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John Anthony Fingleton

John Anthony Fingleton

I have lived a varied life born in Norway to Norse / Irish parents.  I have written since I was young and have had poems published in many journals and some collections.  Also I have had 3 one act plays staged in Ireland.  For many years because of my life style I have not written, but recently the hunger has returned to my soul.  On Facebook I post on my page Löst Viking.


The Cow


The old cow walked in the African sun

Her watered eyes resigned to the task

Dusted hoofs in last years furrows

Trodden in the field once again

The routine the same as every time

The path just deeper

In a ongoing effort to search for living soil

Last years maze had just saved the family

(The cow was unaware of this)

But this year the wheat

Would also make his bed of straw

(The cow did not know this either)

He felt the harness tighten

As the wooden mouldboard unearthed

Buried rock

Behind the old man walked in the African sun

His watered eyes resigned to the task.



Mantra for another Christ


I’ve come now to the place where they had nailed you

I want to see you body … and your bones

Halleluiah cried the crowd! … He died a hero!

While a mother cries….. She wants her son back home.


I know you never wanted this to happen

I read somewhere you once cried tears of blood

And then there was a friend who would betray you

Do you think your death changed evil …. Into  good?


And what about that girl you were to marry ?,

 Just left now with a photograph to kiss

That fades with every year and grey hair passing

 No, Mary’s dreams were never…made of this.


Sill I look but cannot find your memory,

No cross, no grave, no name carved into stone

While war goes on as if your death was fruitless

And a million mothers want their sons….back home.


Somewhere beneath the poppy fields of Flanders

Unmarked, unknown except by Gods of war

You wait to hear another bugle sounding

Golgotha road!  Golgotha road!     Once more!!



Poems of Gods


I have read the poems of Gods

And secret sinners

Wrapped in yesterdays newspapers

Not hygienic, not accepted

By the standards of today.

Hidden lights, as the Welshman said

As he wrote and drunk his life away.

That was in the time

Of the blind man,

The only one

That really sees best of all.

But then again he -

Went gently into the night

Against his own rage.



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