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
Moskva
73 years after WWII
As more and more light is focused
On terror and the human being.
Terror.rorreT
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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
Monologue
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
Gulag.
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.
PIG.GIP
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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.
Bratislava.avalsitarB
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
via Art Trailer #1
She still lives thru’ battles
Of yesteryears
With sharp directed monologues
While his mind floats on the
Gentle surf of Arkasia beach at
Karpathos.
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
Discriminates
Better to do one copy for all to see
And hopefully get some orders.
King of Ice.
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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
Overnight
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
Goldbuch.de
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.
Spring.gnirpS
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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
Heavens.
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
In a bad mood
She throws verbal abuse
But nothing less
He’d expect from a partner
Who suffers from a nervous
Complaint.
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.
Fate.etaF
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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!
zoltanzelan
ZJG-POetry’18.
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.
