Cellophane Noodles

Late night a small drought

For a nightcap

Mr T with alcohol-free patent

Closed bottle beer to our usual

Room 802

At the hotel Bratislava

In the leafy suburb of Ruzina.

Fall into bed

The young Polish lass has made up

On the pull-out settee for me.

Sleep came immediately

But wake at the crack of dawn

From a dream about Mrs IRA

Who is keen for tenderness

While Mrs B is making out with

Her nephew D.

Back to sleep with slight ear trouble

Hope deafness will stay away

Long enough

Have more trouble with my knee.

But now in the morn’ the fine

Spiderweb of dreams fading

Yet their footprints remain on

This page for my readers

I wish to keep informed.

Yesterday’s friends like Veronika

And Suzanna were interested

In my art and writings

But comm’s was difficult with

Veronika’s broken English and

And my lack of will to have learnt

Slovakian during the years.

Now then the food at ‘Jasmin’

As good as ever

‘Cellophane noodles’ an interesting


I would call them ‘glassy noodles’.






Side by Side

Duke and Hodges still inspires


Especially on a Monday morn’

With an August’s hot day in the


While I muse about Sloterdijk

And read up on Osho’s teachings

Dynamic energies are set free

To place wings on an extended



So side by side as in Duke’s

Musical tradition

I live with the mindset touches

With friends and companions

For some travelling along the

Ever changing life.


Most importantly to free oneself

From any possession of things

Or from authorities

Even if their support is needed

For survival.


But more so one’s own intuition

Has priority above all

Especially in creativity.

Body and soul

Heart and mind

Side by side.





Love Lost

To live together as lovers

A shoe box size dorm is more

Than enough

Especially if life is lived by

Shared heartbeat.


The smallest table in the

Smallest corner serves greatly

As love has spurned on

Creative powers of the artistic



However the spouse you live

With for a life time

Had originally captured you

Fitting together physically and

Emotionally like hand in glove.


Yet nothing will stand still

Everything’s in flux

Like happiness and fulfilling

Love you’ll realize

Passing the half-century



She suddenly disturbs you

The artist at work

In a tiny corner of a kitchenette

Demanding an open door

As she pays half for the bedsitter.


If she just wouldn’t go in and out

To use the fridge

Every few minutes at a time.


Still you prevail writing your

Thoughts into your turquoise


Letting it go and then seek

To clear your mind

In hourly long walks

Calling up sweet memories

Crusting over all unpleasant

Happenings of advanced age

In partnership.

Love lost.tsol evoL






You mustn’t get

Emotionally too exhausted

By her verbally charged

Abusive campaign

In flares of anger

High-pitched voice

Throwing a tantrum.


You have not given-up

To respond to her mean


But let her get-off her

Suppressed anger

And await the right time

To respond with a

Quiet voice

While she still boils over

In the heat of a verbal

Post-climatic glow.


After all it’s an unfortunate


That has pushed her life

To a point of its regret

An unfulfilled verification

Of missed opportunities

Although the poet offered

Her at one stage

To leave for greener

Economical pastures and

A better matching partner

In temperament.


No. She chose to keep

A battered love with her


She could always rely on

For half a century

In an advanced age.


In spite of major losses

Of possessions

That seemed emotionally


But also meant not being


Either by autocrats nor by

Assembled goods or trinkets

Yet again possessed by the

State that keeps her alive.














Joys of Nordic Walking

For some time now

My life has turned around


Life’s enjoyments became

Consciously connected up

To Nordic Walking exercises.

Who would have thought

That as I’m approaching the age

Of eighty

I would shake off some chains

Of ageing

And move about the nearby trails

Crossing the twin Danubian




Detecting more and more

Connecting trails –


Häuserl am Stoan/Kahlenbergerdorf

Besides some winetasting by chance

Getting to know the outskirts

Of the City of Vienna

Meeting fellow walkers

Exchanging views on current affairs.

Living as a student of the Arts in

Vienna half a century ago

Fleeting impressions of some

Areas come back to me at some

Points and historic monuments

New impressions reinforce the

Missing stones of the city map’s

Mosaic pattern of the historical


Peace of mind comes to me

Like a dim switch turned on


Ah! Ah!





The ever-recurring discussion:

It smells like cod-liver in here.

He replies that he does not smell it.

You never smell anything she claims.

He walks close toward the newly

Painted wall and puts his nose

Close to it:

Indeed a strange new paint smell

But cod-liver does not come to my

Mind at all.

Well if this happens again I’ll move out

She says with emphasis on out.

Where will you go?

He wonders about her over sensibility

But she always had this kind of

Immediate reactions.

You could ventilate he said and then

Returns to his computer work.

No I won’t! The landlord’s car smells

Of diesel fumes

I don’t like to have in here either.

  1. He rests with his replies

As she accuses him to be always

Aggressive towards her.

He isn’t.

She is the stirrer in such argumentative


He packs his knapsack.

Today he has an appointment with

The orthopedic surgeon about his

Knee troubles.

Otherwise he would have taken off

On one of the great trails

Through the lush Viennese Woods.

Trails and wholesome peace

Surrounding sound of silence.

No more agro.







To Be a Poet

  1. The Preparation.

It has nothing to do with any form or style. In the beginning, there has to be an inner fire and desire to be an artist. One’s interests in poetry, given to one by inheritance and talent from one’s parents, will eventually materialize in an upcoming sensibility for choices of words. Writing poetry at all times, patiently day by day and week for week, the month for month, eventually, year by year, will yield your own style. An artist, a writer, a poet will have to be in good luck to meet his or her Muse and be lead along for some time on the path for a self-realization of his or her art.

Art, writing, and poetry will become a way of living rather than just a pastime fad. That’s when the artist will experience his or her drifting into the sphere of grooving. The mood and position of a flight of the innerness into the fields of continual relaxation and happiness. The poet, artist, and the writer has a complex history of arriving at his or her way of presenting art. Life’s complexities will shape the way he or she handles the tools of canvas, the paper, or the selection of the type of notebook that will be the thrashing floor of his or her performance.

Intuition will be the antenna of the artist. Listening to his or her inner voice will have to be the driving force of creation. The artist is after all the messenger of a higher power. In the study of mythology – an endless source of inspiration – lies the kernel of truth that has to be found. The Blarney Stone of revelation, the key to open the door to one’s garden of Eden, the Horn of plenty. There is never a shortcut to finding that kernel of truth, the artist is continually on the search for. Like an athlete, he sets out ön a slow walk to warm up, before he has entered the realm of spirituality that provides the fuel for a faster walk and finally after he or she has entered the artistic realm, the power needed for a great home run.