Saturday, June 1, 2019




He would sit on his daughter’s bed,
Reading tales before she’d sleep,
About the frog that turned into a prince,
Or the fairy folk of Hazel Weep.
She would listen so attentively,
Even to those old ones she had heard before,
Then, as her little eyes slowly closed,
He’d slip quietly out door.

Later he read in that little church,
When her mother passed away,
He choose the passages himself,
Reading them in his own exclusive way.
The Book of Psalms –with words of hope,
His sad voice strong, so all could hear.
‘Lord bring her to your holy mountain,
Send her light and your faithful care.’

Now she sits by her father’s bed,
Reading from his favourite books,
The poems of Yeats and Robert Frost,
"The Soldier,” by Rupert Brooks.
Over the years, the table’s turned -
As so often is the case
The listener becomes the reader,
Waiting for the other one to sleep.
©John Anthony Fingleton  (Löst Viking)


You are not alone in this sorrow,
Beneath the same shroud
I also lie…
The Black Raven….the vulture of souls -
Has pecked my eyes.
And the furrows of blood
That run down my lips,
Taste …of you.
That veiled woman of death,
The Banshee
Will not sing my death song;
But turns towards me
And wails into my ears,
An unending curse of the betrayed.
But still I cannot die!
The Morrigan, (fresh from Moytura) tears at my flesh -
Breaks my bones,
In an unfruitful search for my soul.
For she does not know,
That it has always been hidden,
In yours.
Never were my words untrue;
Each was chosen from the veins of my heart,
And woven with the raven blackness of your hair.
The furnace that welded our souls still burns,
And I for one will not extinguish the light -
Even with your tears.
For what seems dead, and has no flame,
In the darkness of the night;
I see through these bloodied eyes,
The embers beneath the ash;
Still glow.
Perhaps brighter from the wind
Of the storm.
© John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)


The Moon lit up the edifice
With a single shaft of light
Probing interferingly through the clouds.
It had the look of Elsinore
With its high bastion walls
Without the ghost of Hamlet on its towers.

I had been travelling west for many months
So I must be now somewhere in France
Or at least in the lands of Germanic tribes
My journey had been staggered
When my horse picked up a stone
And the blacksmith spoke a language
That I have never known.

I saw a glade of apple trees
Before the moon light disappeared
I plan to set my camp up for the night.
It will give me shelter
And my horse will be at ease
While I can speak soliloquies
To the owls and passing breeze.
©John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)


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. Contributed to four books of poetry for children.  Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, which is available on Amazon. Web

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