The poet has returning thoughts

When TV beams out WWII

Especially Stalin

The infamous dictator with

His waves of utmost terror.


Immediately I have to think of Dad

And the dreadful reality of the

Gulag’s forced labour camp.


Pawlenski’s protest-art against

An unjust regime

Nailed himself to the Red Square


73 years after WWII

As more and more light is focused

On terror and the human being.







Wandering Mind

On this Tuesday 13 March ‘18

His mind still wandered about

The treetops near the famous

Village of poets and learned men

When he washed and dressed

Swallowed a peeled orange

Some gooseberries in colourful

Composition in a glass bowl

With some amber drops of honey

Raisins and nuts to round it off.


B already fell into her scalding


Wishing him a good trip

Although he had told her

That he has to see surgeon S

For taking X-rays.


When lying on the X-ray bed

He thinks of his father lying on

A stretcher destined to fix him

Up for hard labour in Stalin’s



As much as Canetti hated Napoleon

The artist hates Stalin

Who discarded the rights of prisoners

According to the Geneva Convention

He gave a damn about.






This trip to LKH KO

As a known acronym for the

Famous clinic

Would be more pleasant

If the ÖBB – well advertised –

Would stick to proper identification

Of its trains at Handelskai

As one could easily miss the

Announcement if one is not

That alert early mornings.


However one must count oneself

Very lucky to have the chance

Of being operated on thru’ the

Social health system

Available to all its members.

Besides physiotherapy and

Good friends

Healing will be progressing quickly

And waiting for an hour or two

Is not a burden

If one has a notebook to draw into

And depict one’s art with words.


Tomorrow I’ll accompany Mr.T

To his beloved Bratislava

Like father – like son.

He’s a changed person when there.

Waiting. Writing.

Positive thoughts.






‘The King of Ice’ (ballad) comes to mind

She still lives thru’ battles

Of yesteryears

With sharp directed monologues

While his mind floats on the

Gentle surf of Arkasia beach at


As life for her hasn’t turned out

To be satisfactory

He still could arrange his life

Around his priority of art.

His Muse has sent him a shield

Hammered in impenetrable

Virtual gold

To realize the shining night of

The arts

Wordsmith and painter

Draftsman and composer of

Holistic artworks.

At home hardly recognized

He seeks art-loving friends

Looking-out for a proper chance

To present his art.

Perhaps ‘The King of Ice’ illustrated

Will have a publishing chance.

He’ll see to its updated presentation

Transformed into German as well.

As he believes it’s a love story

With the backdrop of dramatic

Gran Canary Island.

Waiting for a sponsor is futile

And the local cultural council


Better to do one copy for all to see

And hopefully get some orders.

King of Ice.






He draws intuitively

With any medium available

At any place he happens to be.

As if he would drive the bad cough

From his body

That had invaded his chest

For some time.

With a sudden twist of nature

Ice and snow disappeared


And the landlord could switch down

The laboring heating system

That helped to keep the infectious

Wolf at the door.

B seeks the first warming sunrays

She’d need like a flowering plant

While her man places

Word compositions into his

Finally both rejoice with what

Is left from nature

That still lets us exist in this valley

Below the Viennese Woods

Where blackbirds have returned.

Another spring is in the making.






The road to Machu Picchu

Stone upon stone

Intricately interwoven patterns

Of the universe.


Besides the mind travels far

To galaxies

Clusters and superclusters

Forever expanding

To find answers for our

Human existence.


For there’s nothing more

Exciting than a mind flight

To the Milky Way and to

Look down to the Blue Planet

With an eagle eyes’ view.


Here I live in Laniakea

Where we’ll spin a

Photographical thread

To map these immeasurable






In a bad mood

She throws verbal abuse

But nothing less

He’d expect from a partner

Who suffers from a nervous


All he wants to do

Is help her condition

Avoiding her to walk in the

Icy cold to doc W’s surgery.

But she rather reacts to it

With annoyance

Instead of accepting help

From her spouse.

All in all life had not been easy

And she didn’t anticipate

Hardship at old age

She stated.

For a few years she had

Unwillingly accepted that he

Had landed a job

Helping out in an art gallery

Complaining to him though

That she was not included and

Left behind.

Working freelance for a boutique

Should have given her the

Missing balance

But then she had lost her way

Of accepting the road ahead

As designed by fate.





Healing Well

When love still worked

Its magic for both partners

She desired to feel physically

Loved at the edge of her

Private hospital bed.

And postoperative healing

Progressed well

Doc P had stated.


Then 38 years later after

His op on her spouse’s hip

She had no intention to

Visit him

Besides no more desire

To love him physically still.


So he had to heal himself

The classical way of self-love

Perhaps good fortune was

On his side and lad surgeon

Dr S had done a sterling job

Besides she liked the artist.


For love creates love and

The artist offers it all the women

He feels attracted to

Also kissing the one’s with a

Golden heart

Like his gregarious friend used

Doing it as well.

Long live love – the great healer!




Icy Week

The coldest week since

We’ve moved to Weidling

The brook frozen up

Siberian cold air swept along

The main road

My legs numbed

A cough shakes my body

The local doc listens to my

Report and issues scripts

Also for Mrs B

Who has too much pain

Walking in these icy conditions.

The bus is late and intends to

Drive off without noticing me

I bang my crutch against the

Metal and swear ostensibly.

As the driver finally noticed me

He stops again and lets me in.

Damn him.

First he was four minutes late

And what’s the hurry now?

The pharmacist at Weidling

Station is inexperienced

Not knowing about the dozing

Albeit I have told her

She wishes to check back with

Doc W’s office

But she never calls me back.

Mrs M does.

All’s well but it’s not well.

This week there’ll be still

Extremely low temperatures

Before the wintry pain will be

Kicked out by an oncoming

New spring.

SUN – where are you?

B says.

Like a delicate plant she cannot

Live without the golden rays

Of life.

I think of Karpathos’ Isle.


zoltanzelan       ZJG-POetry’18.