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Damian Cranney Poem
The Undefeated
Tyson Fury he's a man,
If he says he'll do it, you know he can,
He Has been down, but never beaten,
He can never be accused of cheate'n
He has risen like the Pheonix,
Many times before,
His battles have been many,
But he finally won the War.
His biggest fight is with himself,
He is both, Protagonist and Referee,
He will not be left upon the shelf,
His inner fight has set him free..
He is an inspiration,
To all of thosewho Share,
A lack of motivation,
Or a need for special care.
CassiusClay, aka' Mohammded Ali,
Did rather well ,like Tyson Fury,
His biggest fight , was a neurone disease,
'Parkinsons' does not, leave one at ease,
There were times ,Tyson felt rejected,
Not undewrstood, or respected,
But a new Tyson Fury was unfurled,
Retiring undefeated, 'Champion of the World.'
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
Are all things purposeful and sane,
What in this life have we to gain ,
Of telling others how we feel,
Illness makes life seem surreal.
I have not spoken of the time,
My time was less than I thought due,
Having Parkinson's I thought a crime,
Because it cut my time with you.
Ten years have passed, the time just flew
I put it all down to loving you,
My need was great, but you were there,
Giving me love as well as care.
Some people fight to win a war,
or fight the neighbours just next door,
We have fought the P. together,
at this rate I Should Last Forever.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
I have walked through Fields of doubt,
I have driven across arid plains,
I have swum the rivers of life,
And still, hope eternal, remains.
Never yield to the frailness without,
It is the strength within that shapes us,
There are no negatives, only inaction,
Climb your own mountain, trigger reaction.
Age and sickness are not the same,
You can be young, and not be sound,
You can be old, and not be lame,
You can be both, yet be unbound.
Do not write me off just yet
My intentions are not to go,
In fields of passion I still walk,
And may it ever be so.
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Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2021
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Damian Cranney Poem
Think of the man,
Imprisoned for his faith,
Think of the dead,
who no longer have a face.
Neither, can alter,
Their future or their fate.
Many of us, may falter,
before reaching, heaven's gate.
Ponder on the refugee,
Deemed to have no right,
Dwell on the suffering
Of innocents in flight.
Condemned by yet, another war,
Forced to leave their home,
It has happened, Many times before,
They all are forced to Roam.
Children, mother's, babies,
With nowhere else to run,
Crippled, dead, or dying,
By the bomb, or by the gun.
Our country's make those weapons,
Can we justify our role,
They sear the flesh, of all our sons,
And blast our very soul.
We salve the guilt, by saying,
We cannot be held to account,
We don't count the dead or dying,
Only the fiscal amount.
It was not us, who pulled the trigger,
Well that is a feeble excuse,
Go tell that to the graveyard digger
Who buries the bodies, from war's abuse.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
Is it true Said the child to it's Father,
That we all have to be very good,
And We don't have a choice if we'd rather,
Be naughty and play in the mud.
The father was pensive and thoughtful,
And pondered this question some time,
“If you want to be naughty then do it my child,”
I still will upbraid you, but it will only be mild.
You have a will of your own, and you must be free,
To find your own path, without, advice from me.
I always will be here, you can on that, depend,
And your independent rights, I strongly, will defend.
The child looked up, and shaking her head,
That is not good guidance, father, she said.
I need to know the wrong, from the right,
The difference is all, be it, ever so slight.
You sought my advice, and that I have given,
your words show, down what path you are driven,
I cannot do better than, where you are now,
Your admonishment proves you already know how!
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
England my England is everything to me,
From the greenest of it’s pastures,
protected by the sea,
To good old London town,
Which will never let you down.
It’s from here the lion roars,
Ever so loudly,
where you can walk,
in the footsteps of Heroes,
proudly.
From the people it has Bred,
to the writers we have read,
With a constitution made by common law,
It’s a living breathing entity created to ensure,
that our freedom and our rights are not usurped.
A land of common Sense and decency,
Where people live in harmony,
Extending help, to one another,
whether stranger or brother,
Believing all have a right,
to a stupid point of view,
And would fight for that right,
in defense of you.
This country of ours, is a land of peace and grace,
England puts a smile, smack upon your face,
so if you add it all together,
and despite inclement weather,
there’s no better place, your weary head to rest,
and why England to all of us,
is the greatest and the best.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
Rain on the rocks and the heather on high,
Fall on the mountain from a dark clouded sky.
Myriad droplets create pools of reflection,
Then streams all together in a downward direction.
It wends its way through rill and gully,
It babbles and scrabbles, in hectic hurry,
It soon is a river flowing and wide,
With fields and meadows on either side.
It ambles now no need for haste,
Meandering its way at a leisurely pace,
It swirls and whirls, as it joins with the flow,
Embracing an estuary in a wanton show.
Water finds its level, wherever it may be,
Eventually it ends up back into the sea.
The sea turns to clouds and then to rain,
So the original stream, lives, to stream again.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2021
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Damian Cranney Poem
I am grateful,
for having been granted,
this life, such as it may be,
The simplest of things,
still make me enchanted,
but I know there’s much more,
than the little I see.
A new born child,
grips your finger,
with tiny baby hands,
And later when it smiles,
and shows it understands,
That you will always be there,
no matter what befalls,
And when the child becomes Adult,
it’s that moment one recalls.
Life is made up,
of moments like these,
So is there a price,
you must pay for it please?
You have to give,
before you can take,
And it’s yourself that you give,
and for your own sake
The sum of all happiness,
is human interaction,
But the only way it works,
is if it’s selfless benefaction,
If aims are materialistic,
your rewards you will receive,
But happiness it will not buy,
do not yourself deceive.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
I saw a busy bumblebee,
Grazing on the dew,
It buzzed from flower to flower
Of red white and blue.
Collecting golden nectar
from the stem of every bud,
which one day would be honey,
at least I think it should.
The Sky was an azure blue,
Below the fields were green,
The clouds were white as snow,
Reflected in a nearby stream,
It was peaceful,
And yet the woods all around
Was noisy and calming,
With nature's wonderful sound.
I walked down a track,
Back to the car,
Someone had left the gates all ajar,
Very naughty I thought to myself.
There were sheep,
And a farmer mad as a judge,
Because all of his sheep,
just would not budge.
It did not take him long to rally,
And the head count,
Also seemed to tally,
The baby lambs were bleating,
I used a nearby rock for seating.
What a wonderful life
we have in nature,
Next time I think,
I'll take the wife,
This place could do
with a little strife.
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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Damian Cranney Poem
Agincourt
Bowman, thou art fit and strong,
Armed with a bow, six foot long,
A weapon made, for war and death,
Defend the right, til your last breath.
Draw me an arrow, straight and long,
Aim it at that Motley throng,
There stands our foresworn enemy,
Fighting, like us, to be free.
The odds, are six to one my friend,
But that did not matter in the end,
Thirty thousand made a Stance,
Fighting for their king and France.
They faced six thousand men of war
Led by a king, whose cause was sure,
Bowmen from the Hills of Wales,
Yeomen from the English Vales
The thirty thousand French were brave,
But the charge they made, was to the grave,
On muddied ground, beneath a blackened sky,
They died by thousands, in a field of Rye.
A bowman’s rate of fire, is great,
Ten arrows per minute they estimate,
At Agincourt five thousand men,
Released a quarter of a million then.
.
That was the day that chivalry died,
Honour, was challenged and defied,
So many prisoners could not be left,
To challenge their rear and leave them bereft.
Henry would not take the bond,
That prisoners would not abscond,
He put them to the sword, to die,
Ten thousand on that bloody field,still lie.
Henry was English,a pragmatic King,
Chivalry is pointless, if you lose everything,
He won the war, without disgrace,
England now was a safer place.
Bowman thou art fit and strong,
Armed with a bow, six foot long,
A weapon made, for war and death,
Defend the right, til your last breath
Copyright © Damian Cranney | Year Posted 2022
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