JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

END OF SNOW

The snow is slowly turning into slush,

Large puddles have begun to emerge;

It, slid from the roof late last night,

Without that soft sound as it fell.

The sunshine is a little hazy, almost ashamed,

For having intruded back on the scene,

While my snowman is crying, from one pebbled eye,

Before his mouth melted…he screamed.

The cars passing by squelch on the lane,

Last week, it was a crisp crackling grate;

And every so often a shower falls from a tree,

Sending a branch quivering back into place.

Winter is slowly coming to an end,

New scenery has begun to appear,

I´ll miss its white shadows and comforting noise-

Oh No! My snowman has just disappeared.

© Fingleton (Iúil 2018) (Löst Viking)

A PLACE WHERE BLACKBIRDS SUNG

This was a place where the blackbirds sung

This was a place where we played,

This was a place where the farmer sowed his crops,

And some years cut his hay.

This was a place by the fairy well,

Where the water tasted pure,

This was a place where innocence,

Was guaranteed and so secure.

This was a place where after school,

We would fish the little stream,

This was a place where in old jam jars,

We would take home our caught tawrneens. *

This was a place where silence came,

When the Angelus Bell was rung,

This was a place like Paradise,

This was a place, where the blackbirds sung.

This is the place of hooter sounds,

This is the place where lorry’s never stop,

This is the place where you could be killed

If you’re not careful when you cross.

This is the place of smoke and dust,

Where machines keep up their constant hum,

This is the place where it’s hard to breathe,

This is the place now, where the blackbirds never come.

© Fingleton (Iúil 2018) (Löst Viking)

*Cork  (Ireland) expression, to describe a small fish - minnow, pinkeen, a thorn-back. Tawrneens are caught either in net or by worm bait.

DO YOU REMEMBER

WHEN WE SPOKE OF SWANS?

The seasons pass so quickly,

While age passes so slowly,

It seems like only yesterday,

That I was there.

I can still see the colours

Of the sunshine on the lake,

I can still see the white cob,

As he rose.

‘Do you remember when we spoke of swans?’

(Now I’m talking to myself,

That’s a sure sign of getting old)

I told you that they loved just once,

And when their partner dies,

They were destined to live on the lake alone.

You thought that was so very sad,

And I, at the time agreed,

Not knowing all those years ago –

I was talking about me.

© Fingleton (Feabhra 2018) (Löst Viking)

JUST ANOTHER WHISKEY MORNING

(lyrics)

When I wake up in the mornings now,

It’s always dark outside;

And I wish, I could go back to sleep,

Or find some other place to hide.

But I know what dreams are waiting;

Like those voices in my head,

So I toss and turn –

And try to think - of other things instead.

But it always turns around somehow,

Until I see her face;

Although I rearranged the furniture,

Thought I wiped out every trace.

Still somewhere on that crumbled bed,

I’m not exactly sure,

A fragrance seems to linger

From that perfume, that she wore.

So I reach out for that bottle,

It’s now my only friend,

And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,

Nobody ever telephones –

And the postman seldom calls -

It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

I go and turn the TV on,

It might help my mind escape;

But those early morning breakfast shows –

No! I just can’t concentrate.

The movie channel showing

Another re-run of ‘The Kid’

That reminds me how she laughed and cried,

At those crazy things that Chaplin did.

And the radio doesn’t help a lot,

With their old nostalgic songs,

Words that seem to underline,

How much that I feel wronged.

What chance have I got to forget?

When the stories all the same;

Broken dreams and promises –

Love gone up in flames.

So I reach out for that bottle,

It’s now my only friend,

And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,

Nobody ever telephones –

And the postman seldom calls -

It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

.

There are dirty plates, stained coffee cups,

Overflowing in the sink,

I’ll wash them up tomorrow,

But right I need a drink.

And I haven’t shaved since - God knows when?

But I’ll have to go out soon –

I’ve just opened the last bottle,

It might last me until noon.

Some moments when I’m sober,

And I know this can’t go on;

But when she walked out with my heart and soul,

My pride just tagged along;

So I lift my glass to other fools,

Who have fallen for false charms –

Those who reach out for cold bottles,

Instead of warm and loving arms.

So I reach out for that bottle,

It’s now my only friend,

And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,

Nobody ever telephones –

And the postman seldom calls -

It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

It’s just another whiskey morning……. on my own.

© Fingleton (Meitheamh 2018) (Löst Viking)

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: He was born in Cork City, in the Republic of Ireland.  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.  Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November  2017