He wears his Dad’s black hat

on his salt and pepper hair

cascading to his shoulders

and manages to survive

persistent in his efforts

for his father’s name be known

in the expansive world of art –



He loves colourful garb

contrasting with strong

coloured scarves

a Toucan bird of the Americas

he travelled once extensively.

Thru’ rimless glasses he observes

the world around him

inviting the Young and Elder to

his well-known Art-Shop

the name he still prefers.


Gregarious  critical  persistent

in achieving to be known

administering an incredible

treasure of over 250 oil paintings –

Forceful mementos of the Holocaust

with over 1000 drawings –

but also portraits and scenes

from Coffee house societies.


He lived for promoting his father’s

art pivoting around the Holocaust

whose infernal state still leaps

in blazing flames from his canvas:

The inferno that gripped his heart

all his remaining life.

A living memorial in midst the

cobbled Square of Judenplatz –

Place du Juif.


His repetitive traveling to Bratislava

beloved city to him like to his father

who painted its distant views

with the four-towering castle

the Jewish Quarter

the Inner City

Venturska Street.


As funds cease to keep the


friends and honorable helpers

assemble to say

good-bye but also filed with

hope that recent press appeals

to Cultural politics of the city

and the land

will bear fruit to loan the

unique collection for

sponsored shows rather

than allow it to be tossed

into an archive’s existence.

Good luck Tommy and Inge.







virtual thoughts

Finally good sleep into

a Sunday morn‘:

More leisure-like breaky

and not much doing lately.

Keep discussions with B

on a low low fire

feel the sunny day rise

your desire…

But then – your loved one

long  long  gone –

No other way but

autoerotica –

the sweet one.

Bla. Blah.


Well without tensions

go and vote for a better

deal on pensions

while most folk around here

go for a candidates

facial presence.

Warm pleasant autumn day

great walk in the offing.

Pity one’s spouse

can’t entertain the play

of virtual thoughts.





facebook friends


A facebook friend and I

have learned that we had

twenty friends each –

Send me this quote:

To live is to fight with


in the vaults of the soul.

To write is to sit in

judgement  with oneself.


Let the sleeping jester lie.




So, I lived a hum-drum life

beside my profession, to design

and to build an environment.

Home to sleep and eat

at times to care for my spouse

who became seriously ill.

Instead of correcting my life

I ran forward.

Met A

who ran forward too

and we flew into each other’s


To love someone next to

your spouse

will hurt your spouse and

you’ll have pangs of guilt.

I didn’t have.

Or so I felt at the time.

Only later I realized

the pain of losing a lover

whereby losing myself.

The pain would certainly

have killed me if it wasn’t

for Joe and facebook friends

but it wasn’t for B.

The good-bye from A

rolled tears down her cheek

along the skin of my

inner bodyline –

Love is like death –

She said.

Belated I should cry.



On Wednesday eve

when B prepares her fruit

she bought at SAM

while I listen to Wynton Marsalis

she hands me the SAM-pass

she had renewed.

I see that I have been denoted

to take second place on the

back page.

Just like once a mean colleague

in an architect’s firm

tried to take my place for a

new job he desired

but the owner had appointed

me to run it. WOW!

Never mind –

I had a notion why she –

in her delicate physically

condition would go out

when it rained cats and dogs –

to take common matters

into her own hands?

Not that important to me

but for poetry & art

she couldn’t replace me.







ZJG – About Writing Poetry

Wynton Marsalis:

Music should be played like Louis Armstrong plays –

Not in style, but in that spirit!



Poetry should be written like that too –

Without fear of spelling mistakes, relaxed, shoulders down,

Head over your notebook, or the one you carry around in

Your pocket.

At times you should smile and echo your inner smile!



A first day at 77 –

One in a lifetime –

Never thought making it

this far

when I set-out on an

adventure to S.A.


From start to a new


with a few disappointments

and tough years ahead

even once used to a new


It has to be accepted.


Birthday present : a year’s

access to two museums

from Nica –

San Andrea’s fault of my

delicate being –

Tender sit-in with Nica

within the gallery’s spaces.


Spiked with cacti plants

are word cacophonies

of Mrs B

TIXE will still be far away

in spite of love for

A  B  and C.

Time for remembrances.

Tristan Tzara’s Dada:

Mass extinctions for minds.





A Tear For Zol – She Wrote

Searching for a name lost

endless row of diaries

came across: What Is This Thing

Called Love?

Well…yeah…perhaps it all began

like this famous song

but then grew into a hot affair

of Star Crossed Lovers

finally to fall from the skies

and die in a Greek tragedy’s



171 months now I saw noted

that would mean fourteen years

had passed.

Impossible one’s heart sighs

but the figures do not lie.

Life did and cheated on all

what’s left over from facts –

No promises –

she used to say

as if it was just yesterday.


Best of all worlds

the artist thrived.

Love like the Grecian sun

melted down the gel of desires

into the depth of our hearts.


A tear for Zol

she wrote

How could I finally cope?

Moments of deepest joy

can never be forgotten.





September Time

I live the life of a Bohemian

supported with a temporary

stay in the heart of Vienna

a stone throw from the artistic hub

of the Bermuda Triangle

not far from the Bohemian

chilling strip

along the Donaukanal.

Musical happenings.

Meetings of the Thinkalikes.

Jogging strip for the young and


Cooling down beach for the

city dwellers.


My bag of drawing


Painting instruments at hand.

Perhaps awakening one night

with the desire to paint up

the concept drawings

find the right expression for

a passed love’s portrait.


Paint in the nude some nudes.


Demoiselles a Vienne

still sitting on my mind

sorting potential faces and


don’t know yet how to start.

I have some contestants

yet the one’s chosen are

too shy sitting for me in

the nude

although I wear some clothes:

Nica  Viki  Vivi  Barbi

yet one more female member

to be found

to complement the foursome.

All women.

All in contrasting body shapes.

Which one will wear a mask?

Or the head of a bird

the head of an Ibis.

This is a homage

you could by now guess

to which artist.






Art Concept

Early October Sunday

morn‘s truce at last

no battle of words while

she still sleeps.

He plays ‘word hub’

while B prepares her

special breakfast entering

his kitchen domain.

It’s 10 am.

Weather is fair.


He had listened late night

to Santana & Shorter Band’s

excellent fusion Jazz at the

Montreux Jazz Festival ‘88

during this ‘Night of Museums’

going on in Vienna.


She dreamt of seeing her

sister at the window

staring into their bedsitter.

She jumps up from bed

but goes back to sleep

as nobody is at the window

where she forgot to lower

the Venetian blinds.


His soul swings in an

elevated mood

sketching out an inspiration

for a drawing he intends

as a present for Mr T’s

83rd birthday:

An emotional concept about

the closure of his Art Shop




Turn of the century buildings.

Ellas restaurant.

Holocaust Memorial.

Empty square –

embedded in rich history of

tragedies and pogrom

between the cobble stones

we still walk upon.





At the eighth floor

moving up street escalators

in the spacious hall.

Not much has changed

for the past three years

since I have been for an op

of the left eye’s cataract.

All’s well

just for a small incision

with a laser beam

to free the lens from

a grown-in pocket of skin.


Sweet B

At times a horrid company

still means well

amidst her own pain to her

exposed bone

covered by only skin.

She’s braving the atmospheric

pressure changes

of an early autumn chill.


My thoughts go back to Anna:

Anna disintegrating

still loving me

breaking apart physically

but mentally forever part

of my poetry.






olay ra lepek –

I’ll step onto oil –

a Hungarian expression:

It’s about time to leave.

Into A/F steps a tall man

with a grey patterned

woolen jacket

asks for Mr T:

Green he says.

Nice meeting you…

I’ve been here five years



The poet has done his tasks

and wishes to leave. It’s 16:50.

But Green’s family appears

and asks Mr T for a good

viennese eatery.

So he’s polite and shows them

the shortest pedestrian route

that leads to a first class ‘Beisl’.


The poet leaves for Merkur Market

that offers high class cuisine

coffee and bakeries

but the cashier cannot find the

poet’s basket

he left yesterday there. So?

I’m sorry you have to shop

For the goods again.

All right well what’s the problem

between friends?

At least the coffee is less 25%

a fortune for the poet for all

artists and creative scribes.

Mohnzuzler for Mrs B.

Mohnzelter for ZJG.