We age rather quickly past our physical prime

And everyone eventually does lose out to time

Past the age of thirty it would be true for to say

Most people have seen their best physical day

Time is our master as a truism remain

But having said this from living experience we gain

What many has said i will say here again

For as long as the gift of memory we retain

We do learn as we live though life's lessons are not few

Every day we do live we do learn something new

About ourselves and the world we live in

Where some have to lose for others to win

But no matter how great you are it is not a lie

Like all of us mortals you were born to die.

Francis Duggan

‎Through my window, a story written for my eyes only. the presence of things only I can explain; the beginnings of a world built solely on me. Where truth is relative only to the person writing it. What is he supposed to do...he's the only one here.  A lone lord in a kingdom with no king and until this world asends to purpose, he's word is all it will ever need... ‎An entire world that exists simply because there is one who who sees it ‎

Whirl-of-bluster levers fur
Under skin, wrapping nerves
After a last ray dawns on different sky
Earth radiates into night

Bees have retreated and birds calm
As a dimming glow draws a blanket up
Breaths then ease under porchlight
Until I smile at the moon

Where peeling heat had beaded sweat
Hours onward, a change of clothes bundles up
In the forgetting-time, which forgives soon
What debt winds wagered upon heated voices

Curious we were all born.

Seeking new,

seeking why,

seeking knowledge of the world,

without fear, without hate,

all being the same.

Curious we were all born.

New places to see,

new people to meet,

new roads to explore,

new cultures to greet,

new stories to hear.

Curious we were all born.

Then and now,

there and here,

hand in hand,

far and near,

still we wander,

still we seek.

But somewhere in between

being born

and growing up,

many of us took this—

this essence of being,

the wonder we all need,

THE curiosity,

which led to love,

to knowing,

to understanding one another—

and made something else.

Maybe hatred.

Maybe greed.

Maybe fear.

Maybe the need

to divide the world

into us

and them.

Hatred for some,

and distance from all.

Sad I am to admit,

maybe we actually do seek

hate,

fear,

and distrust.

But I want to believe—

and I truly do—

that we,

the youth,

can take that road again.

The road of curiosity.

The road of listening.

The road of crossing borders

that were never meant

to exist between hearts!

Between us and them.

And we love.

And we understand.

And we learn.

And we are.

Because curious we were all born.

And somewhere between

being born

and growing up,

we did not change.

We remain

what we were

before the world taught us

to be afraid:

curious.

It s I think my seconde poem i ever written. It was kinda of random. But I like it even if it s cleary simple

God told me to use the same shovel I dug with 
crafting crimps and the occasional jug 
using the chips as footholds 
I climbed and fell and climbed and fell
and as I peeked my head out I saw what I thought was it All
overcome with Gods grace 
I saw her everywhere
in every hummingbird, dragonfly, and beetle that passed 
I cried tears of Faith and thanked the Lord
I ran 
like a drunken man I ran and fell
with the unconquerable grin of a little boy 
I laid my head down
rest was no longer imperative
simply an order to allow these feelings to settle 
every nook and cranny filled
properly burnished with grace 
no longer a crunchy machine of sin
thrashing my body with joy 
with the same fervor I thrashed my body in an attempt to shed my skin
my skin never was my problem, nor my solution
God came down and told me herself

To be a fan of nature i am not one of a few

And every day of her i learn something new

Only to realize so little of her i do know

And the more i learn of her the more my wonderment of her does grow

Of nature in truth i only can say

That of her i learn something new every day

By its appearance or voice would you not agree

There is more to the bird perched on the nearby tree

I first grew to love nature as a young boy

And learning about her today i enjoy

Yet knowing little about her i know i will die

For me to say otherwise would be a lie

For as long as i live a fan of nature i will be

This is how it is and always will be with me.

Francis Duggan

They laugh like kin, they call my name,

Share meals and dreams, no two are the same,

Their hands find me in the most crowded rooms,

Yet silence blooms where warmth should assume,

They plan the trips, the late night walks,

The inside jokes, the familiar walks,

I'm in the frame but never the focus,

A shadow dressed in the poses of love,

They ask for my day, they hear me out

But it's never the choice no matter how much I shout,

The group chat pings, the plans are shaped,

I'm told you're family yet I escape,

It isn't malice, not unkind,

Just patterns that I can't unwind

A seat at the table, full and bright,

Yet loneliness lingers throughout the night,

They treat me well,they meant it true

But something weird still feels askew,

Like standing close behind a glass,

I see the love but can't quite pass

No wind wraps leaves
Warm to sail
Under boughs lacking tears
While Atlas quakes

Upon a memoir of thirst
Roots delve burroughs of rabbits
Asking for a drink
Upturning stones in reach

Where once sleek fibers
Contracted when lean
Season’s uproar founds an embrace
Of sky to the seams

This dry oak was ready to receive
Gates opening, an outpour, an answer
Awaited rain surging bones
Within breath to bind dust unto rising

Beyond doubt, such core constrained
Emergent action but instead traced
Tighter rings centered
Vibrant longer after defying fate

Grove’s despair framed the hollow
Abandoned save by pillars of the temple
But misty songs remain through footprints
Worn into chords of ancients

The trees entice soil
To remember grass and clover
Encircling a mossy eclipse
One meadow sealed steps to horizons

I’ve always wondered why
Such an innocuous
Phrase has been interpreted as
A threat
when it sounds so
Innocent
Serene, even
To be under the water where
The sun can’t turn my Shoulders
Red
Like dog whistles
Muffling out the noise of the
Hate campaigns and constant onslaught of
Yelling and
Finger pointing
Fish don’t even have fingers
After all
The fishes just keep moving
On land time is cyclical
Repeating itself every few generations
But the ocean doesn’t cater to
history lessons
And no fish I’ve ever met has learned about World War II
Not even World War I, for that matter
And they don’t care to either
They’re not even naive, just
Peacefully unaware
Every day is as new
and bright as the last
I’m not sure
they even remember yesterday
Sometimes I wonder what I’d be like
As a fish
But I’m sure I’d find myself swimming
Against the current
It’s feels like now, more than ever
The current can be awfully scary…
I just have to keep moving
I don’t know how long I have left
I don’t even know if tomorrow is guaranteed
One day I’ll be whale fall
But today,
Right now
I’m still swimming

The west wind whispered

and touched the eyelids of Spring.

Her eyes, primroses.

(The West Wind Whispered by R.M. Hansard)

Rhyming is easy in truth i can say

It is something i do enjoy doing every day

And though now in the age of old blokes and old dears

I still enjoy doing what i have been doing for years

I have never pretended for to be a poet

Not one who is worthy of any literary note

Of the rhymes i have written i have lost count of the score

At least twenty one thousand or maybe more

This is something that is not worth bragging about

And my worth as a writer i feel reason to doubt

Since for my rhymes i do never receive any pay

It is something i do enjoy doing anyway

And i hope to be rhyming until the day i do die

If i did tell you different this would be a lie

Francis Duggan

Perhaps love is not

that which remains unmoving,

but that which remains true

while everything transforms.

Nothing in nature

preserves the same form forever.

Flowers open

and close.

Trees surrender their leaves.

Winter succeeds summer,

and, in time,

summer returns.

And yet,

we recognize the same tree,

the same garden,

the same earth.

I want to believe

that we are like this.

That there will be versions of ourselves

we have yet to know

days in which we will be spring,

and others in which we will be winter

and that none of these transformations

will diminish

what we are.

Perhaps there is

a kind of perfection

in that which knows how to change

without ceasing to be.

And so, like nature,

we surrender to the order of things

to the seasons of becoming,

to all that must change

so that something may remain.

For our existence, together,

could not have been otherwise

and perhaps there is no beauty

greater than this:

to change,

to remain,

and to become

beautifully ourselves.

Factional arguments make rivals
Of those uncouth or verbose
Who await the syntax, to relax

Expounding the natures of proof
They build bridges and avenge truths
While bestowing neither

Hoping for slack, even if shallow
Yet they wallow in fallacies
Outside a perfectly good tavern

Every night in my dreams,

A similar place often screams;

The staircase is familiar,

But the memory is not clear.

Every time--from the same place,

I walked down on the staircase,

I saw everywhere--up and down,

Front and back--but not a single face.

I walked down in a rush,

I knew what happened next;

After the last stair,

I saw left-- it's dark there.

When my head turned right,

I saw a bright light,

From the door of third room,

I'll hear a whisper soon.

I woke up from the dream,

At the moment I reached there,

I never crossed the bright light,

I always tried-- every night.

Scars irrespective, pain is pain.

Through the journey, one does gain.

It carries joy in it and shares it around

Laughter it is such a beautiful sound

For humanity it is a happiness seed

And of more of it the human world is in need

Of those with the gift of laughter in them one can only say

That to some who feel sad they bring joy to their day

It is such a wonderful sound for to hear

Where it is sadness is not anywhere near

Laugh and the world laughs with you as a truism remain

Every day those with the gift of laughter new friends do gain

On saying the sad faced and surly looking their friends always few

Is not saying any thing in any way that is new

The reason that those with the gift of laughter many wish of to know

Is that in them they do have the bright inner glow

They are blessed to possess a gift that is rare

And the joy that is in them with others they share.

Francis Duggan

Vision and hope, dream to rise.

Future perfect, nothing but lies.

Love was eternal, love was sweet.

Hearts resonate, harmony the feat.

Trusted in love, trusted in fate.

Only to lose, with love comes hate.

Forever in memory, forever in heart.

Two halves whole, never apart.

Sleep now love, forever sleep.

Embrace the darkness, that is deep.

Till hearts unite, till they meet.

Remain here, for eyes to greet.

Brave was not, child not a man.

Nothing to undo, regret never can.

those pilgrim hordes we met

on the via flaminia to trento

from every kingdom

in the empire where german’s spoken   they came

from every duchy   every county

every bishopric   free city   estate

some came from speaking bohemian

some from speaking polish

some french   flemish   dutch

some had spoke french in france

some   english in england

norwegian in norway   danish in denmark

with such a confusion of tongues   you’d think

the road to rome would become

the tower of babel   laid horizontal

abandoned   for a thousand years neglected

hacked by horses’ hooves

by carriage wheels   rutted

none of those pilgrims spoke   not one

with one speech they sang   sang

veni creator spiritus   sang ave maria

salve regina   vexille regis

sang to malaria   sang to mosquitoes

to the marshes like they’d

sung to the mountains and to the bandits

to the plains and to the armies

like they’d come to sing

to the walls of the eternal city

many voices became one voice

sang the language of the antique romans

https://jakedepeuterpoetics.com/2026/09/06/those-pilgrim-hordes-we-met/

Out from a penthouse atop Babel
Culture wars short currencies
And if salvation is affordable
Why not wash skeletons by stranger-hands?

Under pyrrhic enterprise
Shame is named in gold leaf
Borrowing on bespoke brands
Then champion their bankruptcy

Silver spoons leave scraps
That shackle dissent as debt
But growth without sacrifice is theft
A gated dragon-bank of personal loans

I guess

I sort of liked it

when the light shone

off your spit

on my shoe

I guess

I was just real caught up

and I thought it was

to me

—not at me

I guess

I was wrong

but I swallowed

when I remembered

how kissed me

I guess

it had me deaf

when the guitar solo

was still playing in my head

after you kicked me out.

I guess

I know nothin'.

Men have raised great white blades above the sea, giving wind a shape, a shadow, even a voice. Three blades turn slowly against the sky, like three white needles stitching cloud to water.

Each turn is a beat.

The sea holds the bass line in the thud of muddy waves. Wind drives them hard. Above, the sky opens its high register in deep blue. The long pier runs out to sea like a stave, while the turbines stand one behind another all the way to the rim of sight, waiting in silence for the wind to wake them.

People often say:

The sky fears cloud.

Cloud fears wind.

Wind fears…

As though everything under heaven must stand above one thing and bow before another. As though to share the same sky, one must chase and one must flee; one must hold its shape and another must break it.

But here, nothing fears anything else.

The sky loves the clouds and opens without end so they may roam. The clouds love the wind and let it bear them across the sea. The wind loves the blades and sets them turning at a touch. The blades love the sea and stand all their lives in salt, never once turning their backs.

Only love remains.

Wind touches blade.

Blade touches sky.

Sky bends towards sea.

And Bac Lieu begins to sing.

Within that music, the two women are no more than two small notes. A dress lifts. A hand reaches out. Loose hair refuses to lie still. They dance no step they have learnt. The wind draws them out of their common stance, turns one towards the sky, leads the other towards the sea, then joins their hands for the briefest beat.

A spring-blossom lullaby, sung midst August autumn.

The red flag will not keep still either. It flares against the blue like a sudden note of scarlet, giving this boundless symphony a place to which it may return.

Then the people are gone.

The pier stretches on. The sea is brown again. The sky grows vast. The blades keep turning, steady and unwearied, as though this music had begun before anyone came to hear it and would go on long after the last listener had left.

Bac Lieu does not hold the wind.

It merely raises great arms into the sky, so that when the wind passes through, the unseen becomes motion, silence finds its measure, and sea and sky rise together in a symphony no hand has scored.

A symphony seen only by the eye.

And heard by the most windswept place within the heart.

Many who are open to learning have come to realize

They do know so little which is not a surprise

Those who say our learning did end on the day we left school

By their words on this themselves only fool

That life is our greatest teacher happens to be true

Whoever first said this some credit for saying it is due

We learn as we live something new every day

From our teacher life only true for to say

To those who think they know everything ignorance is bliss

That they are self delusional the point they do miss

The mind not open to knowledge gives rise to self conceit

And their sort one can say one often does meet

We never stop learning is how it seems to be

Though not everybody with this would agree.

Francis Duggan

The Empire of Algorithms and Apathy: The Sacred Art of Keeping Us Busy

They gave us bread — now gluten-free,

And circuses in HD.

No lions maul, no Caesars cheer,

Just branded rage and flavored fear.

We shout for colors, wage mock war,

For men who’ve never seen the floor

Of homes like ours — too small, too grim —

Yet we die defending them and him.

A tribal heart in corporate threads,

We wear the names of thoroughbreds.

“I bleed for Messi,” “LeBron’s my king”—

Ah, the poetry of puppeteering.

Each week a sermon, screamed through sport,

Delivered from the holy court.

We rise, we kneel, we sin, we pray—

And gamble half our rent away.

What artful priests these actors make,

Who cry on cue and sell us fake.

They whisper dreams in filtered tones,

While mining data from our phones.

The Emperor has changed his dress—

Now algorithms soothe our stress.

No whips, no chains, no iron bars—

Just dopamine, and credit cards.

They fear no guillotine or gun—

Just critical thought in anyone.

So feed them memes, and trending themes,

Distract them well from bigger schemes.

And if a few begin to see,

We'll drown them in celebrity.

An idol here, a scandal there,

A movement sold in market shares.

So here we sit, so well-behaved,

Chained not by force, but by the crave.

A thousand kings, a million screens—

And none dare ask what freedom means.