Friday, February 1, 2019




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 a while,
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, and I like your company,
I have sacks of oats and plenty 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 things,
While remembering old times,
Share some jokes, and sing a few sad songs.

We will not be disturbed here,
When the North road is snowed down,
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.
©John Anthony Fingleton ( 2018) (Löst Viking)*


The churning of new earth I hear,
The ringing of a death bell clear;
As I watched that morning from the road,
The burial of an old one there.

Was I wrong to impose?
That this scene was how I supposed?
And not for one of few seasons time;
That life had brought here to unload.

Many of the women crying,
Men stifling back the same denial,
For some loved one, that now had gone,
Young or old, dying is dying.

I looked last time and then moved on,
As the echo of the last bells gong,
Faded like a blackbirds song,
But for a moment in the air just hung.
©John Anthony Fingleton (2019) (Löst Viking)


(A short memory of my Grandmother. Gould’s Street, Cork)

I traced my finger through the dust,

On the old framed photograph,

Revealing first her eyes,

That had watched me play.

Then the mouth, that had taught me,

And sung soft lullabies at night,

The face that still held beauty,

Her hair without the silver strands,

That it would turn one day.

The dress not out of fashion,

Classic it its style;

She had turned many a man’s head,

In her day.

My memories went flooding back,

To places that I thought I had forgotten,

Poignant reflections of the past,

In that dusty photograph,

That had covered her like clay.

#on Ano John Anthony Fingleton (Bealtaine 2018) (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… 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, American radio as well in Spanish on South American broadcasts. Also on some blog poetry websites. Contributed to four books of poetry for children. His poems are published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies, and his first solo collection ‘Poems from the Shadowlands’ was publish last November by CreatSpace and is also available on Amazon

No comments :

Post a Comment