An Aged Veteran Of World War 2
I'll tell to you a story of one I vaguely know
An aged veteran of World war 2 some sixty years ago
A poor worn out old warrior the years have left him gray
In the early stages of forgetfulness his memory in decay.
Part of his right leg amputated ten centimetres below the knee
As a result of a grenade a horrific war injury
It ruined his chances of finding love and winning for himself a wife
And all of the dreams he's ever had of enjoying a happy life.
In his electrical wheelchair on the sidewalk a sad look on his face
A frail and an elderly citizen and familiar to the place
Decorated for his bravery under fire more than six decades ago
An old man waiting for his end that few now wish to know.
He lives in the retirement home from the shopping centre a short drive
The killing fields of Europe he was lucky to survive
But he did not return home unscathed as his missing limb testify
For a lesson that's unlearned millions of young people had to die.
An old man in his late eighties the hard life on him show
And I see him fairly often though me he does not seem to know
Yet when we meet to his sad face there comes a smile and he always says hello
A veteran of World war 2 some six decades ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Seeing A Photograph
A photo of an ageing face stirs an old memory
He is plainly not a shadow of the man he used to be
His balding head is hoary gray his hair it was dark brown
When we played football as teenagers in the park in our Hometown.
He was a sprightly youth back then two years younger than I
On looking back the decades the years just seemed to fly
He played football worked in the fields and walked miles every day
But like me he seems the worst for wear the years have left us gray.
Perhaps we would be strangers now if by chance we did meet
We might not recognize each other in passing on the street
We age a little every day time of us all takes care
And leaves us looking in the end the very worst for wear.
A photograph of one I knew from many years ago
And he has aged as I have aged time on us all does show
We played football together when we were near to our life's prime
But in the end we all lose out to ageless father time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Old Rhyming Poet
In his early eighties his best days long gone
But the gray haired old poet he keeps penning on
Though many see him as of another time
Sixty years as a poet and still writing in rhyme.
Though not seen as a mentor to the young poets of the town
He once was the Regional Poet Laureate and he knew of renown
When rhyme it was popular a long time ago
And his hair was as dark as the wing of a crow.
Not hard to tell he's known a far better day
The old rhyming poet that the years have left gray
It has been more than five decades since he was in his prime
Eventually we all become victims of time.
In time as in life few things do seem to last
And verses that rhyme are now seen as of the past
But to him to stop writing would be living a lie
And he will be a poet till the day that he die.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Along The War Avenue Of honour
Along the war Avenue of Honour a plaque to a dead soldier nailed to every tree
Brave young men who died in battle their reward for their bravery
They died in the war said to end all wars in the killing fields of World war one
But many wars since and far too many bloody battles and peace in the World not yet won.
Wars started by silly ageing men who send the young for them to die
Ageing men who themselves will die of old age and their twilight years they will enjoy,
ageing males heroes of their people we honour cowards as heroes one might say
The young men will go to war for them and the young men with their young lives pay.
The war supposed to end all wars long over almost nine decades since have gone by
But many wars have been fought since then and war pilots dropp their big bombs from the night sky
But suppose that's what will always happen when we give all of our power away
To silly and ageing male war men who with hair dyes cover their gray.
Along the war avenue of honour long dead soldiers names on every tree
Young noble men who died in battle far from homeland and family
In what was to be the war to end all wars yet we don't have much wisdom to show
For the loss of so many fine young men well over eight decades ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Perhaps I'll Never Again See Old Clara Mountain
I'm getting on in years and looking older even than my age of two years with three score
And perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain and climb the high fields up through Claramore
In Claraghtalea I started my life's journey but I'm not to know where and when that journey will end
In sixty two years I've known a lot of people but not everyone I've known I'd call a friend
I often think about the Town of Millstreet where mine once was a fairly well known face
Though there today I well might be a stranger a stranger even in my old Homeplace
I am one of many migrants from Duhallow for to try my luck in the big World out there
Duhallow people are known to be travellers and one from there one could meet anywhere
I often think of those I went to school with many of them the grandparents of today
Perhaps the years have left them looking older even some of them with the departed lay
It has been many years since I've last seen them the years eventually do tell on all
On looking back our young years went so quickly and for everyone of us a final Fall
Perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain or walk in the fields where the rank rushes grow
In Claraghatlea I began my life's journey but where and when that journey will end I'm not to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Kiwi Dave
For forty five years I've been working and I'm just an unfettered slave
And I have gray hairs to show for it I am quoting Kiwi Dave
Five years to go to retirement I was sixty last birthday
And ever since I've started working it's been uphill all the way.
My ex wife said that I was a drinker that I was too fond of the booze
That was her excuse for leaving she said I was born to lose
But I take it in moderation after work three or four beers
And I've been a slave for her and for my children for close to if not twenty years.
Fifteen years ago she left me and she went to live with younger bloke
She got more than half my assets for years to her haven't spoke
She turned my son and daughter against me and my six grandchildren I don't see
And I will spend my usual Christmas on my own watching T.V.
Kiwi Dave is a good person though just a little soured by life
And things for him would have been better had he had a faithful wife
'A woman she can make or break you' with that who could disagree
Dave could see the truth in those words for who would know better than he? .
For forty five years he's been working the hard worker Kiwi
Dave
And for his ex wife and his children for years he has been a slave
He looks older far than sixty the hard life has made him gray
Five more years left till retirement it's been uphill all the way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Joe White's Ninetieth Birthday
So many he knew in his younger years to life have come and gone
But like the great man that he is Joe White keeps on keeping on
Ten years short of his century in his ninetieth year of life
I remember him and his daughter daughter Bibi and his now long deceased wife.
He and his wife and daughter went to live in America many decades ago
But they returned to Ballydaly to live amongst old friends they did know
He has done his share of travelling but the love of home is strong
And he is back in Tubber where he feels he does belong.
One of the elder citizens of the Parish of Millstreet
He is as nice a person as one could wish to meet
I have fond memories of him and of his ready smile
He is one of those nice people that I've not seen for some-while.
In the Wallis Arms in Millstreet Town for him a surprise party where a great night was had by all
And I bet at the happy gathering old times they did recall
Joe White has turned ninety and enjoying his lengthy life span
And it truly can be said of him that he is a gentleman.
poem by by unknown author
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You Like To Talk About War Heroes
You like to talk about war heroes I'll take you to meet one today
On warm days he sits on a park chair from here in distance a short walk away
In him you may feel disappointed he is frail and aged and gray
He has blocked out most of his war memories of war he has little to say.
He is not your idea of a hero but heroes they too do grow old
Just one more forgotten old warrior the years on him in wrinkles have told
He fought under the flag of his Nation in his Country he had great pride
A survivor of the war trenches where thousands of brave young men died.
He lives alone in a one bedroom apartment in a cold and drafty place to live in
Yet in his early twenties he was a decorated soldier and medals for his bravery he did win
For him it has all come to nothing and on the reaper's call he wait
On war memorial day he does not walk in the parade he feels no cause to celebrate.
You like to talk about war heroes you come for a short walk with me
And sitting on a park chair in the sunshine a war hero in the flesh you will see
Long before your father was born he fought in a war from here far away
He is the last of his battalion his war comrades amongst the dead lay
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Think Well of Her
It was years ago when I first met her.
She was the siren of Laguna Beach,
Well endowed, a body to be envied by all women
And, licentiously desired by all men.
She walked like a cat;
Mysterious behind her large, darkly
Tinted glasses, causing people to turn
And watch as she silently passed them by.
She was not pretentious, she was herself,
As she was born to be.
She was not young but, at that time of life
When all was an intoxicating awareness
Of love and beauty, wrapped in a ferver for life,
Living it to its maximum.
I saw her again, many years later,
Confined to a home-health care facility;
Mobile to the limits of a wheelchair.
The shadows of time deepened,
As a flickering dance of advancing days
Hovered about her face.
I remember her, once glorious in her youthful beauty,
A blaze of eloquent passion. Now, she seems a dying ember,
In the gray, slow-fire ash of old age.
I think well of her, as I thought well of her,
With all kindness and tenderness,
Just as a man remembers, through the scroll
Of decades past, those places and people
He enjoyed and loved the most.
poem by Lynn W. Petty
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Honor To Rememeber
Not a day might have been passed
From your memory to be glanced
Such a happy and long union
With a long time wife as companion
I congratulate it in earnest
As it has remained very best
Coming days must be fruitful
As it has been very much successful
Life as such is beautiful
We have everything in plentiful
Only it should be spent with happiness
All the time it must be seen on the face
Days and years have turned into decades
But memory remains fresh and never fades
You are moved with the happy moments
As life was always challenging with movements
When you sit on the bench alone
You feel happy and not lone
It is nice to feel about past life
When everything had been quiet from wife
So rejoice at long and comfortable inning
You have scored all the goals as winning
Nothing remains now to be seen as failure
Life was happy at all the times for very much sure
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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One Has To Wonder Why
John Clare was the English language greatest poet of Nature
So much of Nature's ways the man did know
But he died in a mental institution
In Northampton asylum near to fifteen decades ago
Just like Vincent Van Gogh the Dutchman a World renowned artist
His paintings are sold for millions today
Yet he died poor and mentally unstable
At his own hands in quite a tragic way
William Cowper was a literary genius
A man who too was mentally unwell
He never did enjoy the fame he earned
And life for him it was an Earthly hell
James Clarence Mangan is the National Bard of Ireland
He died in mid life at forty six years old
A poor Dubliner in Ireland's years of famine
His death was of consumption we are told
Janet Frame was a great New Zealand writer
But she was seldom happy in her mind
Her life story is not a happy story
Though her equal would be very hard to find
Stephen Foster was America's greatest songwriter
Of him true greatness cannot be denied
But fame in his lifetime failed to make him happy
And 'twas of alcoholic poisoning that he died
Paul Robeson one of the World's greatest singers
He died a very disappointed man
A victim of politics and racism
Yet his fame on it does not have a time span.
Poverty, madness and racism not a barrier to greatness
As the lives of many greats does testify
But in their lives some for their genius not rewarded
And why this should be one has to wonder why?
poem by Francis Duggan
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Donal Hickey
We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.
He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.
I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.
One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.
One of the nicest people that one could wish to meet
He still lives in the old homeplace at Inchaleigh in Millstreet
In that green and fertile countryside where the Finnow waters flow
And we were in the same classroom more than forty years ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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You Decorated My Life
(debbie hupp/bob morrison)
All my life was a paper once plain, pure and white
Till you moved with your pen changin' moods now and then
Till the balance was right
Then you added some music, ev'ry note was in place
And anybody could see all the changes in me by the look on my face
And you decorated my life, created a world where dreams are a apart
And you decorated my life by paintin' your love all over my heart
You decorated my life
Like a rhyme with no reason in an unfinished song There was no harmony life meant nothin' to me, until you came along
And you brought out the colors, what a gentle surprise
Now i'm able to see all the things life can be shinin' soft in your eyes
And you decorated my life, created a world where dreams are a part
And you decorated my life by paintin' your love all over my heart
You decorated my life
song performed by by Kenny Rogers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Home:
Home…
Home is where you were born.
Home is where you were raised,
Home is were you grew up,
Home was what had shaped you,
Home is what gave you your foundation
And what help you grow into something amazing,
Home is what you left behind to become something bigger,
Home is what you remember many years after leaving,
Home is what you become missing for,
Home is where you crave to be when you're done with you adventures,
Even thought you left home, for another place,
Home has never left,
It's still there,
On the same old street,
With the same old lawn,
With the same old people,
Just waiting there,
For you and only you,
It is there for you and only you,
Because with out it,
Without a home,
You wouldn't have a place to go back to,
A place was you can call your own..well, home...
poem by Sherry Painter
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Please Come Home
It must have been about a 100 years
At least a hundred years
I wish you would just come back
Just come back home
The day we met feels like 100 years ago
And Im still waiting with my hand right by the telephone
Yeah maybe where you are you cannot make that call
Or you cant find the pen I know its not your fault
CHORUS
My friends think Im insane
Cause I've turned old and gray
And Im still waiting and I cannot be alone
Please come home (please come home)
I watch the clock hands tick my hours turn to days
And I cant fall asleep cause I don't want to miss that ring
I know that this year your car will park outside
But I can't put my arms around the girl who took my life
REPEAT CHORUS
Its been so long
Its been about 100 years
And a million dreams since the last time
Ive seen your pretty face I would do whatever it takes
I would wait another 100 years
And if that didnt work
Maybe Ill try and see what forever feels like
But until then and I know you hear me
And whatever your doing wherever you are please come home
That day we met feels like 100 years ago
And Im still waiting for you
Baby baby wont you please come home
Please come home
Wont you please come home
Please come home
Wont you please come home (Please come home)
song performed by by Uncle Kracker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Does Deserve Great Sympathy
Ageing Bella in the house at the corner outdoors she is not often seen
She was a potential swimming Olympian till a motoring accident she had at eighteen
Brought an end to her swimming career back in ninteen seventy three
And condemned her to life in a wheelchair she does deserve great sympathy.
She could not compete in the Olympics and swim her way into renown
And become the toast of the Nation and the heroine of her Hometown
It robbed her of her chance of having children she has never been any man's wife
one might say she was quite unlucky that accident ruined her life.
She is quite an attractive woman her brown hair flecked with strands of gray
She had spent years of her life in a wheelchair seven to ten years before her prime day
when I meet her she smiles and says hello but sometimes she looks rather sad
I can only empathize with her a terrible life she has had.
Thirty six of her fifty four years in a wheelchair since her widowed mum died five years ago she has lived on her own
Lady luck is surely against her a terrible life she has known
Confined to a wheelchair due to a car crash on the highway which robbed her of her chance of fame
In swimming she was a young champion and for herself making a name.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Beat You Because I Love...
Every day after school
Mom! Let's race home...
The lil boy would say to his mom
Mom would say ok...
Mom would run as fast as she could
To beat the lil boy home…
He'd cry …mom! ! ! !
You left me…you didn't let me win
You never let me win!
You're a mean mommy
She'd only respond with
If I let you win, you would never learn the lesson
What lesson mom?
She'd smile and walk away
Come on baby, its lunch time…
Few years down the road
The lil boy is now a teenager…
Mom! Let's play chess…
Mom would say OK
She beat him so bad
That he got mad and knocked the board over
MOM! You could have at least let me get close to winning
You're a mean Mother!
Nope! Then you would never learn
Learn what MOM?
Come on son, it's time for dinner
The teenager is now college graduate
Comes home to visit Mom
Mom, I got news…
I was offered a job
At one of the most prestigious law firms in America
They took the top five students
I was #1
Are you surprised Mom?
Mom: Not at all Son.
Mom, I got the lesson. Nothing in life will be given to me
I have to work hard and fight for everything I want and have. And you letting me
Win would have weakened me. So you always competed with me like you were the world
And you were teaching me how to survive in it...
Touché` mom Touché`
poem by Sandra Pitchford
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A Song Of Joy And Sorrow
The literary critics tend to ignore me and my verses they don't even rate
I'm seen as lacking in inspiration without the genius to create
What one would call something of literary value something that would live on in time
I am one of the last poetasters to dabble in old fashioned rhyme.
When I am in the mood for singing songs of joy and sorrow I sing
The sorrow of the jilted lover, the joy of the lark on the wing
The babe he knows of joy and sorrow months before he learns to crawl
With such feelings we are familiar they are part of life after all.
The old bloke immersed in sorrow feels maudlin after a few beers
He thinks of the great love of his life a woman he's not seen for years,
She left him back in the late fifties when he was approaching his prime
It's not always true time is the healer, love's hurt doesn't always heal in time.
The happy face of the young mother as she holds her new born baby boy
A sibling for her year old daughter for her a moment of great joy
Her husband is only too happy to share in the joy with his wife,
A moment for them to remember and a memory to cherish for life.
So sing songs of joy and of sorrow if you feel like singing a song
They are such familiar emotions to living and life they belong,
Joy the happy mother of laughter and sorrow the father of tears
And they have been living together for millions and millions
of years.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Old Age, Go Away
When are we consider old?
when the years past so quickly
being a kid with no worries
to a teen with rebel ways, to parents dismay
young adult leads to a partying way
maturing thru the years to become a respected adult
responsibilities and family life changes people
before time fly, aging needs a break
for real it does, it's not fair to fly
middle aged, worn out, heading to retirement
can't wait for that day, everyone says
to tell the true I rather work, that's my pitch
getting old for the rockers and the canes
just has to stay away, I have so many things to do
see more the world, meet many people
play with the kids and the grand kids
stop that hour glass from draining
I have a lot of things on my mind
time will take my mind
the wrinkles and the gray hair can wait
same with the balding
Aging for the years can wait, oh it can wait
young and childish mind, I have
will make me feel young, well into my years
till it catches my worn broken body
Old age stay away, For I am Young
poem by Michael Peterson
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Dilema Of Going Home
Two decades now
Have I lived in America
And my mother
Calling from far away Africa,
Also my little sister
She propably was told of America
They all weap in my
dreams these days,
They want me back in Africa
To build the threshold of my father
That is far gone in decadence.
.
Home, I am coming home
To see my mothers face again
And my little sister Franscisca
She must be a woman by now.
But tell me brothers;
How could I ever go back to Africa
When I yet do not have wings for flight?
.
What would I say to the hungry
eyes of my mother, my sister?
What would I say to friends I left
behind my Africa ten years ago?
What would I say when they asked:
What have you brought for old
buddies you left behind ten years ago.
.
Ten years is long enough time
to be away from home,
And yet have nothing to show
for the labours.
poem by Efe Benjamin
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Hear (Dmc Remix)
We all have a dream
of a place we belong
The fire is burning
and the radio's on
Somebody smiles
and it means 'I love you'
but sometimes we don't notice
when the dream has come true
You've got a home here
Call it what you want
You've got a home here
to return to when you can't
face the world and you need
some support to succeed
You've got a home
We all make a mess
of our lives from time to time
It's part of the process
that you stumble as you climb
And if you ever feel
the pain is far too big a deal
I say with pride
I'll be on your side
You've got a home here
Call it what you want
You've got a home here
You're gonna want it when you can't
face the world and you need
some support to succeed
You've got a home
song performed by by Pet Shop Boys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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