worry mate there's better days ahead.

Your boss refused you a small rise in pay
And nothing now seems to be going your way
And of disappointments you've had more than your share
But things will get better if you hang in there.

You feel things for you could not be much worse
And that someone on you must have put a curse
But on you soon dame fortune she may smile
And the hard lessons you have learned may seem worth while.

You've ben struggling hard just for to make ends meet
But don't cave in for that would mean defeat
And just remember what the old bloke said
'Don't worry mate there's better days ahead'.

---

Somewhere

by

Francis Duggan

Somewhere in the morning gray
In the woodlands far away
Songbirds pipe their melodies
On the green and leafy trees.

Somewhere there's a mountain rill
Rippling down a grassy hill
Near where snowdrops bloom as white as snow
And where the shy cock pheasant crow.

Somewhere with the joys of spring
Small brown skylark takes to wing
And carolling upwards as he fly
Towards the gray clouds of the sky.

Somewhere chaffinch on her nest
With her eggs warm beneath her breast
Listens to her mate's aggressive song
Around his borders all day long.

Somewhere in a river near the bank
Where the water reeds grow rank
Moorhen utters her shrill cry
To warn her young of enemy nearby.

Somewhere in a remote glen
On the grass outside their den
Red cub foxes roll and play
In the twilight of the day.

Somewhere in the morning gray
North of here and miles away
Shy birds build their nests and sing
In the green woods of the spring.

---

No use

by

Francis Duggan

No use in ruing all your golden lost chances
Or for the opportunities you failed to take
For every winner there must be a loser
And reputations often are at stake.

No use in saying 'I could be well to do now'
If I had taken every chance that came my way
But your future is the only thing that matter
Since you cannot change what happened yesterday.

No use in seeking comfort in self pity
And having the look of sadness on your face
Few wish to know you if you feel unhappy
If the 'poor me' mentality you embrace.

You wonder why your friends don't wish to know you
Though it is not of you they wish to know
But the sad and hard luck stories that you tell them
Who wants to hear of your litany of woe?.

No use in telling others your sad stories
For to them yourself you never will endear
They have enough of problems in their own lives
And of your hard luck they don't wish to hear.

---

Sally Trench

by

Francis Duggan

She led a convoy of trucks through war torn Bosnia
With food for the children in refugee camps there
On dangerous roads that were criss crossed with land mines
The Sally Trench's of this world are rare.

She could have stayed in comfort home in England
And the plight of Bosnia's children chosen to ignore
But she thought 'no' I'll help the starving children
And in history her name will live forever more.

Even the most negative person could not help but say 'well done'
For here is one so easy to admire
Just goes to show what a brave woman can accomplish
And her story is a story to inspire.

She could have stayed at home the same as I did
And hear the news from Bosnia far away
And say seems a pity that I cannot help them
But actions than words far greater any day.

She could have opted for the easy option
And utter worthless words of sympathy
But she went there and helped the innocent sufferers
The victims of man's inhumanity.

Her's is the story of a gutsy woman
Brave Sally Trench is one that I revere
She led her noble truck drivers through Bosnia
And she was fearless in the gap of fear.

---

In the Village of Rathmore

by

Francis Duggan

She had loved him and she still do and love's ache hurt to the core
But he left her and forgot her in the village of Rathmore
Promised her he'd be back to her he'd return by the May
But she never more did see him and where he live now who can say.

She has lost some of her beauty through her brown locks strands of gray
Youth bring a fresh flush of beauty that passing time will take away
She's known love and disappointment for the future what's in store
For a spinster in her mid life in the village of Rathmore?.

He went off one bleak december many, many years ago
When the hill of Caherbarnagh wore his christmas hat of snow
Like the migrant bird of winter he landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the village of Rathmore.

Time has eased the ache that love brought but the memory remain
Of the man she loved who left her could she ever love again?
There's a saying that still rings truly 'once bitten and twice shy'
If by love you have been hurted is love worth another try?.

She was loveliest in the village when she was in her prime day
And she had loved and she had trusted and for both such high
price to pay
He went off one bleak december and landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the village of Rathmore.

---

George Crabbe

by

Francis Duggan

He wrote about the england of the times
'The Borough and the Village and Peter Grimes'
And he wrote about the hardships the outcasts did endure
George Crabbe the poet of the English poor.

He lived when Robert Burns rose to fame
And Oliver Goldsmith became a household name
When Gray and Wordsworth their great verses wrote
The poor were championed by George Crabbe the poet.

Had he not written for the poor down trodden race
His verse might be placed in a higher place
He might have written of dashing knight and king
But of the poor alone he chose to sing.

Some say the poems of Crabbe were born of tears
And his verses are not for the wealthier's ears
And though the wealthy of the poor don't wish to hear
The poet Crabbe to his feelings was sincere.

He lived when the great poets were in their prime
And to write for England's poor his only crime
And George Crabbe long dead but we still have his rhyme
And still his verses stand the test of time.

---

The wandering Albatross

by

Francis Duggan

The wandering albatross fly far away
From island where he first saw light of day
More than two thousand miles closer to three
He follow ships across the southern sea.

From schooldays I remember Coleridge's Rime
Those verses which have stood the test of time
His 'ancient mariner' burdened with the cross
For killing of the noble albatross.

The bird with over three metre wing span
Follow the trawlers of the sea going man
Above the boats all day and night he fly
Born on the shore but out at sea he die.

He'll return to his island by the sea
To mate with wife and bring forth family
And then fly off to wander far away
From island where he first saw light of day.

Were I an albatross I too would fly
Above the sea going ships in southern sky
And across the southern oceans I would roam
Two thousand miles closer to three from home.

---

The Corncrake heard no more

by

Francis Duggan

My memory take me back long years to when I was young boy
To evenings in mid summer in june and in july
The corncrake called in darkened mead the same notes o'er and o'er
But now in part of Ireland where I lived the corncrake heard no more.

In most of their old breeding grounds the corncrakes now don't breed
The earlier cutting of the grass stripped cover they did need
The silage harvester took it's toll their nests and eggs destroyed
And in green meadow near my home the voice of corncrake died

The corncrake's voice no longer heard in meads of Duhallow
And I've not heard their familiar calls for thirty years or so
The earlier cutting of the grass left the birds with nowhere
to hide
And the corncrakes have disappeared from my native countryside.

On summer evenings long ago some hours after nightfall
In darkened meadows near my home the corncrakes did call
But the migrant rail no longer heard lost to posterity
And that voice I loved when I was young now just a memory.

---

To love, to honour and obey

by

Francis Duggan

To love, to honour and obey
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.

Her husband quite a pleasant man
With him she always had her way
And he adhered to his marriage vows
To love, to honour and obey.

He quickly aged before his time
And poor health gave way to decay
And he died at forty nine years old
And a cheap headstone tell where he lay.

And she made sure she held her looks
And with tints and dyes she hid her gray
And she paid huge sum for new face lift
And she looked like one in her prime day.

In time she met with younger man
And though with him she did not have her way
They married and she kept her vows
To love, to honour and obey.

To love, to honour and obey
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.

---

On seeing a flock of Starlings

by

Francis Duggan

A flock of starlings in the evening sky
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.

They searched for insects in grdens, lawns and leas
And perched on fences, electricity lines and trees
And as they flew from tree to fence post and to gate
Scraps of songs of others they would imitate.

It's been said that they compete for nest sites with native birds
And some ornithologists for them use coarser words
But in their coming to Australia they had no say
As t'was Europeans first brought them when they came to stay

A huge flock of starlings a familiar sight
As they flew towards roosting place to spend their night
And I marvelled at the swiftness of their flight
As they hurried homeward in the fading light.

A flock of starlings in the evening sky
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.

---

On talking to an old Italian man

by

Francis Duggan

So many years since nineteen thirty three
When I came here from northern Italy
The language of Australia I could not speak
And many people thought I was a greek.

I dug trenches with strong work hardened men
And I was only barely nineteen then
A migrant half a world away from home
The loneliness of the exile I have known.

At twenty years I met my wife to be
A dark haired rose of northern Italy
Marie was seven months older than me
When we settled down to start a family.

The happiest years of life that I did know
She bore me children Paul and Julio
Two healthy children and a loving wife
What more could any one man ask of life?.

I worked as contract drainer 'by the yard'
The money quite good though the work was hard
A young migrant in a great and new country
I made good use of opportunity.

Though that was years and years and years ago
On looking back those years did quickly flow
My shoulders drooped, my legs grown weak and slow
And look at me now my hair as white as snow.

The loneliest I have been for years and years
Marie is dead 'his eyes filled up with tears'
She was good wife and she meant so much to me
'I pitied him that son of Italy'.

I pitied him for his great sense of loss
In his twilight years his was a heavy cross
An old man he must face the end alone
Without the greatest friend he'd ever known.

---

He told me Jesus loves you

by

Francis Duggan

He wished me a happy new year and to me reached his hand
And you might say that we 'shook on it' yet I could not understand
When he told me Jesus loves you 'methought' how would he know
The thoughts of one who lived on this earth two thousand years ago

If as he says jesus loves me his feelings he don't show
My credit card is overdrawn and my debts to the bank grow
And if jesus really loves me he would not see me poor
He would not leave me cash strapped and financially insecure

At Southbank after midnight the fireworks lit the sky
And thousands were looking skywards and whooping loud with joy
And balloons were bursting and sparklers sparkling and neon lights did shine
And on the stage Vanetta Fields was singing 'Auld lang syne'.

And a bloke in his twenties wished me a happy new year
But when he said that jesus loves you I did not pretend to hear
For how could he or anyone ever profess to know
The thoughts of one who lived on earth two thousand years ago?.

---

I'd love to see the gorse in bloom

by

Francis Duggan

I'd love to see the gorse in bloom again
And in the morning hear the chaffinch sing
And hear the curlew piping in the bog
As carolling skylark towards the cloud world wing.

I'd love to see the bluebell flowers in bloom
On grassy verges of the stone bohreen
And hear again the litle dipper sing
On rock midst rapid of the mountain stream.

I'd love to see the old home town again
Where years ago mine was a well known face
My next door neighbour I don't even know
I feel a stranger in a foreign place.

I sit here alone talking to myself
Watching the raindrops running down the pane
The winter winds are soughing in the gums
And the currawongs are calling in the rain.

I long for days that never can return
The clock ticks on how quick the years go by
Why must I keep on living in the past
When the man can never grow back to a boy?.

A migrant half a world away from home
And a stranger in this land I'll always be
But I know if I went back home right now
I'd feel a stranger in my own country.

I'd love to see the gorse in bloom again
And hear the redbreast pipe on hawthorn tree
But I'm a migrant in a foreign land
Andf a stranger in my homeland now I'd be.

---

The murmuring cails

by

Francis Duggan

O'er the cails river the leafless trees wave
As the winds of december violently rave
But the unperturbed water still singing it's song
Like a wandering minstrel keeps moving along.

November has gone and the fishes have spawned
And the great feast of christmas it all but has dawned
The sweet flowers of nature have perished and gone
And on this day the golden sun never once shone.

But whether the weather be gloomy or fair
The cails go on murmuring as if not to care
On through the fields of shannaknuck and liscreagh
And through the rushy lands of claraghatlea.

How lovely to stand in the season of spring
At aunagloor bridge listening to the birds sing
And watch the dappled trout jumping for fly
As the dusky cails water pass tranquilly by.

It is often I stood by lone kippagh lake
Where the cails murmuring waters from slumber awake
And followed it's course like a man in a dream
Through Ballydaly peaceful and green.

It is pleasant to stand when the summer sun glow
At the lyre where the cails into the finnow flow
The good fortune to behold such a scene is a treat
Where those beautiful rivers of freedom do meet.

---

Don't talk to me

by

Francis Duggan

Don't talk to me of your life's uphill battle
For life's struggles I ought to know about
T'was want and need that forced me from the north lands
And I'm no better off here in the south.

Don't talk to me of your sad lack of money
Since all I can offer you is sympathy
But remember there are many millions like you
Who live quite close to or in poverty.

Don't talk to me about your hard luck stories
Since I know that life has been so hard on you
But having said that you ought to remember
That others have their hard luck stories too.

Don't talk to me of your low social status
Of how the well to do on you because of your address look down
Remember you are not the only person
Who has been born on the wrong side of the town.

Don't talk to me about your sad existence
I can't help you though you seem poorer than I
And remember there are millions worse off than you
And by life they too have been hard done by.

---

I'd love to be a wealthy sugar daddy

by

Francis Duggan

I'd love to be a wealthy 'sugar daddy'
With a beautiful young girl friend of twenty two to twenty nine
And though she may have been deflowered before I'd met her
I would not worry that would suit me fine.

The young chaps of me would feel very jealous
They'd point and stare and to each other say
That old bloke has a young and pretty woman
And he is decades beyond his prime day.

The wealthy blokes get the finest of young women
'Not much of course that money cannot buy'
In a few years from now she will be very wealthy
There can't be much time left in the old guy.

The bloke is old enough to be our grand dad
Yet his woman as young and far prettier than ours
Us young working class types are left with the passed overs
The wealthy old blokes have taken all the flowers.

I'd love to be a wealthy 'sugar daddy'
And with a pretty young one in her prime
I'd leave the young blokes feeling green with envy
And show them money wins out every time.

---

The Waterhen's wild cry

by

Francis Duggan

To think that the past is forever past a bigger fool am I
For it's followed me across the world the waterhen's wild cry
The memories still fresh with me remain of when I was a boy
The shrill call of the water bird rang in the pond nearby

Her four chicks swam in the brackish pond, red faced and dark and small
And from a clump of water reeds the anxious mum did call
She called on them to join her and her they did obey
And quiet and safe from watcher's eyes they hid themselves away.

In a clear sky the sun shone bright it was a pleasant day
And finches sung and hawthorns wore her blossoms of the may
And the waterhen called to her young to warn of danger near
A lesson in survival in the things they ought to fear.

The past forever is the past at least so some believe
But if you feel that way then you like I your own self you deceive
It's followed me across the world the waterhen's wild cry
And it's been more than forty years since I was a schoolboy.

---

Olinda east of Melbourne

by

Francis Duggan

The mountain ash trees at Olinda stand on the higher ground
And in their part of the world the tallest trees around
And in the sunlit gardens the rhododendrons are in bloom
Amongst the pleasing aroma of nature's own perfume.

In Olinda east of Melbourne the world is quiet and green
And for scenic beauty it can compare with the finest I have seen
The poets have written about it and on art gallery wall
I've seen great paintings of Olinda by great painters I recall.

At Olinda east of Melbourne the greeness stay all year
And the birds are always singing there and even on the wet days of the year
On the higher branches of the windblown gums you hear them all day long
Big dark birds familiar to the treed hills the great pied currawong.

The highest part of Sherbrooke I've heard some people say
Is Olinda east of Melbourne where the greeness all year stay
And though suburbia is a short drive no more than 15 k's away
Where the world is quiet and greener the birds sing all the day.

---

The sensitive one

by

Francis Duggan

You feel that the whole world is against you and kind things of you others do not say
But you are one who has not harmed anybody and to help some
you have gone out of your way
You've overheard two so called friends talking about you and
they seemed very critical of you
Don't worry their opinions do not matter for they belong to the judgemental few.

Your problem is that you are far too sensitive and in choosing your friends you don't seem so wise
Your so called mates were not your mates in the first place in a world of men boys always will be boys
Like you these fellows now are in their twenties but unlike you still at the primary school stage
Some people don't grow up as they grow older you well might say they never come of age.

The sensitive like you hurt far too easily and their feelings not that hard to hurt at all
Leave what your so called mates said about you to experience
In the big picture their type always seem small
But the sensitive like you will always have the problem of fragile feelings that hurt far too easily
Do not expect too much of other people is the only advice you will get from me.

In choosing your mates you have'nt chosen wisely and in your
hurted feelings now the price you pay
But I hope you learn from your error in judgement for your mates were never your mates anyway
Some people grow older but they don't grow up they remain at
the primary school going stage
And even if they live on to be eighty they never ever seem to come of age.

---

The hunks of Broadbeach town

by

Francis Duggan

Wearing shorts and sleeveless singlets their arms and legs bronzed brown
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.

When they look in their mirrors their egos self inflates
But to build such mass of muscles must take more than lifting weights
You don't get such big muscles no matter how you strain
They must be taking steroids how else can one explain?.

You see them with their women along the Broadbeach strand
Or pacific fair or the oasis out walking hand in hand
Maybe you think I'm jealous perhaps that may be so
I'm fat and bald and older and muscles I can't show.

If I were young with huge muscles I might feel vain as they
I might wear shorts and singlets my physique on display
I'd stroll hand in hand through Broadbeach with young beauty of nineteen
And I'd think myself the finest the finest ever seen.

In shorts and sleeveless singlets their arms and legs bronzed brown
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.

---

The shadow chaser

by

Francis Duggan

He commit for treatment people with manic depression and schizophrenia
Medical terms used by psychiatrists for those they consider mad
People who at times feel happy for no reason
And at other times seem sour withdrawn and sad

But the psychiatrist himself ought to be committed
If you can go by what some people say
If rumours are true the man has lost his senses
And for his own good should be locked away.

He's been seen in the parkland chasing shadows
Strange for a man of fifty bald and gray
For chasing shadows don't seem normal for an adult
It is a game only young children play.

There is no harm in one who chases shadows
He's one you need not have to fear or dread
But for an adult it seems strange behaviour
And in some way he seems not right in the head.

He is an expert on mental behaviour
And many think him clever wise and sane
But if some people say they see him chasing shadows
Then doubts about his sanity remain.

And if this be so the doctor like his patients
For his own safety should be locked away
But more than often there is little truth in rumour
And what's been said might only be hear say.

---

Young looking Pru

by

Francis Duggan

She worries about the look of her backside
The size of it a small dent to her pride
But her backside don't look that big at all
Compared to others it seems only small.

Cosmetics keep the ageing signs at bay
And with light brown dye she hide her natural gray
And her face lift from her face took years away
And she feels determined that young looking she will stay.

When ego inflater ask what age are you?
You look so young not more than twenty two
'Oh' thank you sir how kind of you to say
You are the fourth who have said how young I look today.

She hides her years in vanity old Pru
There is not much that money cannot do
What plastic surgeon hide the naked eyes can't see
But on last october she was sixty three.

Some women in old age look dignified
The gray and wrinkles age bring they don't hide
Whilst some large sums of money even pay
To hide from eyes their wrinkles and their gray.

And such a woman is young looking Pru
The ego inflater tell her she looks twenty two
But on last october she was sixty three
And what plastic surgeons hide the eyes can't see.

---

William Allingham

by

Francis Duggan

In Laurence Bloomfield In Ireland lives the genius of the poet
About the hardships and the evictions he wrote
That took place in the Ireland of his time
When to be poor was punishable crime.

He lived when famine ravaged his homeland
You know of history you might understand
Why Ireland once was land of death and tears
The sufferings of the poor in famine years.

His poem on the fairies is a gem of joy
I learned it by heart as a school going boy
In all his verse the human feelings there
The laughter, joy, the sorrow and despair.

A bard the critics tend to under rate
But William Allingham a poetic great
More than a century dead but his verses still survive
And that part of him still very much alive.

And since he left poems to be remembered by
The bard lives on and his fame will never die
And the Erne through Ballyshannon flows along
And the bard still living in his gift of song.

---

Forgotten People

by

Francis Duggan

In council flats live the forgotten people
At the slum end the poorer side of town
They live on welfare like their dads before them
And from where they live a long hike to renown.

They always wear their football scarves and beanies
And take them with them everywhere they go
They worship their football teams and football heroes
The only sort of culture that they know.

Their addresses they find not to their advantage
For employees employers look elsewhere
They tend to think that those living in the slum parts
Unfit for work and softened from welfare.

With the council flats the cops are well acquainted
They know it as a breeding ground for crime
There are not many there without crime record
Who have not been in jail and served out time.

Those born there are born to disadvantage
The expectations of them is to fail
How can you expect to end up a winner
If all your role models have been to jail?.

How can you expect to soar like an eagle
If you don't have the powerful wings to fly
If you don't have role models to inspire you
To have success in life you may not try?.

The politicians only call to see them
To beg them for their votes on voting day
But when they are elected to high office
From council flats they tend to keep away.

By circumstance of birth forgotten people
Condemned to life of crime and poverty
Still they are less impure in ways than many
Who have climbed to highest branch of success tree.

---

The Dingo

by

Francis Duggan

The dingo don't have many friends and farmer for him gunning
But dingo is a clever dog and he live by his cunning
The farmer on look out for him an eye out for him keeping
But dingo come and steal the lamb at night when farmer's sleeping.

The dingo was the black man's friend and black man once his master
Till white man came and stole the land for dingo a disaster
And white man he's learned to mistrust since white hunter shot his mother
And trapped and beat his dad to death and snared and killed his brother.

For cunning and elusiveness the red fox he can rival
And like the fox he too has learnt the lesson of survival
And if he kills a lamb or calf he must eat to stay living
Though farmer he don't understand and he feels unforgiving.

---

The burnt out wood

by

Francis Duggan

The blackened gums stand silent in the late evening chill
And blackened desolation all along the blackened hill
No signs of life around here and no birds here to sing
And smell of ash and burn out in wood near Hepburn Springs.

How many feathered minstrels have fled this wood distressed
And left behind their nestlings to burn in their nest
And how many little creatures have roasted in the flame?
In act of human treachery and man must take the blame.

A senseless pyromaniac put torch to Hepburn wood
To satisfy his cravings his actions were not good
Thousands of beautiful gum trees left blackened and destroyed
And thousands of nest bound creatures in killer flames have died.

Time will bring regeneration and birds will come to sing
And build their nests and raise their young in wood near Hepburn Springs
But there will be fewer birds and animals which really seems a shame
Due to act of human treachery and man must take the blame

---

Grey thrush's final song

by

Francis Duggan

The grey shrike thrush has sung his final song
He lay on forest floor neath fallen leaves
And mother nature who gives life and then take
For her dead children never seems to grieve.

I heard him sing all through the balmy spring
And in the summer at the dawn of day
But he will never see another spring
And under winter leaves the shrike thrush lay.

In spring when sun will shine on woodland trees
His sons and daughters will sing all the day
And never even remember their dad
Who under leaves will have gone to decay.

In early summer young birds take to wing
And from branch to branch through leafy wood they fly
But hands of time keep turning all the while
And like dead thrush they soon will age and die.

---

Mistletoe birds

by

Francis Duggan

They feed on ripened fruits of mistletoe
And spread the parasite where'er they go
Their droppings on the branches germinate
And mistletoe in this way they create.

An enemy of gum trees some might say
But nature never fails to have it's way
By spreading mistletoe to life they give
The trees must suffer for the birds to live.

Fruit eating small birds males with red on breast
With spiders webs they bind their tiny nest
And in the spring or early summer lay
Three to four eggs of lightish pale to gray.

Nomadic birds their journeys take them far
And where mistletoe fruit is ripe they always are
And an enemy of gum trees some might say
But nature never fails to have it's way.

---

Stoneyford Victoria

by

Francis Duggan

They should have called this place the land of stone
As stones seem to grow up from the very ground
And a blade of grass growing here might feel alone
And nought but stones for miles and miles around.

And houses here that's hard to understand
As a living from this ground no man can take
Suppose bread winners who live here work in Colac or Camperdown
And either way a long journey to make.

Even the road side fences made of stone
And no hedgerows and hardly any tree
And with scarce no grass to feed a goat or sheep
And nought but stones far as the eye can see.

They should have named this land 'the land of stone'
But then it's name of 'Stoneyford' will do
A bleak and an unsheltered countryside
And stoniest land that I've ever passed through.

---

An egalitarian society

by

Francis Duggan

I am aware that they are well intentioned
All those who speak of an egalitarian society
And I can only commend them for hoping
For something that is just not meant to be.

For egalitarianism in this modern world
As in the past don't have a part to play
For money which decide our social status
Is seen as more important every day.

I too hope for an egalitarian society
But in the future I can only see
The gap between the rich and poor increasing
And a huge growth in inequality.

If I seem negative you must forgive me
I only look at the reality
And I realize that realism often can
Be misconstrued as a form of negativity.

With those who hope for an egalitarin society
I must say that I thoroughly agree
But I feel saddened by my own conviction
That in my life time such I'll never see.

---

Sam Langford

by

Francis Duggan

Sam Langford never was a world champion though he was the greatest ever boxer some still say
The world champions of his era would not fight him as they feared the price would be too big to pay
That the mighty Sam would take from them their title and he was one who was best to avoid
For he had beaten all of the rated fighters and many reputations had destroyed.

An Afro Canadian born at Weymouth Falls in Nova Scotia and he was one brought up in the hard way
And at twelve years of age he left home and crossed the border for to make a new life in the U.S.A.
At sixteen he took up professional boxing in the hard game of fighting for his pay
And the coloured man who struggled for recognition has become the boxing hall of famer of today.

Jack Johnson before he became world champion beat Langford in a fiercely contested bout
But he never again would face the 'Boston terror' for in his mind there was the lingering doubt
That he would not defeat Sam in a rematch and with his world
title belt at stake
To take on such a dangerous opponent for even him too big a
risk to take.

Sam Langford lost his sight due to a boxing injury and in his old age he knew poverty
Yet this man who never became world champion was one of the best in boxing history
Avoided by the world champions in the three heavier weight divisions and few could match it with him in his prime
And his name lives on with the legendary fighters who fought for their pay in boxing's glorious time.

---

John still thinks of Australia

by

Francis Duggan

From the field at the back of their house John and Eileen can see
The mighty Blackwater river flow slowly towards the sea
Along the Cork-Waterford border through places flat and green
Yet John still thinks of Australia and things there he's done and seen.

He thinks of the snowy mountains where he worked in his prime
When he was in his twenties and that's going back in time
But the Victorian-New South Wales border more than half a world away
From the flat lands near Youghal where he resides today.

He worked in Sydney and in Melbourne for Grollos in Collins street
In the height of the summer jack hammering in the heat
Still he enjoyed the hard work and the take home pay was good
And he is one who never pined for the land of his boyhood.

Saturday night at the Normandy hotel where he and Eileen often took the floor
And they shared a table with their friends for three hours or even four
The Irish pubs in Queens parade full of music, dance and song
And three or four hours spent there did not at all seem long

Nineteen years in Australia that seems a lengthy span
Since he left Gortavehy in seventy three as a fit and a young man
And he loved it in Australia and the Aussie way of life
And there he found love and his soul mate in Eileen his Irish wife.

He lives in his old homeland amongst the finest scenery
Near Youghal where the Blackwater slowly edges towards the sea
Still he recalls quite often the happy days that he
Spent in the southern country of the gum and wattle tree.

---

Grainne Mhaol

by

Francis Duggan

The pirate Queen of Clare Island in history lives today
She sailed the wild Atlantic waves or so the legend say
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And the amazing story of Grainne Mhaol a story often told.

Born in the year fifteen hundred and thirty almost five centuries ago
Around the bold and beautiful Grace o Malley a legend it did grow
She ruled the seas for decades a sea faring outlaw
And even the most hardened of sea going men of her were in awe.

A woman of the high seas and one who had a high I.Q.
She could speak gaelic, latin and english to mention just a few
Of the languages she was fluent in Grace o Malley in her time
Was one who was celebrated in music, song and rhyme.

The first known woman pirate and none so brave as she
She struck a blow for woman kind at a time in history
When men were ruling the roost and women were kept down
The Goddess of Clare Island she sailed into renown.

Grainne Mhaol and Grace o Malley were one and of the same
And she lives on in history as an immortal name
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And of her great adventures great stories have been told.

---

Anu's breasts

by

Francis Duggan

Legend has it that the Goddess Anu's breasts became the 'Paps of Shrone'
And that through the centuries to peaks they've grown
Till they stood proudly on the higher ground
And grew to be the tallest peaks around.

Through timeless ages they've stood side by side
And smaller peaks behind them seem to hide
And in winter in their hats of white to gray
The windswept fields around them they survey.

I recall once when I was a young boy
I thought those mountains touched the very sky
An old man spoke to me and pointed west
Those peaks in Shrone are Goddess Anu's breasts.

He said call it myth or legend or call it what you may
But I once heard my old grandfather say
That near Rathmore the Goddess Anu lie
Her huge breasts pointing upwards towards