Once upon a time in Arranmore

Pat, Auntie Pat

Both the plaintive moan and tell
tale tattler

to myself and Killian’s attempts to
flee for a fag by the wayside.

The spy in our midst, at once our
traitor and our watch dog bred.

No chance to escape his torment, we
suffered him in silence.

Or at least in muttered curses themselves by the wayside fled.

Pat, Auntie Pat

The, at once childish, though distinctly cunning, call to arms of all attention

His will to have us be undone and
yet not knowing, even then -

The true power of addiction, the
urge which must be answered.

We slipped his noose from time to
time but his nose thereafter sharper

Calling attention to our scent, "like old men in a pub" -

the crusty beard-stained-yellow troubadours of hapless pints and memory.

Pat, Auntie Pat

And so the buoyancy of teenage
prattle was exposed,

to blushes forth the information that
in secret had been cast.

Not to be trusted evermore

The boy to arms alone like many times before

A schoolyard had dared to bully but he bit back

And so he disappeared from out that
car and on into his only life

Till time and distance solidified
but a memory

Till one cruel Sunday morning and
his life cut short

Pat, Auntie Pat

The echo of a time forever more.

© The Hairy Teacher, (October 3, 2016), Revised April 13, 2020.

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A Place Called Grange

Through the veil of a vague remembrance
something tries to shine distinctly
Something claims the honour of
being remembered beyond the pale.
And whether truth or wishful thinking
it vies for recognition
And whether relevant to a fact
it remains relevant to us all.
It is not the collective notion
of a notion of our past
Nor the romanticised rebellion
in delusion against the truth
It is rather just a memory
mixed and mattered by circumstance
For it is our pain and how
we each deal with it in the end.

© The Hairy Teacher, April 12 (Easter Sunday), 2020

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Planned to be sent

I've decided to write this letter on paper just because, in the face of redundancy, I think all things should get at least one last appeal, and here within the artform that is letter writing, once an actual means of basic communication, be it humble or great, I have found need to defend the very form itself. It is dying so they say because of what? Our sense of urgency, our brevity or is it perhaps because little utterances conveyed too often form the emalgamated whale that swallows all sea life, including the beauty that would convey at least dramatically but a slice of all life? In sheer verbosity through quantity of snippets we have served up execution to the draft and thought, to the long evenings delivered into the arms of wonder as we delve, in search of expression, vying with every pen to paper push, a sinewy pleasure, for the perfection which, as writers we should always fear eludes us, for it must, and without attaining that spectacle of greatness, further purpose to ourselves that fair dangled destiny, that truest of beauties, the fatal enterprise, forever flawed for such is its nature.

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The Future

It may feel all so benign
But it's not
And no longer.
That flagrant flame of youth

 -Misguided, burned
out, upended-
All but floated and away
Into the flighty fancy of a memory
But things change
Have changed
And the energy expended
Now finds fruition.
The shadows of ideas
Pilfered in the half-light
Of fear and misunderstanding
Grow clearer, defined
And spell hope, recognition
The Phoenix forlorn
Mistaken
Spreads wing to take flight
And at last in the darkness of a globulus eye
Peering, searching, domineering,
I see reflected the being
That I had many years ago created
And which I’d sheltered
As I dared
Against the world
But it's time has come
No longer hiding against the tide of criticism
That may or may not follow
On toward the destination
Plotted many moons ago.

© The Hairy Teacher, November, 2019

Glendalough
About Me

If asked I’d say I’m:

a teacher, a philosopher, a father, and a writer but only a fool, I believe, would dare give this order a significance.

I believe in the day to day, and that “Men make their own importance”.

Budapest Life

My life in Budapest and my meandering thoughts on the matter!

Poetry & Short Stories

My poetry and other writings.

Budapest Reviews

My opinions on eateries, hostelries and drinking dens.

Thoughts&Things

The inner workings of my brain. Exposed.

Pride & Joy

My dear daughters. My raison d’être. A source of inspiration & frustration! 

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