Old Joe

well he ain't talked about in the bible much
we know he worked wood, we know he was tough
he wasn't a high priest, blessing at will
but if old Joe won't, then nobody will

he had some fright in his youth
had quite a few to tell you the truth
but he changed his mind and kept God's will
so if old Joe won't, then nobody will

think you can raise a child just like that
then try again, with an army on your back
that's what Joe did, and did with skill
so if old Joe won't, then nobody will

as the wee one got bigger, so did his exploits
but if things got tough, he knew where to get comfort
old Joe didn't mind, he made peace with God's will
so if old Joe won't, then nobody will

sure Mary had her own rough ride
but the one who wept by her side
was told: "don't climb that hill,
cos if you won't make it, then nobody will"

well I don't know how to believe that much
the empty tomb, and all that stuff
but no tale or sermon will change what I feel
that if old Joe won't make it, none of us will


Note: I should add that according to tradition, Saint Joseph died before Jesus' crucifixion, so in this sense the poem is not historical.

dissection

there they gather
outside the white door
inside the grey building
that says pathology

anxious to learn
but more anxious to see
if their bodies and minds
can cope with the sight

it's time to enter
the sharp smelling room
there's a pile up
as people who've entered
slow down (fear or deference?)
around the table

there she lies,
at the altar of science
not the altar of God
she's subhuman, you see
she wasn't worthy to live,

but for science she'll do
she has fine organs
and her body opens to his knife
she won't be anybody's wife
she's subhuman, you see

and when all the teaching is done
the students meet each other's eyes
and congratulate themselves on their bravery.
and back she goes, into a lake of poison
she won't be swimming in lake Balaton
she's subhuman, you see

as the students leave
into the fresh air and a fresh life
they try to make up jokes
and make trifle observations
to forget the dead under the knife
they're only human, you see

but sooner or later
she will appear in their dreams
a silent, sweet voice:
I could have been human, just like you
I could have danced and brought down
the moonlight for you

but: it's a mother's right to choose
and the doctor's to persuade
and society's to uphold the view
that while we can climb the highest mountain
and sail the deepest sea
and go walk on the moon

it's impossible to take care of
a vulnerable few

will

take the truest word I ever said
the wisest proverb ever read
the purest thought I ever thought
the time that evil came to naught

the happiest hour I ever lived
the simplest wish that 'came fulfilled
the saddest time I became consoled
the funniest joke I ever told

the greatest love I ever felt
the nicest smell I ever smelt
the gift to feel at ease
time, freedom, and peace

take, enjoy
then pass them on

in your life
and in your will

to my wife

through the airwaves

I heard you as you spoke

4000 miles of culture shock

cut short in land of Kroc

I imagine you for all you are

brightest European star

fruitful tree of Danube born

fruits that dress you and adorn

wishes coming

needs unmet

you lack a hand

when putting to bed

need to work

at midnight hour

to not succomb

to illness sour

need to rest

your weary head

’fore morning breaks

and gets ahead

need to love

those needy boys

help them sort

the heap of toys

I wish to love you

in ways regaled

to make up

all the times I failed

you speak --

I hear your words

but more than that:

I hear your voice

urban beatitudes

bless the waiter and the waitress
   for their unassuming service
bless the nurse
   for giving dignity
bless the air hostess
   for the journey's company
bless the cleaner
   for supporting her child
bless the child
   for his playfulness
bless the fat
   for wanting to feel valued
bless the ugly
   for the wits she needs
   and the looks she gets
   and the eyes that see
      her inner self
bless the retarded*
   for the dogma that won't wash with them**
   for all the doors slammed in their face
      to open
bless the living and the dead
bless those who haven't been blessed
   to get them through the day.

* I want to speak openly here. I am wary of using politically correct terms as a way of hiding (rather than fighting) prejudice. I don't mean to upset anyone.
** I have been told by an anti-cult campaigner that they are less likely to join or be influenced by religiously fanatic groups.

Alien

all alone
in a guestroom
at least I do not disturb

the merriment outside
what it must be like
to be understood

to be included
in a conversation
to be held

in esteem
not as the alien,
to be ushered

away; the outsider,
the gypsy,
the traveller

without whose instrument,
there is nothing to break
the silence;

but then,
a violin's note
filters through

and a flute's sound
pushes against air
to comfort

and long-forgotten,
long-suppressed
visions

enter one's mind
and the bells
start ringing

beckoning all,
an hour before
midnight

The Chain Bridge and its surroundings

Been a long time since I posted a poem.. feel less and less able to do it with the pressures of work and (I fear) diminishing linguistic ability.. anyway, here's a little bit of "visual poetry", so to speak.
Low-quality copy below: