Thursday, June 1, 2017




The road just sort of ambles on,
While not in touch with time,
With no heed to the travellers needs
Or for the urgent nature they entwine.
It mimics a slow winding stream,
That has been cut by nature’s hand,
It takes account of solitude
And complements the land.
It sways around old churches,
Past abandoned famine homes,
Touches one deserted village
Snakes through fields of barley corn.
© Fingleton (Aibreán,2017) (Löst Viking)


In retrospect, we just stood around
Searching for our dreams
Not knowing they had been lost
Between the twilight and the Moon
Forced into the shadows
By powers outside our hands
Unknowing to both of us
That our plans had been condemned
Taken fully out of context
Because our souls were marked by scars
By that dreadful myth of original sin
And the guilt lines that it carved
So roads have taken different paths
From the sea to country lanes
And somewhere in that passing
Nothing, was allowed to stay the same
© Fingleton (Márta 2017) (Löst Viking)


I wish the wind would blow me,
To the Isle of Innisfree,
Where Yeats spoke with the shadow folk,
And built a hive for honeybees.
The grass there has a fragrance;
The birds sing special tunes,
While its purple heather dances,
To the light of each Full Moon.
I’ve heard say, there is a peace there,
That nowhere else on Earth is found;
As if this was once where Eden stood,
And left a piece of ground.
If I could just rest there awhile,
To find my soul once more.
Then like Aengus, cut a hazel wand,
And wander from its shore.
© Fingleton (januar 2017) (Löst Viking)


(Ventry Co. Kerry)
The old men come in everyday,
The same chairs
The same position,
The same old order, without a word;
Black pints that need time to settle.
The weather first is put to rest,
Then the sport comes into play,
The football all wrong since Páidi’s gone,
And the hurlers –
Have had their day.
Their pains and aches
Get more each day,
Joeine o Se has left a vacant chair
I suppose in time they all will go;
There is one less every year.
Their language changes
To accommodate all those who pass;
Sometimes they speak, with the Gaelic spelling:
‘The days are short, and the nights are long,
sometimes I feel my soul is ebbing.’
(‘Is iad na laethanta gearra, agus an oíche ar fada,
uaireanta is dóigh liom go bhfuil m'anam ebbing.’)
Photo Tom ‘Kaiser’ Kavanagh Painted by Liam O'Neill.
© Fingleton (feabhra 2017) (Löst Viking)

Net curtains with a glass door,
And sometimes there’s a cat
Looking for to run into the street;
Dodging legs of children
As they make their way to school,
And early traffic for Asunción
Honking horns and blaring music
Smelling uncollected garbage
Black sacks of household interest
Undecided what to eat.
I sit while a policeman’s whistle
Is ringing in my ears,
Hot coffee, awaking my remaining senses
To this coming day,
His waving arms deciding who turns left or who goes right,
Unpersuaded by impatience,
Late for work excuses
Pregnant motorcycle passengers,
He has seen it all before,
For him and me, it’s just another day.
© Fingleton (Márta 2017) (Löst Viking)


Fortune has restored my dreams
And allowed me to wander,
To cold lands North,
And hot lands South,
To take East and West asunder.
Re-find the paths I thought were lost,
When destiny was cruel;
Or did it just delay my fate?
Knowing I was young, and still a fool.
This time my steps are slower,
My lack of caution overgrown,
My old eyes see things differently,
But still recognises home.
I lived beside the cactus plant,
The thorn bush, and the rose;
A wilderness like Eden,
Where true peace had no repose.
My days were filled with trivial things,
Sometimes my flesh was raked with scars,
Or intoxicated by deceit-
A lost soul, a falling star.
There were some that thought I was dead;
And others wished it true,
But the long walk,
Was waiting in the shadows,
And I started out anew.

© Fingleton (Aibreán 2017) (Löst Viking)


JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON : He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland. But has spent most of his adult outside of Ireland…Is at present in Paraguay. He speaks English, Gaelic, French and Spanish, but mainly writes in English.  He has been writing for as long as he can remember. Poems published in journals and anthologies in, Ireland, UK, USA, India and France as well as three plays produced.  He uses the name Löst Viking for family historical reasons.

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