This Side

The scaffolding still stands across the way
And under it other parties now do pass
In the shadow of that tunnel hidden memories
Some borne of repetition some of joy.
Each step a step closer to one's abode
But- now- the turning wheel dictates the road
Will it be in hindsight our adventure or
In leaving it the spelling of our certain Doom.
The passing faces the road much trodden
The life the thoughts the everything
And in so passing us we too were passing
And are still from this side of the road.

© The Hairy Teacher, March, 2018


Vásárhelyi Halász: A painting in a metro

The boatman laying up his boat to tar
The willow's tail threaded through the swallow's
Held high, suspended
The work is underway.
The shore beckons as all shores do to those who know them,
Grew up by them,
Embracing tenderly.
The duck within the grass, behind the tree
Tries reaching-
Trying to bend your will
But you don't let it.
To the waters and the wild
Being drawn once more
A destiny beheld
If you will let it.


It comes naturally

The giant drill bit seering the muddied earth
A choir of angels in tow with every twist
The coil resounding the voices aligned
Till the foreman's call brings silence.
Then the majorettes come-screeching
Whining? Marching?
Tap-dancing a tattoo?
From a whisper to a roar
Though not yet a low flying jet.
Is it Paddy's day? New York?
Is spontaneous celebration the order of the day?
Surely not! And then-
Then two workmen appear...
Pushing three lockers on wheels
Grim faces hiding, like the shut doors,
What's really going on inside.


Le Petit Esprit

A broader understanding spilt through the cracks
Poured through,
Pored over
But initially, accidentally
I opened up, my brother
Or at least found reason
And now sit-
A yesterpast-
Less vacant
More fulfilled
More enlightened
But less alive.
The numb-drum moments our debauchery
Inclined us to graves -pre-humously-
Inclining us to states debilitating...
Yet invigorating.
For was it not today in the half death
(Not the Petit Mort)
That I did not waver.
I stood profound
And let the criticism wash over me:
Not insulted- but defined.

2013-05-30 20.29.53
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.


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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