JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

DECLINE

This place has no resistance,

It gave up years ago;

Boarded doors and windows,

Are now all the rage.

A few pathetic peeling posters,

Give an invalid image of renewal,

Reviving hope, in no one here at all.

The last one to go was Tommy Albright,

He’d been there near on fifty years,

And his father –

While the old Queen was on the throne.

But an economic tidal wave –

A tsunami aroused by greed,

Swept away his shop and fresh fish stall.

No one comes here anymore,

Except a few that lose their way,

Or some restless youths to spray graffiti on the walls.

It has turned into a ghost town,

Where even the dead refuse to haunt;

Another sign of decline –

Another Rome after the fall.

©John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)

REFLECTIONS

The lake was calm that evening,

With a warm breeze from the south,

Hardly a ripple disturbed the scene;

The only real exception,

Was when a fish jumped for a fly,

Then things settled back, to what they just had been.

It was at a time before the lovers came -

The day-trippers had gone home;

A twilight when the Gods deserve to rest;

When even nonbelievers’ pray,

As doubts enter their heads,

That something might exist beyond themselves.

The bench on which I sat on,

Had been carved from ancient wood,

The new ones had been forged from modern steel.

I felt like a hybrid,

Between the present and the past,

Remembering all the years and times I’d seen.

I slowly rose and walked around its bank,

As I had done so many times;

I found that if I looked down at the reflection of the trees,

Then everything would seem the same,

As if the years were caught in time,

And every so often, I’d catch a glimpse of you and me.

©John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)

A SILENT MAN

I can remember when he was big and strong.

More than any other man I knew,

The weather could not stop his work -

But found far more easier things to do.

The harvest was no match for him,

Sometimes despite the pouring rain.

His strong arms shelved the hay bales,

Broad shoulders - sacks of grain.

Then one winter, the invasion came,

By an enemy of the mind.

Yet the changes came on slowly,

Like a shadow creeping from behind.

Not caring, if the day was bright,

Or the horses left running wild;

Broken fences went unrepaired,

The light slowly dimming in what was once his bright blue eyes.

Then one day he just stopped talking,

As if words were some affliction to his means.

I still believe that the silence did not kill him -

But it was from the total lack of dreams.

©John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON

JOHN ANTHONY FINGLETON: 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. Poet of the Month (April 2019) The League of Poets.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November 2017, which is available on Amazon.