Sunday, January 1, 2017




What will you do now my friend?
That the winter storms have come;
And the mountain pass is blocked by heavy snow.
Will you ride down to the lower plains?
And camp there for awhile,
While waiting for the coming of the thaw.

If you wish you can stay with me,
In my cabin by the lake;
It’s the first year I’ll be wintering out alone,
There’s food and drink for more the one, I’d like your company,
And I have oats and straw
For your horse, out in the barn.

I know you like the open road,
With freedom in your face;
And your nomads blood, does not like to rest too long,
But we can make the best of thing –
While talking about old times –
Share some jokes, and sing a few sad songs.

We will not be disturbed here,
When the North road comes under snow;
Except for a pair of wild swans nesting in the reeds,
I fear that one has died this year,
I have only seen the cob,
In many ways he’s a little just like me.

You say that you must carry on?
Ok my friend, I understand,
May the road rise and the wind be to your back;
I wish I could accompany you,
But I’ve lost the will to go;
From now on, memories are the only roads I’ll track.

© (Löst Viking)  John Anthony Fingleton


I will step inside
The summer rain,
To a hidden place,
Beyond the veil
Where transparent drops
Disguise all tears
The furrows
Of the famine years

Here lies the löst
Enchanted glen
Where spirits dance
With mortal men
And twilight waltzes
With the sun
As swans fly home
When day is done

Somewhere there is
A wishing well
And kind wizards
Sometimes cast their spells
But it stands beside
The Tree of Pain
On which all löst lovers
Carve their names

If it’s true
This place really exists
I will leave the
Imprint of a kiss
Perhaps someday
You will pass by there -
And find the stain
Of my last tear

© (Löst Viking)  John Anthony Fingleton


(Steins Mercantile, in Steins, New Mexico )

Where I am going now,
I will finally not see the sun;
It drifts in and out between the clouds,
Until its finally gone.
I tangle into tumbleweed,
That impeach me on the street -
Trashing like berserk filter nets,
Trawling for my feet.
Creaking hinges, from unwatched doors
Laugh a rusted displaced sound,
Just enough to keep me alert -
And constantly turning 'round and 'round.
Death does not live here,
It is already dead,
And the ghosts have long departed,
To find somewhere else instead.
I hear its rotten timbers
Squeaking pleas -so I'll remain,
Every Ghost Town needs at least one ghost,
Even if like me- that one's insane.

© (Löst Viking)  John Anthony Fingleton


Great waves from the Atlantic sea,
Break hard along the Cliffs of Moher;
Sea birds swoop – dive through the spray,
To check the flotsam foam.
Off the Aran Islands,
Weathered fishermen haul in nets,
Then row their currach's towards the shore,
Before the tempest sets.
The dry stone walls take comfort
From the ancient fort on Inishmore,
It faced a million storms, and stood;
Strong enough to withstand a million more.
Across the Burren wasteland,
Which Cromwell, cursed as Hell,
Medb, the Connacht warrior Queen,
Still unrepentant, the Hound of Ulster fell.
Now skeletons of dolmens,
Stand above ground the ice age scored;
Past storms have taken up their bones,
This one will take some more.

© (Löst Viking)  John Anthony Fingleton


When you wake up in the morning now,
It’s always dark outside;
And you wish that you could sleep again,
Find a place where you could hide.
But you know what dreams are waiting;
Like those voices in your head,
So you toss and turn –
And try to think, of other things instead.
But it always turns around somehow,
Until you see her face;
Although you rearranged the furniture,
Thought you wiped out every trace.
Still somewhere on that crumbled bed,
You’re not exactly sure,
A fragrance seems to linger
From that perfume, that she wore.

So you reach out for that bottle,
It’s now your only friend,
Walk around the room you made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls,
It’s just another whiskey morning, on you own.

You go and turn the TV on,
It might help you mind escape;
But those early morning breakfast shows –
No! You just can’t concentrate.
The movie channel showing
Another re-run of ‘The Kid’
Reminds you how she laughed and cried,
At all those crazy things that Chaplin did.
And the radio don’t help a lot,
With their old nostalgic songs,
With words that seem to underline,
How much that you were wronged.
What chance have you got to forget?
When the stories all the same;
Broken dreams and promises –
Love gone up in flames.

So you reach out for that bottle,
It’s now your only friend,
Walk around the room you made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls,
It’s just another whiskey morning, on you own.

There are dirty plates, stained coffee cups,
Overflowing in the sink,
You’ll wash them up tomorrow,
But right you need a drink.
And you haven’t shaved since - God knows when?
But you’ll have to go out soon –
You just opened the last bottle,
It might last you until noon.
Some moments when you’re sober,
And you know this can’t go on;
But when she walked out with you heart and soul,
You pride just tagged along;
So you lift your glass to other fools,
Who have fallen for false charms –
Those who reach out for cold bottles,
Instead of warm and loving arms.

So you reach out for that bottle,
It’s now your only friend,
Walk around the room you made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls,
It’s just another whiskey morning, on you own.

© (Löst Viking)  John Anthony Fingleton


It was like so many bars that I’ve been it,
Drunks sang, and then cried in their beer.
The jukebox was playing some honky tonk tune;
But nobody listened or cared.
Then a figure came on to the dance floor,
Waltzed around all alone,
Her fingers caressed that little black dress,
Every curve of her body was shown;
She came and sat down at my table,
I bought her a Bud ice chilled beer,
In a voice not more than a ‘whisper’
Asked if I was going eastwards from here?
She spoke of a life that was broken;
Of her bad times with a fella called Bill,
We slipped out the bar, by the backdoor,
And booked into the Lone Star Motel.
Next morning we rode out to her place,
She threw a few things in a sack.
As she climbed up behind me I turned and I said:
‘If you go now, there’s no turning back.’
She put her arms ‘round my shoulders
I felt her hot body embrace;
I hit the kick-starter - the Harley coughed fire,
And we raced like Hell from that place.
We rode on out through the badlands,
Past where the heroes of the Alamo died;
And in the ruins of an old hacienda,
Made love beneath a pure Texan sky.
She said she could stay here forever,
That she loved, but never like this.
I didn’t know as I held her close in my arms,
So much lies could be sealed… with a kiss.

© (Löst Viking)