In my diaries as always

Since Ana’s death

I’ll remember her on that

Day eleven in September

Twothousandandfour –

Tattooed into the face of

My heart and my soul.

On this year’s September

It’ll be

Onehundredsixtyeight

Months.

Imagine.

Her tear she shed for me

Flows within my own eyes

For her. Still.

Ana – how great a love?

How precious a friend?

Fellow writer and poet

Accepting me as a poet

Of love

In a sacred ceremony of

Our hearts close up

Vibes of love shaking our

Souls

At that important meeting

On January thirteenth

Twothousandandtwo –

Her spirit joined mine in

An embrace of poets

Artists –

The messengers of the

Gods –

In Mitrepoleos First Floor

Café des Arts.

I still feel Ana’s presence

When I write

When I dive into the

Great creative conscious

She partakes to shape

Mine.

ANA.ANA

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

A wonderful spot of heaven

Placed in front of your nose

If you’ll come either way –

Directly from the Kahlenberg

Or the Wine Wander Route

Ending in the awesome

Hammerschmiedgraben

Nature pure as a valley and

Genuine garden

Just off the diesel-poisoned

City highway to Vienna.

I thrive on historic buildings

And tightly set out lanes

Schubert’s lime tree and a

House he performed in.

Never mind the popular places

Where local fare is served

With glasses of famous

Kahlenberg wine.

Pressing on to Nußdorf along

The Danube River

Sightseeing boats and anglers

Mothers taking their children

For an outing

Joggers and bikers

Nordic Walkers and tourists

From luxury cruises.

Easy goes.

People.elpoeP

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

Along the Danube River

The air’s cooler

And the breeze invigorating

Women walk and ride bikes

A young mother bends down

To tend to her child in a crib

Her tight pants slide down

Expose her buttock’s cleft

Her derriere still aesthetically

Pleasing –

So sexy.

She’ll attract the eyes of male

Passerbys

A fisherman casts his two

Fishing rods into the river

At a certain spot.

I talk to him about the kind

Of fish he’s after.

Interesting conversations

Along the road to varied folk.

Loisl explains me his craft.

A woman passes but she’s

Not reacting to my greeting.

Later on as I leave Loisl the

Fisherman and aim toward

Nußdorf

I get across her again.

She’s Hungarian and we talk

A bit in her language.

The tourist boats still anchor

Near Nußdorf.

At Shakes I sip Murauer beer

My recently discovered fav.

The red-haired lass loads me

With street talk.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

At last Mrs. IRA read

My novel – ‘Spleen of Love’

Imagine!

Somebody without having

Experienced extramarital sex?

Possible.

I’ll be in the mood of sharing

Great sex of the golden

Mature age

If the sparks of touching will fly

And our chemistry will be

Spot on.

I have a feeling it could be.

How would you translate my

Novel into German?

‘Fegefeuer der Liebe’?

The new title in English:

‘Purgatory of Love’.

Excellent!

If Mrs. Ira liked it

It could be a best seller!

No wonder kobo.com

Has taken over my whole

Oeuvre.

It could be a flop

But also a good advert

Or have they waylaid me?

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

Along a short hot summer

I’ve scaled the trails

Thru’ woods and meadows

Valleys and mountains

Along brooks running only

With a trickle

Extreme heat stirred up

Hordes of insects

Irritating.

The shading woods

Magnificent as a retreat

You’ll push on along

Some open roads

Cool down your heated up

Body with a draft

At a known wayside inn.

Never mind the buzzing

Flies

The restless rush of

Swarming cars

You’ll soon flee back

To field and trail

The smell of fresh-cut

Grass.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

The woman who runs

The place at Shakes. Nußdorf.

How often did my uncle Tony

Mention Nußdorf when he

Worked at the DBB?

All the time

As if this place was a giant magnet

Drawing every traveler into its

Hospitable spider net.

Now it’s Shakes –

Used to be a nightclub

But perhaps it did not draw enough

Patrons

So it opened its doors as a café and

Pub at daytime.

I visited the place on the square

Solely for their Murauer draft beer

The one I have developed a taste for.

Hm.

Since I’ve tasted it at a small pub

Sited near a trail to the Viennese Woods

Along the pretty Liesingtal.

As from then I’ve become

A fan of it

Especially conversing with Sharka

The red-haired woman –

A waitress and cook serving drinks

And fast foods.

“Most people who have not much

Money only have drinks” she states

Leaning on the soft back of a seat

Adjoining me

A talkative person

Wide awake and street wise

She talks continually

Until I have finished two large drafts

And finally adding a small one too.

Never before I had that quantity

Of draft beer past lunchtime

But it worked well with my

Mondseer cheese sandwich

I had eaten before.

It’s amazing how easily I have

Learned to talk to a woman again

In spite of profession or talents

That only become obvious during

Of words and language.

I am thinking of my Check friends

From South Africa and what they

Might be up to in the city of

Los Angeles.

Waiting for my bus.

Calling it in for the day.

Sharka.akrahS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

Up familiar Grünberger Weg

To the Jägerwiese steels me

Hardens my body on repeat

Cleanses my soul

I feel my lively heartbeat

That I’m alive.

The leaves in the beech trees

Yield to the wind playing them

Like instruments

If you listen carefully you’ll hear

A tune in a growing crescendo

Of a whole orchestra –

The wood –

On the other side of the Kahlenberg

It’s still and the vines are ready

To be picked.

The grapes taste sweet – Rheinriesling –

Will be a great wine this year.

My feet signal for a rest.

In Kahlenbergerdorf next to

Schubert’s Lime tree I eat my sandwich

Then decide to finish my route of

City Walk 1a in Nußdorf.

Cool Murauer beer awaits me at

Shake’s Irish pub. Mhh.

What a feast.

After two beers I pay Sharka

And head for the 400 bus to

Take me back to Weidling.

Murauer.reuaruM

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.