Word-Slinging, Song-Singing & Ballad-Mongering 

A Master of Folk

~Scott Alaric
The Boston Globe

An absolute treasure of folksongs, stories, and contagious charm 

~Doris Kearns-Goodwin, American Historian

One More Livestream, Sunday October 15

A masterful weaver of songs whose deep, resonant voice
rivals the best of his genre. 

~Spirit of Change Magazine

When the eyes rest on the soul…that’s Fitzy!

~Lenny Megliola
WEEI Radio, Boston

Upcoming Performances

Hatrack & Fitz

Live at Nosh by Concord Market

Every Thursday night, 7:30-10:00

Fitz is a singer, songwriter, published poet & essayist and a seasoned veteran for many decades on the New England pub scene.  Fitz will be here every Thursday night (along with Hatrack) performing at Nosh with his folksy charm, amazing repertoire of songs, stunning vocals and whatever cast of friends is joining them on stage.

Booking for Concerts, Readings, Presentations & Workshops…

Festivals & Celebrations —Coffeehouses —School Assemblies — Library Presentations —Songwriting Workshops —Artist in Residence — House Concerts —Pub Singing — Irish & Celtic Performances — Campfires —Senior Centers —Voiceovers & Recording

Message or Call 978-793-1553

Thanksgiving: Bikes for Sale: $2.00

This rambling batch of poems is dedicated to the small, old mill town of Maynard, Massachusetts, the funky and accepting town where doors are bigger than houses; where friends are at every corner and cantina, which is our home. And where most of these poems were born.

And to Windsor Mountain Summer Camp, the enchanted grove in the tangled woods of rural New Hampshire—which is our other home, our other place and our true world community built out of tolerance, truth and joy.

And, as always, to my wife Denise, our seven kids, and the unending dream of our lives in the red house with all the bikes.

And to you, whomever you are…

Thanks for reading.

~Fitz

Remember the Time

This diaspora of rambles, reflections, stories and essays is my way of keeping what I remember—or at least what I need to remember. Musketaquid is the native name for the Concord River. Someone once told me that it meant “slow moving river.” It seemed like a fine and apt name to me, so much so that it didn’t bother me to discover the actual translation is “grass grown river.” The fields are now all wooded over—a bramble of Hawthorne and Swamp Maple hiding almost every view; but it still a slow moving river—and always will be. Even the Nipmuck’s and Pennacook’s would have to agree with that.

These words are what I have to add to the rivers. They are the rivulets and streams of my experience becoming a smaller part of the Musketaquid, which, hopefully, flows into the Merrimac and thence to some greater sea of understanding and insight. They are the good, the bad, and the ugly drafts of my life scattered with the randomness of the winds and tides that have driven me and carried me to so many shores—and have always brought me home—

Home to these rivers—these beautiful, beautiful rivers…

Crows & Swallows

Promises.

This small book of poems started with a promise to myself back in the spring of 2017 to simply and stubbornly make the time to write fifty poems before the sweep of fall took the time from me. As with most poets, I made more chips than I did firewood, but some bolts survived to stack and save for this small and wispy fire.
These are those poems. No doubt, it seems I stole the style and spirit of poetry from Emily Dickinson, for I am seldom without some influence guiding the shape of my words. Her garret window is my back porch, but our worlds are much the same, centered on family, friends and whatever vistas the head and heart may hold. It would be grace if even one of my poems holds the power of any one of her’s.
As I write this, the leaves are stripping away from the warm cloak of summer, and these poems are now as bare and weathered as they will be.

And no longer my own, but yours.

Balladmonger: Original Songs & Ballads

These songs of mine, forgettable as they may be, are my answer to a mystical beckoning of duty I can’t seem to shake from my earthly coil. I don’t write songs with any purpose except to make another notch in the walking stick of remembered time. I write songs because I can’t comprehend a life without song—without stories that make substance of what would otherwise be fleeting thoughts lost to the diaspora of duty, obligation and common toil. I sing songs because my battered guitar and croaky voice is proof that I am still alive. I keep singing and I keep writing, if only to stay alive and to know I am not a dream.

My songs and ballads are not yet ancient, and they may soon be lost, for I know too well the weaknesses of my craft. I can’t undo the limitations of who I was or who I am.
But my race is not run. I have other tales to tell.

For now, these are my stories hammered into songs, kicked like stones down an old New England road winding to the sea.

Pick some of them up and throw them as far as you can.

Three Rivers Anthology: Collected Poems

“The Three Rivers Anthology” is a compilation of my three books of poetry: “Raccoon,” “Thanksgiving” and “Crows and Swallows.” The three rivers of my life flow through my old hometown of Concord, the Sudbury, Concord and Assabet rivers. They meet together at Egg Rock, an ancient and sacred native place just upstream from The Old North Bridge. My blessings are too many to shape into words. It is hard to comprehend my joy.

These words, for better or worse, are my offering.

Raccoon: The Cabin Poems

I penned (literally) this first small book of poems, interspersed with restless wanderings, while living alone for close to ten years in a small cabin in the woods of Carlisle, Massachusetts, near the shores of the Concord River. I published 100 copies of Raccoon (all I could afford) back in the early nineties, and I sold them pretty quickly, not due to merit, but mostly to friends kind enough to indulge my unkempt experiments with words.

No doubt, the larger world of poetry has pretty much ignored my efforts—as I have their world, so I do deeply appreciate any of you who takes the time to share in this old and blessed sojourn in the woods of mine—albeit in a new and more modern format.

Though the years have moved by quickly and happily, I still find myself reliving my days and nights in the cabin, trundling to the outhouse, waiting for the spring to thaw my sink, and dipping my pen in an old inkwell if only to see what happens.

This is what happened…

 Fires in The Belly

A masterful weaver of songs whose deep, resonant voice rivals the best of his genre. 

~Spirit of Change Magazine

Foreward

When I first met John Fitzsimmons in 1989, I thought the Old Man of the Mountains had shaved off his beard, picked up a guitar, and was trying his luck as a folksinger. He was a bit late, covered with small pieces of dirt, and apologized tersely for his condition, saying he’d just finished building a stone wall for a neighbor. He shook my hand and I knew he wasn’t lying, but I wondered what kind of a man prepared for a recording session by handling rough boulders. Several hours, and now several years later, Fitzy still makes me wonder, but I find I’m more often amazed than amused.His songs seem to come from deep within the New England earth. Sometimes burning with fire and rage, sometimes warm and gentle, but always honest and clear. In a voice that’s equal parts granite and brandy, John etches unsentimental portraits of real people facing life’s struggles and joys the only way they know how. Sometimes the characters manage to find some distant light, but it’s the journey, not the journey’s end, that’s important to John.

What makes this disparate collection believable is the road traveled by the writer. Over the past twenty years John has worked as a sailor, farmhand, logger, woodcarver, musician, storyteller, teacher, wrestling coach, and other jobs he refuses to talk about. For the past twelve years he’s held forth every Thursday night in the back tavern of the Colonial Inn in Concord, (once home to Henry David Thoreau’s family) and the place to go if you want to meet some real swamp Yankees, people who lived in these towns before the yuppie exodus made them suburbs. You’re sure to find these folks there: listening to the music, singing along, sucking down brews, and giving Fitzy a playfully hard time.

The other “voice” on this recording is the inspired production and musicianship of Seth Connelly, who plays far too many instruments far too well for a mere mortal. Seth has worked with John Gorka, Catie Curtis, Ellis Paul, Geoff Bartley and others: and when John hooked up with him a couple of years ago, these songs took on new colors and dimensions. they both share a complete trust in each others vision, as well as a friendship as strong as the songs they’ve created.

So I want you to listen to this friend of mine, John Fitzsimmons. His songs give voice to things we all can hear. Put this on, sit back, and hear for yourself…

Eric Kilburn
12/28/95

Campfire

The Greatest Camp Songs of All Time

2003: Best Childrens Album of the Year
~Boston Parents Paper

The Salty Dawgs

Dawghouse: A Salty Dawgs Hootenanny 

The New England Laureate of Pub Music

~Globe Magazine

Livestream Concerts

Beneath the friendly charisma is the heart of a purist 
gently leading us from the songs of our lives 
to the timeless traditional songs he knows so well. 

~Globe Magazine

American Folksongs & Ballads

History, Lyrics & Recordings

Zenmo Yang Ni

I lost the time I hardly knew you,
half-assed calling:
“How you doing?
Laughing at my hanging hay field;
I never knew the time
that tomorrow’d bring,
until it brung to me.

Yuan lai jui shuo: “Zenmoyang ni?”
Xianzai chang shu: “Dou hai keyi”;
Xiexie nimen, dou hen shang ni.
Xiwang wo men dou hen leyi
Dou hen leyi

You Are All a Bunch of Punks

Poetry without form is like tennis without a net. ~Robert Frost       Free verse poetry is not, as many assume, poetry without rules. It is a measured and thoughtful crafting of an idea into lines,...

Yesterday did not become a poem

Nothing became something else; No thoughts filled my head With wonder or wisdom. Listless sky. Jumbled frames. Fleeting images: Chattering squirrels, Distant rumbling Of rush hour traffic. Today I...

Writing Iambic Dimeter Poetry

I am sitting here realizing how hard it is to ask you--a bunch of fifteen-year-old boys--to write iambic dimeter poetry, a form of poetry that is more or less ignored nowadays. I (literally) played...

Wrenching Day

It has certainly been a long time since wisdom ruled the day. I did get up and run in the rain, and now I am preparing to do some “wrenching” on my motorcycle. I am trying to temper my eagerness to...

Wisdom

Wisdom starts in non-action… The doing and non-doing are the equal balance. Without the luxury of contemplation there would not be a prioritizing of need versus want. Wisdom balances physical...

Winter in Caribou

I know your name. It’s written there.
I wonder if you care.
A six-pack of Narragansett beer,
Some Camels and the brownie over there.
Every day I stop by like I
Got some place I’ve got to go;
I’m buying things I don’t really need:
I don’t read the Boston Globe.

But I, I think that I
Caught the corner of your eye.
But why, why can’t I try
To say the things I’ve got inside
To you ….

Why Trump Is Not Flipping Me Out

I wonder why Trump is not flipping me out? I wonder if there is some bigoted, ignorant and right-wing element that lurks inside this folk-singing, poem writing, neo-socialist shell of mine. Maybe it...

When the same thing happens again

I wonder if God is testing me, giving Me some affable warning Or, perhaps, a more Stern rebuke, replaying A foolish mistake, Rehashing and reminding me Of a harsher possibility. It is only a small...

What’s in a Song

Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet. ~Plato         Writing a song is...

What Christmas Is

  I am not sure what Christmas really is anymore. I am almost afraid to think of what Christians are going through in the lands of the original Christian faith. By dint of place and time, I grew up...

What Are We Afraid Of?

Good intentions are easily hobbled by inaction. There has always been a murky and muddied No Mans Land in every war where the evil and the righteous trade the moral high ground. This is not the case...

What a Picture Tells

"Zou Ma Guan Hua" You can't ride a horse and smell the flowers ~Chinese Proverb Sometimes I love just browsing through old folders of pictures of my kids when they were just kids in every sense of...

Welcome

I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men's lives; some such account as he would send to his...

Weekend Custody

Jesse calls up this morning—
“You can come downstairs now;
You see the grapefruit bowl?
Well, I fixed it all;
I fixed everything for you.”

Everything’s for you…

“Let me help you make the coffee,
Momma says you drink it too.
I can’t reach the stove,
But I can pour it, though—
What’s it like living alone?”

Weeds

  Somewhere locked in this choke of weeds spread like a mangy carpet is the hardened vine of Pipo’s Concord Grape he planted in an eager spring three years ago. Gasping for air and sun and...

Waiting for a Poem

  It’s not like a poem to come curl by my feet on this morning too beautiful to describe, though I am looking and listening and waiting: A rooster crows above the low hum of morning traffic;...

Trawler

Leave the fog stillness
of a cold harbor town;
cup our hands
in the warm diesel sound—
leave while the children
are calmed in their dreams
by light buoys calling:
“Don’t play around me.”

To a teacher

This shift from fall to winterIs the cruelest month:Long days and nightsIn a blather of responsibility’s I hoist from a murky holeAnd sort and siftOn a messy desk. I pity my students who trembleMy...

This new spring begs attention

And shivers its literal timbers. Cold, wet and pleading, Scarred by winter winds And pasty snows, My small field and patch of woods Is now a monument To aging neglect. Shorn limbs and branches Hang...

Thinking of My Sister

When Cool Was Really Cool  Life is not counted by the amount of breaths we take,  but of the moments that leave us breathless. ~Unknown             We were coming home from church one morning and...

There is in an easiness

When I begin to think of myself. My girded shell squeezing Oysters in a jar; My oily viscera Jammed and joggled Into impossible places. My pancreas Is never where it should be; My esophagus cut...

The Value of a Classic

“Classic' - a book which people praise and don't read.” ~Mark Twain A note to my 8th grade class:      All of you are supposedly reading a classic book, but what Twain says is true: few of us go...

The Tide

They are building a world and the plastic is fading: Margaret and Eddie's buckets are split, pouring out the warm Atlantic as they race along the tidal flat, filling pools connected by frantically...

The Threshing

I trace her charging through the cornfield shaking the timbers of the ready crop startling up the blackbirds, and surprisingly, a jay. It’s the jay who startles me—
who with two quick pulls wrests...

The Teacher’s Couch

It’s not just a couch; it’s a sofa, too ~Fitz           I remember my first year teaching at Fenn—and it was really my first stint as a true worker with responsibilities outside of what I already...

The Street I Never Go Down

As is often the case, I sit here with good intent to write my end-of-term comments--a dry litany of repeated phrases dulled by. obligation--and find myself instead writing poetry, the stuff I would...

The Storm of Fallibility

       One good cigar is better than two bad cigars, or so it seems right now. It is a beautiful and stormy night--pouring rain and howling wind, and I thought a good smoke would be a fitting end to...

The Snow

has dropped a seamlessness before the plows and children can patch it back to a jagged and arbitrary quilting putting borders to design and impulse. I imagine myself falling everywhere softly,...

The Small Potato

Maybe there is a God. I just came home and sat down in the kitchen to grade some papers and input some grades, but the internet is buggy and slow, and I thought, "maybe this is the message" that I...

Message or Call 978-793-1553