Tag Archives: dream

In The Beginning

In The Beginning

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I am God!

I have always been

A designer in fact

Of my own destiny

Open to chance

A brittle reality

Shattered distorted

By time

And thought

I am God!

The Alpha Omega 

The rendering

And sundering

The dream in the haze

The far flung shadows

And the stark

Clear reality

Defined by my ways

I am God!

A devil in failure

A harm to the innocent

Around me

Inside me

My thoughts 

Needling me

Creating reality

Self-propagating

By mine own hand designed

I am God!

Therefore powerful

But left alone in the sandpit

Of my doubt

Grown unstable

I’m reinvented

Become human

Lost my way

In the wilderness

Not emergent empowered

Rather weak uncertain

Flesh and bone

I am fearful

By mine own hand

Now I’m mortal

©  The Hairy Teacher, 8/3/22 , a 29-es buszon, Hűvösvölgy felé (updated 23/2/25)

Old haunts, old habits

Old haunts, old habits

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Trying to remove myself from the dependency of crutchdom, I find myself revisiting places that became the staple of another time. But leaning philosophical, every day presents another time. Still, retaining some sense of civility, I am amused by the fact that at the very moment of reminisce, I stumbled across old heads from old times. They themselves were never my bar fellows, but they haunted the edges of that life. Now, I feel like I’m back on the tracks after a total derailment, and yet I wonder, like I do every morning on awakening, whether I’m just deluding myself. And yet I’m also inclined to believe that that is what it is like to chase a dream. Always infused by a vibrancy I one time tried to replicate through booze,…but far be it for me to demonise, afterall it is only those who can’t handle it that speak of a glorious life without it. Plenty’s the guy who never missed a day in his life, never feigned illness to skip a moment’s work…(I secretly pity them but that is just like my opinion man!)… But that is not my point. All I wanted to say is that it is nice to find myself again living with intention, not simply prey to mundanity, and even if I had the luxury to choose another way, and nearly always I have had, I believe that one some time in one’s life needs to experience the weakest aspect of their being in order to understand their strength. It’s clichéd I’m sure, but tell that to those who’ve died trying. To all and sundry, I bid you a good morrow.

Down a Dream Drunken

Down a Dream Drunken

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A new path laden with old shadows
Still directing towards the land you dream to go
But it’s different.

The steps of strangers daggered
The footfalls decorated
And yet it’s the swagger, that damn’d swagger
That throws you off this time.

Was it this, that stride interrupted,
Was it? That the dawn bellowed forth its silence in?

Was it this or another vague Dominion
That spelt truth and yet imposing, gently
Deceived you into :
Being a downfall still a dream but essentially All reality?

From the gutter, sky!

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My soul intoxicated by the vestiges of emptiness,
I let my breath, my fear, evolve into the detriment –
that well-defined entanglement of love
And desperate, all-embracing, drunkeness.
I felt the pang of guilt, my memory,
the thirst for lust, my psychology,
and my harboured sense of what was once a duty, now a chore.
For I had once assumed authority,
the one who’d travelled far and wide,
But now I felt myself inadequate:
The memory fades but not the pride.
And so in empty quarters of my soul
I chose to redefine myself as whole
And in attempt I felt my sanity,
though ironically yet not my vanity
Till finally I lost not Just my mind…
But Everything

The homecoming

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The snow upon the skin
The blood upon the lips
The hope upon the breast
Leaves the whole unblemished.
The fire in the fall
The twirling, swirling, be it all
The dream erecting in the flow
The eloquence comes calling.
Till slur and birch, the guilt residing,
Sends home again all utter vagrants.

The Hapless Elephant

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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

And on and on

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Allowed only a notion
The fatigue, but fulfilled.
Whatever happened to those dreams,
To that boy that would become man?
In the lightened darkness of a tired mind
there is no self-rebuke.
When the challenges are taken
And yet the memory curdles hope,
Leaving shadows to plague our sanity.
Outside the wind is blowing,
The sun is shining,
the time is passing.
Inside all things have grown eternal
With the boy and man united.
And so another drop in the ocean,
A fading picture,
A fond fickle notion beyond the lives, beyond our time;
life goes on without us!

Blind Fate

Blind Fate

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I would rather be it –
On earth tonight.
I would rather reign supreme
Than ever have fandangled promise
A sort of Damoclesian promise.
For sure it may be true,
But the tormenting doubt forever lurking?
Would that I would turn away from the flesh that binds
In favour of a faith so blind.
I may never live again and so must taste,
If anything, this life in all its ways.
And taste it pure and full
Not dull and in decay.
I must relish in my fears
Knowing life has always risk.
The life that has none is already death –
So defined by inconsequential evidence.
And so in light of sacrifice
I’ll topple my soul into the stream
And find the rhythm in the heat of things.
The passion, the forgiveness, all enraptured
Flowing as the current leads…

Towards the mouth, the opening.
I shall remember everything
My mistakes no less than my suffering .

The casual eye

The casual eye

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Reflections, musings, all indirect.
The shadows of timidity set.
Eyes bound to embrace if by chance
And then in blush turn once more back.
To shaded Eyes, the hidden glance,
The brushing back – displaying risk.
Another eye to eye embrace
Till two souls set save embarrassment.
A nail pick and a fumble still
The night resides in circumstance –
Ill-comfort or the lack of breath –
One’s terrified by the sombre poet.
Hope, yet eternal, springs then falls
It is the chill of winter afterall.
And so the fleeting glance- perchance-
Is nothing but the final failed romance.
And yet in words as these, such coined,
There is a lurch towards new Hope!

You are your own audience

You are your own audience

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The night lies broken, breathless, shattered
From the remnants of a state
The heart in horror trembles,
The sheer impossibility cleverly delined by reason
Has itself inclined in dubious hope.
A rendered artefact or some more aged dogma…
A light, in truth, the death knell of depravity.
Shored up beyond the scurrilous entreprise,
The matching and the making,
The pairing of all hideous will,
the depth as once quite necessary:
Fed fine the aquatic entity
In toil and broil and unity swims out towards the breach of things,
The borders given form,
Both perceptible as thought and touch.
What flowers, builds new barriers,
Pushed out beyond the pale.
Nighttime fondles creeping,
And the shadows emanate.
Soft sounds as city hum infuses,
The mind at odds with immortality,
Finds roads reached out of time by fog and swirl and everything.
The essence of a tired being,
The night in duplication fathoms nourishment from blood soaked stones,
The drops of soul, the seed denied.
Roots sans purchase revel in a weary word
Shake skyward a silly song.
A song of freedom, a song of hope,
Just as nightingales and larks united.
A kiss, a gentle tug, a pleading,
The face of dawn beyond the sight emerging
Shades the black to blue to navy grey.
And yet from where the traveller finally rests there’s nothing but night’s silhouette

Copyright © Martin O'Regan
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