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The essence of being

The Hapless Elephant

The ideas intellectualising 

And I see the evasive gestures 

Intertwined in the silence 

That space between thoughts and written words 

And war weary  

cast ashore in that talk of the weather 

Nobody dares mention the critical 

Instead in the mediocrity, sparse honesty 

Carefully chosen each destination so as to not bring anyone too close to the fire, 

Or worse, beyond it – into the darkness 

That has always surrounded us. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

The Nose Job

Hungarians pride themselves on their numerous inventions but I’m not sure that they should…

Rubiks Cube…madness inducing


Bike Spokes…eye poker outers

Orrszivo Porszivo…need I say more


In Plight

My mother’ grip weaker but tighter too 

A desperate plea to me and to mortality 

The love abounding but unstable 

The conditions placed upon herself weigh badly. 

“Was I a good mother?” the plaintive quest to understand 

The fear of an Unforgiven. 

Yet what her memories paint and what of them remain 

I cannot judge 

But what I can induce is blame 

That reassurances will never penetrate. 


A child robbed of youth; 

Or the joy therein, 

Robbed of a father through the maraudings of a mean mother 

And when his death arrived 

Though grown 

She was left alone against the politics of the justifiably estranged 

Strained through years of conflict and contradiction. 


So what then of my future in this mess? 

A hand that will grip tight long after death 

Is made of love and not the need for love 

To reciprocate is joy 

But to give without expectation is strength 

And to never look for reassurances is brave – 

Especially at the end. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

Across a notion

In the faded blue now turned dark 

There sparkles the settlements of an age 

An eyesore to the unspoilt landscape 

A sign of hope to the weary traveler 

A beacon amidst the puffs of clouds 

That dispel the views our tired minds are longing for. 

Holding on just this little bit longer 

The time now measured in our descent 

as the clouds embalm us 

The darkness almost entombing –  

But we pray, collectively, 

That engineering, yes science, 

Will save us again, 

Will transport us safely into the bosom of our destination. 

We are the pilgrims set out against life 

In search of it 

In the nuances of every step 

We are fools  hoping for change 

And yet we see it, 

We feel it, 

Perceive it at every turn. 

But collectively we become lost in the mantras 

The panic, 

The sheer superstition , 

Rock Face sheer, cliffintine, 

We have it, it us 

And shattered in our  communion 

We scream injustice 

Searching for our scapegoat 

The voodoo functions 

The blame is cast 

The snake eyes removed as was our Judas. 

And again as we set down we forget our hysteria 

And once more we move beyond the limits of our fear 

Into the freedom that forgetfulness and ignorance affords us 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017


Back again my pretty creepy crawley 

With school start and hair washed- 

It doesn’t matter. 

You discriminate not though many on your behalf do 

They shout “You filth” and they do not mean you. 

The psychosomatic impulse 

The hand that reaches, scratches, passes back to point 

And waits 

The tendency engorged by fitful, fanciful, frantic 


And back again to torment, Cos that is what you do. 

The morning’s bus-stop-wait inspection 

The routine, the chore imposed. 

Each itch, each scratch, questioned 

Queried, curious, cautious 

And paranoid, yes paranoid, 

The present you endow. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

A song

I didn’t try today to remember
Nor forget for I thought that unwise.
I didn’t reach for tears to quench the fire
Nor would I allow my heart to burn with rage.
I never promised anything nor were oaths given
And yet I felt betrayed by what you’d done.
While I the innocent stone thrower
Lay down my implements of hypocrisy.
Refrain: I regret not knowing you
And you not loving me
I despise the taint I threw on thee
I blame my self as is my fallacy
Noone was wrong to let a thing just be.

I didn’t die that day
When you released me
Nor did I relish in
The new found misery.
I guess I begged
I may even have seemed pathetic
I was new to you and never asked for this.

Yet I wasn’t the victim of a hit and run
I believe we fought two pugilists as one.
You may have cracked my heart
With belittlements’ array
While I internalized the rage and came undone.

I didn’t lie that day upon failed laurels
Instead I fuelled my dreams from painful memory
Not like a trooper nor a troubadour
But like a man who’s lost and carries on.
Sometimes empowered by self-righteousness
Sometimes alone and left distraught
I have at times given weight to thee
And wonder if you’ve ever even thought of me.
Refrain: 1 or 2?

In the end, Love

To hold the shadow dear, the faded memories 

The loves lost 

The fights had 

The friends, the feelings: 

To position them in a place of some importance 

Each one a tool 

To teach 

To tempt us forward. 

And yet upon a pedestal too oft residing 

The pain descending 

Like hot wax dripping 

Time measured in its and your destruction. 

Time measured backwards towards the hurt 

As if nothing mattered anymore. 

The blind fool lives for what is lost 

The wise one dares to tread once more into the minefield 

that is the heart. 


© TheHairyTeacher 2017

A Coming of Age

A coming of age  a rite of passage

To write in remembrance to commemorate

I’m not mourning and yet I may still

For what I have done to that old tired beast.

I’ve slaughtered it, humanely,

in the name of expression.


Stood there in the limelight only the darkness to see

But like oft has been mentioned, I felt them, faceless, expectant,

and when I sat down swaddled in the spotlight

I sat down with the weight of their individual silence,



Each of them protruding through the inky veil,

To sit beside me on the sack cloth coughing:

This is poetry, culture – steak after all,

And I played my part tonight.


And I come away less vilified than deified,

Though the truth, I know, lies somewhere in between.
I shake the remnants of a beer from its hiding place,

hunting it down with my greed,

And allow that though momentarily I was sophisticated,

I am, in the end, Still me.


© TheHairyTeacher2017


Morning’s minions drawn from their downy warmth
To be flailed by street amid the swarms
Dark night shifts to grey sky warning
That the gloom arrives though day is dawning.
And onwards into the belly of the beast
Never satiated by the thronging streets
Each day then cursed to repeat again
Man’s fate sealed subservient till the end


© TheHairyTeacher2017

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