Poetry: John Anthony Fingleton

Frosty Morning
The banks along the river,
Hold the frost that came the previous night
Shimmering in the early morning Sun;
Erect like icy soldiers - Diligently on guard -
As the waters pass,
Like a parade has just begun.
The trees on the other side,
Wave their enthusiastic leaves;
Acting like spectators to the scene,
Little green flags of nature,
Happy for another day being born,
Reflected in the sky's, burnished golden gleam.
Slowly the morning rises,
And the birds begin to stir,
Basking in the glory of the day,
The clouds disperse, like cobwebs wings-
Dusted by the Sun,
And the frost like an old soldier, fades silently away.
***

Rainbow

It appeared as if by magic
a carousel of light
stretching across a sky
that threatened rain.
A mirage of colours
rising from the west
then settling on a field
just near my home.
What did the ancient people think?
when it first appeared
a prelude of a message
from the Gods?
A rainbow bridge
that led them to another world beyond?
an omen from a loved one
that had gone?
In my day I believed that leprechauns
hid their pots of gold
on the very spot where it came to land.
But although I rushed
and searched the field
it always seemed to be the next
until it just grew tired of my silly game -
slowly faded and was gone.
***

Magic Hour

A silent lake, a morning mist,
A ripple starts to stir,
Moving from the island, towards the shore.
Its rhythmic sound stays in tune;
Like a harp being slowly strummed,
Re-tuned to keep the magic of the hour.
A stirring in the swaying reeds,
As majestic creatures spread their wings,
Then gracefully take flight, to show their power.
The fisherman prepares his nets,
Steps into his boat,
And launches it with one shove of his oar.
***

---

John Anthony Fingleton 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 posted on many blog poetry websites. Contributed to four books of poetry for children. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive. His first solo collection ‘Poems from the Shadowlands’ was publish last November by CreatSpace and is also available on Amazon He uses the name Löst Viking for family historical reasons.

Setu, May 2020

Poetry: John Anthony Fingleton

* Author of the Month *

John Anthony Fingleton

Soliloquy

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.


A Country Road (near Skibbereen)

This old bog road, is deserted now,
With the hedgerows overgrown;
The fields each side are still carefully spaced,
By ancient drywall stones.
The Fairy Mound, is not disturbed –
Old suspicions linger here,
But the cattle and the crops have gone,
And the old folks have disappeared.

Between the gaps of invading grass,
Old cart tracks, I can see;
From when farmers drove on market day,
Down to the town of Skibbereen.
And where I on rainy mornings,
Splashed reluctantly to school;
The first road I ever travelled –
Of the many later I would choose.

Two ravens, swoop down from the trees,
Unused to been disturbed;
Their dark eyes watch my progress –
Recording every move.
Then they rise and fly off easterly,
To report what they have seen,
Perhaps to ghosts, that once walked here?
Or a far more Higher Being?

I turn – retrace my footsteps –
Reluctant to go on;
There is a special grief in all returning’s,
When the loved ones have all gone.


Amongst the Refugees

Within that stifling cloud of dust
Whirling in outer space
Are you still evolving with the stars?

Was your death just a passage?
That still is incomplete
Wrestling against gravity all these years

Or do you still wait for me?
In some vain hope that I will die
That some fumbling god will find me in the end

Amongst the other refugees
On a crater pox torn road
Mélangé between enemies and friends

Do you think there is the slightest chance?
That I might still survive
Against the odds as I’ve done before

When all I really want is to join you
In Purgatory’s lost place
Where you and I will rest for evermore


The Boat

The boat slipped its moorings,
Eloped from the pier,
Went to find its fortune on the seas.
Under the shade of darkness,
It drifted silently away -
A little like what happened, you and me.

Finally running out of rivers,
It reached the ocean wide,
Where the waves grew higher, as they tossed;
Some it rode quiet easily,
Others threatened to capsize –
A little like me and you, we won and lost.

It faced and raced through many storms,
Somehow managing to stay afloat;
Yet, sometimes it nearly succumbed to the sea.
It was at times like this, that The Faiths intervened,
As if it was rowed by unseen hands,
A little like what happened, you and me.

One twilight it reached calm waters,
And rested there awhile,
To catch its breath, after all it had been through,
Then it decided to drop anchor,
As if destiny knew this place,
A little like what happened, me and you.

---

John Anthony Fingleton 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 posted on many blog poetry websites. Contributed to four books of poetry for children. Poet of the Month (March 2019) Our Poetry Archive. His first solo collection ‘Poems from the Shadowlands’ was publish last November by CreatSpace and is also available on Amazon He uses the name Löst Viking for family historical reasons.

Setu, May 2019