‘Evil’…just a word
in a verse that could be a recipe.
It could be anything.
I decide –
if I decide,
to choose…
anything at all.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Category Archives: Poetry & Short Stories
Guilt
I’m eating her away with the filth of my mind:
at once consuming and consumed.
I relish in the torrent of her flow, from a height,
her head, cascading.
I wonder at the slight valley,
which runs between neck and shoulder socket,
almost broad, almost muscular, always sensual.
I wonder as I drink the unblessed blood of Christ,
the draught that would still water be without Him –
it is not the best till last, but nearly,
it is not the end because the sulking lady’s skinny.
I am devouring the room with my ego,
and the room smiles, stretches, and…
once more enslaves me
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Friendship
Friendship is the well from which we draw when our loneliness becomes unbearable.
It is the bank into which we deposit without ever a single care.
It is the salvation in the doom,
the guiding light within the darkness.
This is friendship, and nothing more.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Finally
Fleeting fool forever forlorn
abandoning will to abstraction.
Fool forever forlorn feels
the hollow choices breathing.
Forever forlorn feels faintly
like the nightmarish doubt.
Forlorn feels faintly familiar.
And when the mirror’s dared again,
feels faintly familiar, finally!
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Face Off
The poisoned mind of online clutter, the shift from art to emptiness.
The bells, the lights of bar room games, at least a numbing quality.
Instead in this, a pernicious plot, slowly eroding reason.
And when the anger finally takes hold, I’m still responsible for my actions.
The inner fizz, the steam pipe hiss, the gas leak rising staunchly-
to ruin the air, the fettered mind, alone in the conclusion.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
This morning
This Thursday morning holds the mind entombed in the low hung clouds
Filtered through the grey blue visor into traffic noise and city chatter.
Around about the scent of them: perfumed, shampooed, and after-shaven
A smell of food as breakfast downed on buses, trams to anywhere.
Amidst the motion, a pin-point picture, inside the mind, shrine-like, protected.
A vision as an angel- twee , allowed to flourish beyond the misery.
A dirt encrusted man does roam among the people waiting on.
From up a perch, across cut grass, the writer-watcher makes his cast(e)
And in the mold of pen and paper erects a notion of this day.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Calgary…a review
Calgary…this is not my first time.
Herein seduced by the piano
Now all atumble with bits and bobs
But isn’t this whole place?
And so-
I wonder-
If maybe at a twirl, speakeasily,
Everything may be different.
From out of the radio the music spells freedom:
Hungarian, gypsy? –
Inflected with a francophilia.
It sways into a kind of opulence
Before surrendering to the density of the heart
Only to be released by the furious incline
Of a violin, a fiddle,
Turned demented – Chagallian –
Dancing o’er the notions of a childish nightmare.
And then a kind of swing kicks in –
In defiance of work, or the mundane,
And yet in celebration of life, of love.
And then the beer protests
“No words are more important”
As the hands and mind become distracted.
Again the calls repeat more loudly,
More vociferously
“No words were ever so important”
But the pen moves on
The gas keeps rising
And so the battle has begun
Between the poet and (the) drink
Sober and drunk
And somewhere amidst this selfish incline-
A battle suffused on the shores of otherness –
A hint, a notion, of other things.
A charge, a brigade
In the light they falter fall, but forever rise again.
For unlike men this is family,
For unlike duty this is love,
But for unlike freedom,
This is responsibility.
The thing that tears at each rebel’s heart.
“They would topple a government and so too a family in favour of a freedom that can never be won – a dream, however, that is the fuel of life.”
©TheHairyTeacher2014
E.G.
Példaúl – but we don’t need it…cos I never forget.
Por ejemplo, par example, mar shampla…etc…
I’m not about to become pretentious.
The pen that writes this is borrowed,
so is the language…
I’ll never be right in their eyes
And surely I’ll never write
the right to be right
and write to express it.
In the stench of old arguments, and stale pre-smoked cigarettes,
I delight in the fact that I don’t have to be among them.
I did lose a good person in the mist,
in the midst, tonight…
but she wasn’t for this world, and my temptations.
It’s possible because she may have been better.
She may be better:
She’s certainly not worse!
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Easter Passed Over
When the Friday claimed good is nigh upon us,
and the last cold snap of winter falls all round us,
when the expectations for a Spring sometimes grow too strong,
and the sullen mood in the shadows of Old Man have gone on too long
then all that’s left is positive spirits
all bottled up in reserve for this
and when finally the blossoms come.
We’ll fall elated – reverently dumb.
©TheHairyTeacher2014
Earthy Pathways
In the early morning the exodus begins.
The waves of earthworms from their homes evicted.
Falling prey to birds and rubber tyres.
Their fate sealed by the earth in which they live.
Betrayed, at least upended, they have no Noah to their cause.
They move en masse but separately,
towards a new beginning.
But it’s progress, not their own,
which has pushed them to this point.
As their habitat’s eroded their risks become significant.
On a soaked air morn from earth’s saturation
little creatures flee, to breathe,
but may never sleep again.
©TheHairyTeacher2014