Tuesday, January 29, 2019

Just Another Whiskey Morning. by John Anthony Fingleton


When I wake up in the mornings now,
It’s always dark outside;
And I wish, I could go back to sleep,
Or find some other place to hide.
But I know what dreams are waiting;
Like those voices in my head,
So I toss and turn –
And try to think - of other things instead.
But it always turns around somehow,
Until I see her face;
Although I rearranged the furniture,
Thought I wiped out every trace.
Still somewhere on that crumbled bed,
I’m not exactly sure,
A fragrance seems to linger
From that perfume, that she wore.

So I reach out for that bottle,
It’s now my only friend,
And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls -
It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

I go and turn the TV on,
It might help my mind escape;
But those early morning breakfast shows –
No! I just can’t concentrate.
The movie channel showing
Another re-run of ‘The Kid’
That reminds me how she laughed and cried,
At those crazy things that Chaplin did.
And the radio doesn’t help a lot,
With their old nostalgic songs,
Words that seem to underline,
How much that I feel wronged.
What chance have I got to forget?
When the stories all the same;
Broken dreams and promises –
Love gone up in flames.

So I reach out for that bottle,
It’s now my only friend,
And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls -
It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

There are dirty plates, stained coffee cups,
Overflowing in the sink,
I’ll wash them up tomorrow,
But right I need a drink.
And I haven’t shaved since - God knows when?
But I’ll have to go out soon –
I’ve just opened the last bottle,
It might last me until noon.
Some moments when I’m sober,
And I know this can’t go on;
But when she walked out with my heart and soul,
My pride just tagged along;
So I lift my glass to other fools,
Who have fallen for false charms –
Those who reach out for cold bottles,
Instead of warm and loving arms.

So I reach out for that bottle,
It’s now my only friend,
And walk around this house I’ve made a tomb,
Nobody ever telephones –
And the postman seldom calls -
It’s just another whiskey morning, on my own.

It’s just another whiskey morning……. on my own.





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. Also on some blog poetry websites.  Contributed to four books of poetry for children.  Has poems published in numerous national and international journals, reviews, and anthologies.  First solo collection ´Poems from the Shadowlands´ was published in November  2017.

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