The Blackwater In Flood
The Boggeragh hills white in January snow
In ancient Duhallow where the Blackwater flow
Through that old flat countryside by Derrinagree
On it's way through North Cork on it's way to the sea.
The Blackwater in flood it has a mighty roar
As it rumbles along to the Atlantic shore
It floods across the land like a great inland tide
And in water covers the fields of it's banks either side.
The Blackwater in flood is amazing to see
Awe inspiring that's how it did seem to me
As it rages through Dromtarriffe in flood waters of brown
Through the flat countryside on towards old Mallow Town.
The Blackwater in flood it inspires awe and fear
When it bursts it's banks tis not safe to go near
Swollen by heavy rains and the melting of snow
To human or beast mercy it does not show.
Memories of cold January of frost, snow, Wind and rain
And of the Blackwater in flood with me does remain
It submerges the fields like a great inland tide
As it rages it's way through the old countryside.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In January In Duhallow
The cold winds of January from the north east does blow
And the weather is cold quite cold enough for to snow
And the hungry birds silent on the naked hedgerow
In the flat and rushy fields where the Blackwater flow.
January in Duhallow from here far away
In the chill of the morning the frost bound fields gray
In the farmyard sheds cattle bellow for silage or hay
Where the sun seldom shines on a January day.
The distinctive harsh caws of the silver backed crow
In the Season where grass does refuse for to grow
And few cars on the roadway that leads to the town
Near where the river flows bank high in flood waters of brown.
In January in Duhallow the old fields looking bare
With the harsh chill of Winter in the cold Morning air
And at least eight long weeks till the first breath of Spring
When Nature will bloom and her wild birds will sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In Green Old Duhallow From Here Far Away
The fields in their beautiful wildflowers of May
In green old Duhallow from here far away
And nesting birds sing in grove and on hedgerow
In Cullen where Araglen waters do flow
On to the Blackwater en route to the sea
The old river babbles on eternally
Through a Countryside that is as ancient as time
That has inspired poets of the past for to rhyme
About the great beauty around them they had seen
In May when the landscape was looking so green
For May is a beautiful time of the year
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
The wonders of Nature a thing to enjoy
The cock pheasants are cucking in old Lisnaboy
In fancy I am back in the long ago
Just remembering a beauty that I used to know.
Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
White butterflies flitting in the warm sunlight
and cock robin with the sun on his red breast sing
In green old Duhallow in the latter Spring.
In fancy the song of the chaffinch I hear
In green old Duhallow so far north of here
Where the babbling waters of Araglen flow
Through fields to the Blackwater by grove and hedgerow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Snow In Duhallow
The fields and hills and towns of Duhallow are covered in snow
And ice on the pools where the Blackwater flow
On it's way through icy North Cork to the Atlantic Shore
Something not seen or not often heard of before.
Sean Radley with his camera in Millstreet Town
The images online of where he walked up and down
Snow on the rooftops and snow on the street
'Tis not a place where one could walk on bare feet.
Andreas Zenker with his camera did display some skill
In his graphic images of snow clad Mushera Hill
In Mushera in Winter the silence is profound
When the frosty winds are blowing across the high ground.
Michelle O Keeffe's photos of the frozen Blackwater at Dooneen
In the snow covered countryside around could not see any green
In her portrayal of the reality she did rather well
Every picture 'tis said it's own story does tell.
'Tis true enough the camera does never lie
Many wild creatures in the harsh Irish Winter will die
There may not be many birds left to welcome the Spring
In groves and in woodlands fewer songsters to sing.
A hero to the children of Ireland though that may be brief
Is the Minister for Education the Cullen born and raised Batt O Keeffe
By order he has closed down the schools till the thaw does set in
At least for the children in it there's a win.
From Millstreet Michael Cashman, Eily Buckley, John Tarrant and Hannelie O Connor not much joy to report
Only cancellation of events and cancellation of sport
Road bowling and soccer, hurling and gaelic football
And the fiftieth anniversary celebrations in Ballydaly Hall.
I lay here in the sunshine improving my tan
Whilst telling myself I am a lucky man
I could be in Duhallow gazing at Clara Hill
With chattering teeth in the harsh Winter chill.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Though I've Done My Share Of Travel
Though I've done my share of travel I don't have much to show of Worldly gain
And 'tis been awhile and many Seasons since I've seen old Clara in the rain
And the fog crawl down the mountain on days cold enough to snow
And Finnow swollen by stormwater through the old fields bank high flow.
Though I've done my share of travel I cannot boast of Worldly success
And the judgemental social judges I have failed to impress
But worse for me than not knowing wealth and fame as I did crave for renown
Is to know I'd be a stranger now in Millstreet my Hometown.
I've done my share of travel beyond Duhallow's countryside
And I've mixed with many races people from places far and wide
And they still talk of their old Homelands many miles beyond the sea
The nostalgia for their old Hometowns in them as much as me.
For my travels and my years of life can't say I have much to show
And what success feels like I must admit I am not one who does know
And it has been more than twenty years since I've seen Finnow in flood of brown
Bank high flowing in the old fields just west of Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Merri In Flood
The old Merri River in flood waters of brown
Is flowing on bank high on by Warrnambool Town
In and out of Lake Pertobe on it's sea going way
To join the Pacific at famed Lady Bay
The old river that is old even in time
That has inspired the poets and songwriters to rhyme
In the age of the dinosaurs the Merri was old
In full flood the river a sight to behold
In Summer by the banks of the river in the shade of the trees
The Indigenous tribes had their corroborees
Like the Seasons of Nature the people come and go
But the river on down through the flat country flow
In and out of Lake Pertobe and on to the sea
The Merri in flood is a great sight to see.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wet August Day In Millstreet
From Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And dark to gray rain clouds across the sky
Tell that more heavy showers of rain are nigh.
You know that bird to whom the voice belong
When you hear the dipper sing his scratchy song
He pipe his loudest when the flood is high
And the wet conditions he seem to enjoy.
The last thing that the farmer needs is rain
A hungry Winter for his stock again
In August only four or five days dry
And half of his hay crop rotted in July.
And yet in all of his years he has not seen
His fields in August quite so lush and green
And he can only hope for a good Fall
And that September will be drier after all.
O'er rushy fields by where the rivers meet
Perhaps a mile from the Town of Millstreet
The little lark of Humankind quite shy
Above the rain clouds carolling as he fly.
The Winter months the Duhallow farmer fear
The very wet Summer has cost him dear
And from Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Back There In Millstreet County Cork
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the frosted fields are gray
And old Clara wears his hat of snow on this cold January day
And cattle in the farmyard shed are bellowing for hay
Back there in Millstreet County Cork far north and far away.
Through old fields west of Millstreet Town the Finnow bank high flow
Through Inchaleigh, Coomlogane and Claragahatlea by many a bare hedgerow
Robins, blackbirds and sparrows by back door eat crumbs of bread
Before the Spring for them some hard and hungry times ahead.
Back there through Millstreet County Cork harsh winds of January blow
The days and nights are wet and cold quite cold enough to snow
In Duhallow I was born and raised though far from there I may die
And that I still feel nostalgia for the place of that why should I lie.
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the wintery winds blow chill
Across the bleak unsheltered face of Clara's bracken hill
And on the high fields by the hill beneath a darkened sky
The hungry fox out hunting utters forth a wild shrill cry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Come Flood with Me - Parody Christopher MARLOWE - Come Live with Me and Be My Love
Come flood with me, sandbags remove,
and see, at sea, cold water mark
centennial records improve
while frogs swim stark in Regent's Park.
Come flood with me, some float, some sink,
from Tower Hamlets to Soho,
while politicians think they think
of ratifying Kyoto.
Come flood with me, free bottled water
we'll airlift in to friend and foe,
though dikes may fail, though many caught a
cold, we won't sneeze at ebb and flow.
Come flood with me and blow a fuse
as volts revolt against the rain,
we'll kayak hire, o[a]r two canoes,
admiring drops on window pane.
Come flood with me and Oxford ford
as Father Thames mourns broken banks,
insurance premiums we'll afford
and brave weather forecasters' pranks.
Come flood with me upon submerged
parks, gardens, surf above each fence
as climate policies are urged
by governments in self defence.
Come flood with me, we'll breast Time's tide,
while Athens roasts - forty degrees -
and wonder what antiques abide
upstanding with untarnished keys.
We could write on in frothy verse
till 'lowing herd winds o'er the lea'
if only skies would not rehearse
wet dreams with clouds' infinity.
Come flood with me until Big Ben
sounds five o'clock and adds a tease,
while seeking honey-bees again,
and is there honey still for teas?
If these delights your heart may move
to leapfrog over slip_stream puddle
we'll cuddle, challenges remove,
reign far from politicians' muddle!
(c) Jonathan ROBIN 24 July 2007 Parody Christopher MARLOWE - Come Live with Me and Be My Love
poem by Jonathan Robin
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The Boys And Girls I Went To School With
The boys and girls I went to school with from me now far away
And even some of them not living now where the dead are they lay
And in distant flights of fancy I fancy I see them yet
And them I still remember and them I won't forget.
The boys and girls I went to school with the years have left them slow
And were I to meet them on the street perhaps them I''d not know
For the years they leave us looking older and there''s no turning back the hands of time
And those I went to school with like me now long past their prime.
Many of the boys and girls I went to school with live distant from Millstreet
And we well might be strangers now if by chance we did meet
In my mental pictures of them they have not aged a day
But reality is different and 'tis always been that way.
Many of the boys and girls I went to school with in Millstreet our Home -town
Have left that green old countryside where Finnow babbles down
For to join with the great Blackwater on it''s journey to the sea
Still their innocence and youthfulness will always be with me.
The changes keep on happening and nothing seems to last
Still we cling on to our memories and we can''t deny our past
And though we may now be strangers were we to meet again
The boys and girls I went to school with young in my thoughts remain.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Tides of Life
As the tides of life ebb and flow, you dear friend, may never know,
What the tides will bring your way, as they change from day to day.
This life and all its uncertainty, can change the path of you and me,
And as we journey upon life’s tide, we need an anchor by our side.
You need an anchor in your heart, for your soul that will not depart,
An anchor for every single tide, that keeps you secure deep inside.
Life’s tides can become high or low, no matter where in life you go,
This life can even bring a drought, filling a heart with fears or doubt.
Even when life brings a high tide, one needs to have an inner guide,
One guide to lead you from above, should the tide become a flood.
Friend, during any flood in your life, you can rely upon Jesus Christ,
Who calmed the wind and the sea, can calm a heart for you and me.
He can save you from all harms, taking you in His everlasting arms,
As God places both you and me, upon Christ, The Rock of Eternity.
The Rock that anyone can know, wherever the tides of life may flow,
As it is The Lord’s amazing Grace, that reaches down to every place.
God will save you from life’s flood, through the power of the blood,
Shed for all nations by Jesus Christ, to purchase for all Eternal Life.
And it is that tide from Calvary, which reaches men like you and me,
So that we can live forevermore, upon Christ’s golden Eternal shore.
(Copyright ©07/2007)
To The Nile
Month after month the gathered rains descend
Drenching yon secret Aethiopian dells,
And from the desert’s ice-girt pinnacles
Where Frost and Heat in strange embraces blend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend.
Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwells
By Nile’s aereal urn, with rapid spells
Urging those waters to their mighty end.
O’er Egypt’s land of Memory floods are level
And they are thine, O Nile--and well thou knowest
That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil
And fruits and poisons spring where’er thou flowest.
Beware, O Man--for knowledge must to thee,
Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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A Wet Day In July
Such wild and chilly weather with heavy showers of sleety rain
That flood the spouting and the creek and the storm water drain
And the paddocks around the Powlett river seem like an inland sea
And water everywhere about as far as the eyes can see.
The old bloke Mick scratches his head as he looks up at the sky
Saying more rain clouds o'er the ocean 'twill make a wet
July
On either side of the highway from Bass into Wonthaggi there's water everywhere
The paddock by our house is waterlogged 'tis like a quagmire there.
In July in south west Gippsland the weather often wild and cold and wet
But according to Mick from Bass this one the wettest yet
In more than sixty years of life he has known big rainfall
But yesterday is the wettest day he ever can recall.
In the paddocks between Kilcunda and Dalyston water everywhere about
And the Powlett river is overflowing it's banks and it's surplus water is flooding out
Making the land look like an inland sea and cattle on the hill bellow for hay
And in the coastal lands of south west Gippsland another rainy July day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Furnace To The Flood
From the fiery furnace of life, we’re delivered by Jesus Christ.
When those fiery flames appear, our Lord God is always near,
There to lift us above that flame, all in the Power of His Name,
Protecting all of us from each fire, is our Lord’s heart’s desire.
As The Lord so desires to purify, in life’s fires, both you and I,
From a life of unrighteousness, fires allow iniquities to surface,
As we’re cleansed of old dross, In Christ’s power of The Cross,
To live for God and Jesus Christ, in our life as a living sacrifice.
When overwhelmed by a flood, we’re reminded of God’s Blood,
The Lord’s power at Calvary, continues in the life of you and me,
From the flood’s billowing waves, God reaches down and saves,
Saving us from the floods of life, is The Shepherd, Jesus Christ.
It is The Lord’s sustaining power, through any flood, any shower,
When the rains of life begin to pour, our Lord helps us to endure,
Holding us above the water’s flow, Christ desires to help us grow,
Through His Spirit dwelling inside, He’s with us in the highest tide.
Fires and floods, when they come, wherever in life, they are from,
Are used by God in this life, to conform believers to Jesus Christ,
Within the fire and the flood, we are molded by our Lord and God,
Being refined in the Image of Christ, to display The Lord in our life.
A Choice
THE flood of utter change is loosed. A space
Is ours yet, for its coming to prepare.
Shall we build dams with cautious, clumsy care,
Or stand with idle hands and frightened face,
And so be whirled all broken from our place,
And perish with the dams we builded there?
Or shall we dig a broad, deep channel, where
Most fields may feel the flood's benign embrace?
Thus turned 'twill be a calm majestic flood
Of plenty, peace, and fertilising power,
Whose banks fresh flowers of love and joy shall deck.
Oppose it: at the inevitable hour,
Tumultuous, black with ruin, red with blood,
'Twill come--and you shall have no chance but wreck!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Where The Wannon Waters Flow
To the flat and old brown Countryside the Seasons come and go
But she lives far so very far from where the Wannon waters flow
Through places to her familiar on it's journey to the sea
Through a Land that was even old in the Dreamtime of an ancient history.
Through the busy streets of London cars and trucks buzz up and down
And she now lives far so very far north of Hamilton Town
She left the Southern Grampians Shire some seven years ago
And her journeys have taken her far from where the Wannon waters flow.
Now in her twenty seventh year one can say in her life's prime
And seven years go quickly when one looks back in time
But to her parents home near Hamilton she will return next Spring
When the magpie flutes his finest and the grey shrike thrush does sing
On the gum trees by her old home at the dawning of the day
In the far southern Countryside from London far away
When the wild bush flowers are blooming and in the moonlit sky
The breeding spur wing plovers utter their territorial cry.
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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A Little Difference
there is
a change
a little difference
in the morning
in this town
when the bell
tolls
after the flood
the people
begins
to pray again
a new life
perhaps
or fear
that God may
send
another flood
again
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Situation
there is a waterfall on my belly
there is a dam on my pelvic bone
i cannot stop this
i will let go a river
there will be a flood
needing you.
be the parched earth
let your cracks be mouths
i will be the rain, i will be the flood
do not destroy humanity
take all of me, this flood, this rain, this dam is broken
i let go a rampage of emotions
i explode
you be the space
you must take all that i am
all that i will be
tackle me, swallow me
drink me
o thirsty earth, my love,
my life, my outlet, my current.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Boys I Went To School With
We played football in the school yard and we swam in the Finnow
But the years go by so quickly and to father time we bow
And the boys I went to school with perhaps now looking gray
And many of them from the Homeland shore like me live far away.
Many of the boys I went to school with and that's going back more than four decades in time
Are now ageing grand fathers and years beyond their prime
And those legs that could move so quickly some forty years ago
Now feeling tired and heavy and their fastest pace is slow.
The boys I went to school with have known a better day
And that time takes care of everyone it would be fair to say
Our young years went too quickly and time just flitted by
And on looking back it seems like only yesterday when I was a school boy.
Some of the boys I went to school with to the grim reaper have gone
But life back in the old Hometown as usual carries on
And in the fields near Millstreet Town where the rank rushes grow
The Finnow on towards Drishane and the Blackwater flow.
Most of the boys I went to school with I have not seen for years
But for my fading memories I don't have any tears
We played football in the school yard and in Summer swam in the Finnow
But the years go by so quickly and to father time we bow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Winter Tale
The winter snow lays
white upon the ground
and glistens in the sunlight
of a brand new day.
The snow is crisp under foot
to show us Jack Frost has been about.
The windows show his artistry
on the inside and the out.
A chill from a north wind
bites through everything,
and everything is waiting
for the coming warmth of spring.
16 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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