How long will I wait Mr. Waiter?
You only brought me water,
yet I requested for ox-tail soup,
and a bowl of carrots and a tulip.
Mr. Waiter, you are not serving a rat;
I'm by all facial definitions a brown cat.
Sometimes I'm a disciplined vegetarian,
like my rabbit friend, whose Hungarian.
I'm so hungry that I can eat a whole horse;
ask my master who never leaves his house.
For a long time, you've looked at me like a ghost;
you've never seen a talking cat as your guest?
I can see your eyes so surprised with wonder;
wait until you hear the order of one Mr. Panda!
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017
What Kind of People Are We
In a Shakespearean sense of tragedy and doubt the well-used
“To Be or Not To Be” from Hamlet is not the question I shall
discuss in this narrative. Rather, I shall consider a few things
concerning the current Middle Eastern and European migrant
situation that has riveted the attention of the countries in those
regions as well as the rest of the world. And it’s my opportunity
to reflect on some of the things that have occurred (and are still
occurring right now), that I find quite troubling and morally
offensive to me as concerned person and citizen.
As a writer and poet, and as a moral human being, I can say
that I was truly shocked at the sight of an innocent, young Syrian
refugee boy named “Aylan Kurdi,” who had drowned and was lying
face down on a Turkish beach near a resort with his head turned
slightly on its right side, as the ebb and flow of the salted waves
pushed and pulled on his little body. A real tragedy for sure that
might have been prevented, if humane, responsible, and responsive
migrant immigration policies had been in place so his father
would not have been compelled to put his wife and both of his
sons—who all drowned together—on that fateful boat at the very
mercy of ruthless and evil human traffic smugglers.
The horrendous scenes played over and over on the 24-hour news
cycle of the migrants and their innocent children from Syria, Iraq,
Turkey, Afghanistan, and other countries being treated like cattle
(or even less than cattle), and indiscriminately pushed around and
tear-gassed by unfriendly and unwelcoming jack-booted Hungarian
Rendorség (Police) were certainly most shocking and disgustingly
revulsive by both their malicious tenor and insidious intent. The
actions also of some right-wing Hungarian demonstrators hurling
loud and abusive comments at the refugees was also quite tragic
and disturbing. I found the actions of the Hungarian Police under
the direction of Prime Minister Viktor Orban to be similarly
reminiscent of the actions of Hitler’s Gestapo and Sturmabteilung
or the SA Troops after 1933 in Nazi Germany. Shame on them!
Shame on them! This is the same old tired bigotry and stupidity
on display today.
Despite these despicable actions of the Hungarian Police and many
of Mr. Orban’s governmental officials, a number of Hungarian
citizens still showed their kindness and humanity in helping the
migrants at various junctures on the autobahn as they trekked
toward the Austrian border in route ultimately to Germany. This
caught my obvious attention as well.
For me, the “so-what?” here turns ultimately upon the following
philosophical and human question: “What Kind of People Are We?”
The migrant problem as we know is largely the result of the massive
displacement of people that has occurred (and is still occurring) in
in the war-torn countries in the Middle East and in certain areas of
Southeast Asia. This tragedy is one of many of our world’s current
and future 21st-century challenges. How each of us as “concerned
citizens,” in consonance with the policies and actions of the various
governments in the countries we each live under, will certainly
play a role in reflecting in the end the kind of people we really are.
For me, the nationalistic actions of the right-wing parties and
extremists, in many countries (including the United States) and
particularly now in Europe, provide no real solution at all, and
become a convenient excuse for many people to forsake their
conscience and basic humanity—and to stick their heads in the
sand like a bunch of frightful ostriches lost in the reveries of
their hate and prejudice, and disgraceful cowardice! There can
be no apology and justification for this ever! This type of
behavior is a deep-seated cancer ever-lurking in the genes of
our human society and in mankind’s soul—awaiting its chance
to metastasize and reek its horrible destruction upon its victims.
The point I’m driving at is this: The current responsible actions
of a number of world leaders, to particularly highlight those of
the European Union, appear to be taking several of the right steps
in helping these refugee migrants and their families undergoing
this terrible strife forced upon them by the tyranny of war and the
resultant poverty and dislocation. Being stupid, hateful, and clearly
prejudiced as some people and certain governmental leaders are in
our global community today is not the answer and it never will be!
To people who really do care about this ongoing migrant tragedy,
it’s time to rally and act in support of local, regional, and worldwide
efforts to help these migrant people and their families so afflicted
by poverty, disease, war, injury, death, and territorial displacement.
For me, I desire to make my voice heard loud and clear as a writer,
poet, and concerned world citizen on this matter and in my own
most humble way. Keep in mind that many of us are descendants
of families who at one time or another were migrants from other
countries escaping the whip and lash of cruel dictators and their
terrible regimes masquerading as legitimate governments of the
In my estimation, the kind of people we should be or aspire to be
are those who relish the winds of freedom, the certainty of justice,
the spirit of friendship, the values of fairness and fair play, the
magnificence of humanity, the desire for cultural diversity and
inclusion, and the love of our fellow man under the very eyes
of God Himself.
What kind of people are we? With this, I rest my case.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
September 11, 2015 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
My heritage is a mixture
Of backgrounds. Let's start on
My Dad's side of the family.
My Dad's mom is Irish and English.
My Dad's dad is Irish and German.
My Mom's mom is Scottish and Irish.
My Mom's dad is blood Hungarian.
So in other words,
I'm a mutt! or as others say,
Copyright © Sarah Cassleman | Year Posted 2013
Three cousins played a “game’ of war
A map of Europe spread across the floor
No adults there to keep the score
As each of them wanted more and more
Three of four empires lay upon that map
As they played and ‘warred’ and they did clap
For them it was so much fun
The Tsar, the King and the Kaiser Hun
Their brightly painted toy soldiers there
Horses, cannon and ships to spare
Fields of green, mountains so high
And winding rivers flowing by
They chatted, laughed - each did deride
No malice here - no need to chide
“I’ll take that while you have this”
“And you can have the rest” said with a hiss
The little prince was not too happy
Didn’t like being the youngest chappy
Scattered toys with a vicious kick
“One day, you watch, your wounds you’ll lick”
But then they laughed and had some tea
(Cakes and scones stop the fighting, see)
Then the boisterous cousins resumed once more
Horses and soldiers were flung against the door
Cannon crashed and sabres slashed
Lances lunged and bayonets flashed
Horses fell amid broken carts
These small boys played in fits and starts
The clock rolled on relentlessly
Who knew then what would come to be
These boys now grown to Emperors
Played with real life and caused real wars
No longer soldiers made of lead
These soldiers breathed and fought and bled
And now the grown children fought for real
With a rancour fuelled by their ardent zeal
The call to arms was swift and sure
Decrees brought nations to their war
Men and women joined the cause
Volunteered without let or pause
On land and sea and in the air
The raw recruits signed up everywhere
Landlord, docker, farmer, daughter
Leapt like lemmings to the slaughter
Knowing not that they were pawns
In this “family” feud, so filled with scorn
Becoming airman, sailor, soldier, wren
Many would never see their land again
Their women joined as well, of course
And filled the factories, making guns and gauze
Toiled and sweated, fabricating bombs
As the cousins watched with such detached aplomb
The First World War: “War to end all wars”
Was the Emperors’ legacy to ours and yours
They took their subjects from far-flung lands
Pulled them from forest, dale and Raj and sand.
The Emperors vied each other viciously
Ego and spat sparred ominously
It was another’s war but they refused to see
The brutal costs of this calamity
War declared and fought - millions died
While these three cousins sat on their thrones and sighed
Just like the children with the map
They battled hard but now they didn’t clap
The cost of war was a heavy one
Ypres, Verdun, Mons, the Somme
Paschendale just to name a few
The blood rivers flowed and grew and grew
Four years of war and carnage
Ravaged Europe’s lands
While those three wretched cousins
Stood and wrung their hands
One Emperor imprisoned by his very own
Would soon be killed and there no more throne
Another forced to abdicate
Death in a foreign land was his fate
The third had played a different card
Had visited men and women so battle scarred
Had he foreseen the masses plight
Had he “joined’ in their fight?
Yet not even he was spared
As the masses had seen, had felt, had heard
That no more will a king decide
Their fate, the deaths, the genocide
One of those three cousins and his family
Was cruelly murdered ignominiously
After centuries the hated, despotic Tsar
Made way to the Bolshevik commissar
The second cousin haughty, proud
Was chased away by a defeated crowd
Languished in the land of dyke and dam
Helplessly watched blitzkrieg from a sure madman
The third cousin watched this sullenly
His health was racked for all to see
Perhaps he reflected and recalled the days
When as boys those three cousins had played
Republics sprung up everywhere
The spoils of war the people’s share
Though kings were replaced by presidents
Again war would follow. Again Europe rent
In an aside, as the map was shred
Europe torn apart as the Empires bled
The fourth Empire also crumbled
Started it all – now meekly humbled
The proud Hapsburgs also dethroned
Austro-Hungarian Empire creaked and groaned
Then splintered and shattered like crystal glass
As Europe fell to the common mass
Three young cousins with the lead/tin toys
Had played and warred when they were boys
What frightful shameful fact
When, as men, they again did act
When Emperors played with human lives
Unheeded the senseless sacrifice
Aided by ruthless men of state
That threw Europe to a dreadful fate
A bygone age; a noble past
Had been replaced. The die was cast
Let’s not place on them the singular blame
When politicians and tyrants did the same
Three young cousins played a game
The map of Europe, then the same
But they would live to see the end result
For throwing the world into blind tumult
Copyright © Thomas Mansfield | Year Posted 2014
Pro bono bands gradually allure the crowds
Their effort is unmatched while working unique instruments
To make people understand where they came from
Let us not forget our many predecessors as they sing
About the land beyond our own
Loud speakers tantalize throughout the day
A foreign and beautiful demonstration of national pride
Adorned in gowns and bonnets of floweresque appearance
Little girls dance about in the street displaying lessons they were taught
Cute little sensations build the fantasy and wisp so many away
To a place they never knew of others and their founding roots
A new experience teaches newcomers that their world is not the only one
Where a rich culture runs flamboyant, it is a rare chance to shine
Spices in the air fill ones nose with enchanting scents from every food station
Dishes of colbasse and saur kraut put together with loving care
The dilemma of so many is because their stomachs are only so big
But good spirits will come not from a cup but from the heart
As good people try tirelessly to share themselves with others
The museum evokes a thoughtfulness for the furniture and paintings
Century old representations that the Hungarians were always clever
Sculpted pottery of undecided interpretation warm you up for the air blown glass
These people are to envy for a world outside our own
They are bountiful and harmonious and plentiful
An inspiration to make our own contribution
We should all be as complete as them
Copyright © karl marszalowicz | Year Posted 2011
~If You Only Believe~
Jesus is the only way
For salvation any day
He can forgive all your sin
If only you believe
Salvation you'll receive
A new life you can begin
Jesus can make you brand-new
You can give Satan his due
And in Jesus' name you can win.
Dorian Petersen Potter
So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13:13 (NIV)
-“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.
John 3:16 (NIV)
- Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer
Romans 12: 12 ( NIV )
-The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.”
Exodus 14: 13 ( NIV )
The Balassi Stanza is a form or style attributed to Bálint Balassi (1554-1594) who is probably Hungary's best known Renaissance poet. His work included poetry about his battles with the Turks and his love poems to a woman he called Julia. His poetry was known for the richness of its forms and was a blend of Turkish, Polish and Hungarian folk poetry.
This form or style may be presented as a three-line stanza too.
Copyright © Dorian Petersen Potter | Year Posted 2016
NEW YORK-STYLE HUNGARIAN STEW
In the darkest corner of her living room,
she waits to eat. A stone’s throw away,
her ex lives with their kids, his goulash
wafting reek into her open windows.
Through the one in her master bedroom,
the man could easily catch sight of his successor
swaddled in goose-down, identical in color
to the old comforter she could see, if she cared to,
just beyond her window, on the bed where
she’d been fed, “I’ll cherish you always.”
Abutting that room, the den with surround-
sound TV, where the vulgarian had charmed
the panties off her during commercials, turning
up his volume so she could grasp every syllable
of his accented endearments, his excuses.
Adjacent, their son and daughter’s rooms
(now, with suitcases the children bring back
and forth each weekend); and down the hall,
the state-of-the art kitchen where her louse ex
still plays chef. How she’d wished he’d played
spouse with as much know-how and gusto. Oh,
how he’d cooked and cooked their goose, served it
up every chance he got, till she got good and fed
up and fled to an old flame in a brownstone
across the way — where, at this very moment, she sits
with the stench of the dish her ex is, no doubt, cooking
to death, and the essence of her Crock-pot stew
cooking up a storm, inextricably mesh.
Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014
Inspired by the Bridal painting of the Empress Elisabeth of the 19th century Austro-Hungarian Empire -
Elegance, strength as elegance,
elegance of spirit personified as if this extraordinary elegance
was born to be, beyond the devestation of mortals,
so far outside the boundries of the base & banal ravishings
prevelant within peoples' passions and purposes,
escaping expectations of equality,
graciousness was alive within her
like a landscape loved & leavened by a monogamous moonlight,
ebony overcome by the invigoration of ivory,
realising that genuine grace is a monument
of courage confronting chaos, crystallised composure,
she being a template and temple for hopefuls,
in all my experience I have witnessed no woman more ready for power,
more savoring for sacrafice, more able to abate avarice & acrimony,
Elisabeth, the emerald of an Empire,
Mother to minions, mistress of the misery & magnificence of the multitudes,
Master of the stout & savant,
such precocious puissance of personality, regal resilience,
my imagination renders eagles delivering sustenance to her,
bees bringing heavenscent -
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2012
Two men meet on the street corner by the park,
the day's light just beginning to decline into evening.
Their beards hang like icicles; the men are very old,
but still with sparkling eyes and smiles.
A few months ago they played chess in the park,
on the tables now covered with snow flakes,
surrounded by drifts and the eddies of the wind.
One is stooped and bent, the other stands yet straight,
though he too must bend as they embrace, the hug of brothers,
the brotherhood closer than what the rest of the world can ever know.
The city stops, the noise of traffic falls away to nothing.
One of the men has a Polish name, the other is Hungarian.
One has mementos of his wife,
found after her death in what used to be their house,
a thin gold necklace and a silver earring.
The other has nothing, because nothing survived.
It's been a cold winter, but not so cold as the one 73 years ago.
No winter could be as cold as when they lost their wives,
when they were made to work with spades in the hard ground,
when they got their first and only tattoos.
There used to be many more of them that came to the park.
Now, there are only these two.
Next year there will be only one.
December 4, 2016
For Shadow Hamilton's contest - 'A Winter Poem'
Copyright © Doug Vinson | Year Posted 2016
...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian,
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian,
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino,
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke -
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese,
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian,
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian,
?????? - Russian, ???????? - Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish,
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh,
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian,
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.
Copyright © SillyBilly theKidster | Year Posted 2010
Like the twelfth
juror in the play
I must say I am not
For I know a recipe
I have seen the
And I do not approve
this for Kenya
I will never approve
it, and neither
Would you, dear
friend of Kenya
If you saw what I
most clearly see,
For you, too, know a
recipe for ire
transforms into dire
Of the machinations
These are myriad,
And Africa is
Just like South
For we have
forgotten the real
And think our
enemies are they who
To free Africa, for
in our minds they
A few inches of our
land for their
And yet there were
those of Africa
To rid Africa of
These we have
forgiven and moved
For ‘tis not right
that we should be
In a time-warp or
Now we have
in the hope of
With a breed that
totally ignores the
That was written
with the blood of
For them, the
Is this deformed
limb of yesterday
Not the sixty plus
years of servitude
I shudder at the
thought, I do, I do
Brother, for I know
full well the truth
It is not to be
found in this lie,
I say, it cannot be
found here, no!
We are busy
For we know not what
the truth is
And the more we
The further we get
The more we seek
The less certain we
I can see that,
brother, I can see
And so can you,
brother, if you look
If you look inward
and seek the truth
You cannot negotiate
the truth with
You cannot seek
For, strange though
From outsiders has
an outside chance of
If it undermines the
inside view, the
I see that happening
here, my brother, I
And I’m saddened,
for I wish it were
I long for a
A permanent truce, a
And this can only
come from within
Not from without,
What have we learned
from the Middle East
What have we learned
from the Congo
What have we learned
from the Iraq
What have we learned
Nothing? And so the
Learn something and
dissolve your ire
In a locally brewed
That the communities
involved can own
And claim to have-
as the only solution
The Hague process is
a poor remedy
For a supposed
conflict that did
A swift sweep of
dirt under the
Of politics, power,
By the very
Future conflicts in
the same zone, yes,
I do not claim to
know all or even
But this I do know,
we are all watching
Our kinsmen dancing
on a volcano!
And the world will
say, as it has
That this is savage
Africa at work as
Yet I know and you
know that it is not.
It took Europe over
a hundred years
To settle down, nay,
longer, much so
For when was it that
And Bismark sought
to annex France
And Adolf Hitler
thought he was God?
In the 19th century
Twenty one revolts
And twenty six full
From the Irish
Rebellion of 1803
To the Greco-Turkish
War of 1897
The twelve year
French invasion of
The War of the
and Liberal Wars
The Tithe War, the
Revolts, the Mahtra
Revolutionary War of
The sixteen year
Wars of Italian
The Schleswig Wars,
the Crimean War
The Epirus and
The Cod (not Cold)
What kind of war did
they not fight?
Is it not by the
Grace of God
That they can claim
And play football in
the same league
Copyright © Gerald Kithinji | Year Posted 2013
A law firm partner living on Madison Avenue
bought a farm in the country. What a strange thing to do!
Oliver Wendell Douglas and Hungarian-born wife,
would head for Hooterville to start a new life.
Oliver and Lisa moved from their high-rise penthouse,
to a ramshackle farm with a dilapidated house.
Oliver wanted to leave New York City and Times Square,
to live in the country with chores to do, and fresh air.
To be dragged from New York, to a life that is bucolic,
became disastrous to wife Lisa, and quite tragic.
However, she held her husband Oliver very dear.
In this new life, poor Lisa had to persevere.
Douglas bought this farm from a crook named Mr. Haney.
Haney kept trying something new to get more money.
Oliver deals with the absent-minded Mr. Kimball.
He has a scatterbrained farmhand named Eb, but that’s not all.
Oliver climbs a telephone pole to make a phone call.
Neighbors Fred and Doris Ziffel have a pig named Arnold.
All except Oliver knows what Arnold has told.
Our Oliver would get himself into jams constantly.
All these things combine to make a great comedy.
Not for the contest
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2012
She is not around anymore.
For six years, she played Lisa Douglas.
Eva was a funny Hungarian-born lass.
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2013
HERE COMES THE HUNGARIANS
A sign hangs like a star upon a building:
“HERE COME THE HUNGARIANS”
Delicious dishes that will please
The American and European palate.
My sisters on the right and my brother on the left,
Pressure cookers upon the stage.
Paprika to make you pretty, will make you blush.
And yes, plenty of sour cream.
Paprikash chicken with sour cream gravy is our specialty,
Served up with plentiful eggs and flour in buttered dumplings ,
With a side of dills or creamy cucumbers.
The four chefs will compete and make theirs the very best.
We will have to expand to sites stemming out from the South.
Our cousins will handle business in the Northeast, near Buffalo.
We already have family involved in flooring and carpentry
And one is the big boss of a well known restaurant.
We roll up our sleeves, the cookers ready – 1,2,3,4…check.
My sisters have a glint in their eyes whilst my brother plays innocent.
I have to tell the truth, one sister’s moved aside, for it is her spouse
Who mixes and pours. The pressure’s on. Dining room’s quiet –
Until the doors open at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and the crowd listens
For the familiar whistles, and the kitchen banter. Wine glasses
Clink over sparkling white tablecloths and they savor the smell
Of onion and chicken, beginning to thicken into browning gravy.
As the customers eat their savory meals, my dad plays
The Hungarian Czardas on his clarinet. And the satisfied
Tongues sway to the folksy dinner with oohs and ahhs.
This five star gem, okay I brag, will rise to historic fame!
My Imaginary Restaurant sponsored by Silent One
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2016
VERSE AND INVERSE - HUNGARY
Desirous to explore my Hungarian roots.
Oh, yes, my grandpa traveled away from!
I’d lay my eyes on the tasty paprika routes
And to the gravy laden dishes, I’d succumb.
I’d die to see the Czardas folk dance in setting,
The peasant dancers perform according to mood.
Not only my taste buds but my ears delectable whetting.
By my love for family heritage, I’d be wooed.
I’d visit the romance and art history
Um passeio pela Historia deste pais painting
Unravel the Danube River on a cruise of mystery
Sail the skies of the Aurora Borealis at day’s waning
America called my Grandpa’s name with verse*
I’d travel to Hungary as a granddaughter inverse
Nicola Byrne’s Where I want to go contest
No syllable count
*My grandfather wrote romantic poetry to my grandma, whom he found in America.
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017
you were down with it the other day
and i bit on a bit of cracked pepper
scrubbing linoleum tiles
doing my Hungarian sadhana
anger and heat mixing with
no violins play when no one
blue and red are primary colours
that sing with ruffled feathers
and spilled milk
like children with dirty faces
and scraped knees, angels with nothing
up our sleeves
passion is a trembling shell
we put to our ears
and night rolls away the stars.....
Copyright © Anna Ruiz | Year Posted 2011
A lot of party people have perfect bowels.
What would it take to totally kaput Nork's military machine?
Same ferocity in battle as that one bollock corporal’s?
All along the periphery, East v West, their games of cat and mouse, thrust and parry continued.
Warpac Hungarian Hind and Yankee NATO Kiowa getting intimate in the weeds.
No one ever won; a draw.
Thirty years later Korea time destination central.
Viper v Fulcrum.
Nothing changes but the year.
Copyright © nick armbrister jimmy boom semtex | Year Posted 2015
The year was 1956
and I distinctly recall
my mother's lovely face
as she told me
Szererlek (I love you)
and as I seen her lovely smile
I remember her face
as she held back bittersweet tears
tying to hold the impression
that everything was alright and I
as a youth did not fully
comprehend the situation
going on at the time.......
I asked my mother
Anyu , miért sírsz ? (Mother, why are you crying?)
and she replied....
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while hearing the rough and
very bitter voice of my father say......
Nidia , te ribanc ! hol vagytok ?!
(Nidia, you whore! where are you?!)
all while she bitterly weeps
going to his side again, once more
in his violent tone he says......
Nidia , te kurva ! hol van az italom ?!
(Nidia, you bitch ! where is my drink?!)
all while she wept quietly
going to the refrigerator
and getting his stale
cognac and bitter wine
all while these two drinks
have not even gotten cold yet......
She serves him the drinks
he spits them out, get's up
Te hülye kurva !, akkor soha semmit van!
(You stupid whore!, you could never do anything right!)
as again I see daddy, giving mommy
one of his usual love taps
a punch to the stomach
and a slap to the face
all to match the black eye
she has already received.....
It is 12:00 at night
I lay in my bed......
mommy kisses me goodnight
and she says in a soft, calming whisper
Ez semmi fiam , én rendben lesz
(It's nothing my son, I will be alright)
all while daddy was asleep
in the other room, knocked out from
having his usual
cocktail of painkillers,
stale cognac and bitter while
this time...... it was cold
Mommy tucks me in
kisses me on the forehead
cuts off my lights
and says.... jóéjt fiam (goodnight my son)
I..... still awake, and with
the inability to slumber
I sneak out my bedside
and witness in my mothers
hands, the Ak-47 assault rifle
that my father had stole
during the Hungarian revolution......
My father (who was knocked out)
was unaware of what was staring
at him in the face......
and my mother......
with her hand on the trigger
says in her melancholy voice......
ez a vég.....(this is the end.....)
and puts a bullet through his head.....
Copyright © Antonio Ball | Year Posted 2015
Meat and tomatoes
Go well with some paprika
Then you have Chili
Use potatoes and not beans
It’s Hungarian Goulash
Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2011
The Ruba’iyat of Créteil Lake – Part Thirty-Two
Late afternoon. Doldrums. The waters stood still. Was She asleep?
Lady Lake then drew her petticoat up to scratch Her shins deep.
At Embryo Islet the siesta-bound birds stirred and squawked.
Did matters of Form and Faith plague only minds of men who weep?
By the spindle Mairie tower wobbled the defiant Sea Anne-Anne fleet:
Galapago Rani of Pharoah’s Independence Square feat
Set course for Pubic Isle with her staunch camera women
But the sail stood limp while Lady Lake puffed Her exhausts down feet
Undaunted she threw rustic baguette crumbs to lasso swan cob
Then to cleave becalmed waters she enticed the cob lob by lob:
Austro-Hungarian Empire looked forward to Waterloo –
Glides and jerks moored her boat on Pubic Isle to ensure her job
From the port-holes of the Préfecture’s seaside ship liner shape
Keenly-trained eyes watched her moves with great approval for her shape:
Chief of Staff thought out loud if she could pose questions for their lot
The wooden bridge to mosque meadow looked saggingly out of shape
Yet again the Commandant strove to clear his throat Writ in hands:
“O! Wise and Learned Mullah! Would’st Thou keep Faith in these here lands!
The dire day wanes fast while this Writ stays unclosed hard and fast…”
“STOP!” cried the Imam. “Maghreb calls! I must hence to avoid bandhs!”
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2014
my life's collage is packed carefully
in crumpled newspaper and old towels
does love have given values?
some things -
a small, wooden, goofy-faced Vladimir;
an angelic cow, all wings and pleading eyes;
a dancing Hungarian girl;
things that seem silly to be so loved,
but these bits of who-I-am
wander with me
if you open the boxes
will the tears drown you
or will they have dried to a salty crust
my heart is in separate pieces
cushioned by hope
some assembly required
handle with care
Copyright © Barb Black | Year Posted 2007
We all use them,
To weigh, to measure.
But these kind are different
A musicans best friend.
From Blues scale
To Hungarian minor.
Every life changing solo used a scale,
From Rock 'N Roll to Straight Up Metal.
Dime used Blues for almost all of Pantera's songs,
And every single one was a masterpiece.
Scales can be cute and exotic like Bebop Major,
Or darker and heavier like Minor Scales.
You can change your key.
You can change your mode.
You can change your tuning.
But Scales will always sound amazing.
Copyright © Antonio Nagel | Year Posted 2011
RUBIK CUBISTS AND OTHER MANIACS
Those cube zombies wreck my head.
Damn that Hungarian genius
And his puzzle so ingenious;
I can never get a single side all red.
And the sudoka zealots so persist:
They try 45 then change to seven -
If it succeeds: they’re in heaven.
Their numbers form some magic list.
I see them on the train, and snort:
How can they become so engrossed?
As if it mattered in the world the most.
. . . . To my crossword I resort.
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
In a peculiar puny town nestled in western Massachusetts,
There lives an enchanted mansion in the Wilbraham woods,
Hidden in the hills away from the eastern city's pollutants,
Where the creme de la creme masquerades in cowled hoods.
Around the mansion there lives but only one kind of tree:
The birch, whose bark blends with the light,
Which bounces off the blanche of branching silvery,
Sea of living wooden towers to create a mystical sight.
The chalet chateau is decorated with an arched colonnade,
Made of mahogany and ivory to match the tudor style,
And a balcony carefully balances upon the columned facade,
Where a man in antebellum garb greets his guests with a wink and smile.
"Welcome to Wayfare Manor!" The Gatsby-esque man will yodel,
To the socialites that under him pass,
Through a fanlit door whose talking doorknocker counts the total,
Number of visitors who tap-tap the knocker's brass.
For to enter this door is a journey in itself,
Which each traveler wittingly makes,
Chauffeured by the owner whose blood is that of Elf,
Who can guide his guests where no other can take.
The elven man performs what he calls anachronistic necromancy,
As he can summon not who or what has died,
But when and where his wonder may find some fun and fancy,
For the people who happily pay for the ride.
Inside the mansion's ground level there is but a single room,
Draped in viridian and vermillion curtains,
A ballroom floor where the man pulls from the tomb,
Of time a when which the wealthy guests aren't certain.
When all the guests have entered the undecorated open area,
Ronan will descend from a spiral staircase,
And the room will fill with brief hysteria,
For as he steps, history appears as the present is erased.
Today he brought them to 1844,
A victorian decorum decorated with portraits of who,
Once lived and some appear on the dancing floor,
And a piano played by Liszt performing Hungarian Rhapsody number 2.
Men in top hats with curtailed coats and women in gowns which melt to the ground,
Spin like dreidels beneath massive chandeliers,
As flames scorching in oaken sconces flicker in its crystals, which hang above the sound,
Of the affluent festival to invite the new arrival of yet another year.
For to celebrate yet another spin around the sun,
The guests have chosen to, instead of moving forward,
Pay an elf to go back in time to whence a when was done,
And celebrate the future by feeling how to move beforeward.
Copyright © Brendan J. Simons | Year Posted 2017
ODE TO PAPRIKA
greenhouse surrounded by
of paprika peppers
fertile field of deep red
translucent onions tango
with aroma and flavor
sizzle in open
heritable Hungarian paprikash
chicken and buttery dumplings
to a land
i kiss thee on
your red lips
your rose cheeks*
Rose paprika is considered the finest variety
Copyright © Kim Rodrigues | Year Posted 2017