Saturday, July 1, 2017




I picked wild flowers, from that exact same field,
Where we once walked hand in hand.
Then wandered through the small oak wood,
Still trying to understand;
What cruel twist of fate, had decided,
That it was time for us to part,
With only words of silence,
That broke my weeping heart.
I walked the same streets in the town,
Where once our love was forged,
People glanced with downcast eyes,
But no one said a word.
As I passed the house where you had lived,
Now closed up with window blinds,
I was tempted for a moment,
To try to peep inside.
I slowly stepped along the gravel path,
Where our last journey had been made,
And the flowers I plucked that morning,
Placed them on your grave.
Their wet dew ran through my fingers,
As if they also cried,
Their last goodbye and parting tears,
Before they also died.
© Fingleton (Meitheamh 2017) (Löst Viking)


In the time of the famine,
In the time of the dead;
They fell by the wayside,
And the black crows –
Were fed.
In the time of the famine,
In the time of the droughts;
Tear eyed young children,
With flies –
In their mouths.
In the time of the famine,
In the time of the war;
Stock piles of munitions,
Not one bag –
Of flour.
In the time of the famine,
In the time of the plague;
I look in the mirror,
And ask –
Why was I saved?
In the time of the famine,
In the nuclear waste;
God realises His error,
And wipes clean –
The slate.
© Fingleton (Meitheamh 2017) (Löst Viking)


Reflections of the setting sun
Where golden waters kiss the silent shore,
Two silver swans bow their heads
As if some unheard holy bell,
Was rung to praise this hour.
The island reeds sway in a whispered wind,
Conducted in a psalm of joy;
I sit upon the wooden bench,
Reading the carved messages of love,
Until I find the one;
Written with a rusted knife,
A long long time ago...
On as evening such as this…
The groves familiar, like a worn path,
Each cut a memory
Each vowel a kiss,
How many lovers viewed this place?
How many vows were made?
Did promises remain just dreams?
On an evening such as this.
© Fingleton (Meitheamh 2017) (Löst Viking)


He was old, and spoke in whispers,
Remembering his own days,
His words were not meant for me,
But for someone far away.
Sometimes he’d laugh,
Sometimes he’d cry,
Other times, he’d just sit and stare,
As if he could see someone,
Sitting in that empty chair.
At times I’d hear him call her name –
‘Anna o’ my love!'
I knew then my Grandmamma had come,
On a visit from above.
There would be a trace of her old perfume,
Wild flowers with speckled rose,
At these times I would slip outside –and let them be,
To say a soft prayer for her soul.
For I felt she was also lost,
Because, her man wasn’t there;
And I also knew my turn would come one day,
To stare at that empty chair.
© Fingleton (Meitheamh 2017) (Löst Viking)


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 a 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.
John Anthony Fingleton (JANUARY 2016) (Löst Viking)öst-Viking/746104845419195


I came down a dusty road and turned towards Memphis,
The first time I'd ever been in Tennessee,
I thought I saw the ghost of Elvis down on Jackson Avenue,
But then I saw him once again on South Front Street.
You were a country singer up from Texas,
Trying to make a name, against the odds;
While I was just a drifter, a failed writer and a poet,
Somehow our paths were charted by the Gods.
We found a small apartment just off of Greenlaw,
And I found a job working in a bar,
You kept trying to make it in the 'big time'
While my life turned more and more towards beer.
Then one night, lady luck turned your way,
An offer in a big new travelling show,
When you came home, I could see the stars in your eyes;
And realised a poor boy like me, just had to go.
So I wish you luck, and all that it will bring you,
I hope some day to see your name up there in lights,
But I'm riding down these dusty roads
Looking for the highway-
I'm riding down these dusty roads again tonight.
© Fingleton (novembre 2016) (Löst Viking)öst-Viking/746104845419195


JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland. But has spent most of his adult outside of Ireland… Lived in the UK, France, Mexico. He is at present in Paraguay. He speaks English, Gaelic, French and Spanish, as well as a splattering of African dialects, 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. Poet of the Year (2016) Destiny Poets International Community. Poems read on Irish and American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Also on some blog poetry websites.  Contributed to four books of poetry for children.  He uses the name Löst Viking for family historical reason.

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