He’s going on with age

Lost out on some physical


But never his humorous self.

Man – the banter man

Aged 84.

Perhaps his short term memory

Works a bit slower at times

And don’t confuse him with

A barrage of fast delivered facts

You’ll hear: ‘Pomali’ instantly.

Being hard of hearing

He should resort to his aid

He keeps hidden in his trunk

He asks you to carry around

Like photographs of loved ones

And friends

His laptop and some cellular


He’ll make you tired with some

Repetitions like: ‘Can’t hear you’

And laughing with you over

Known jokes loosening his mood

Besides he follows often up

Near hopeless causes

With sheer iron stubbornness.

As a friend he’s fine and mellow

As a man looked after by helpers

Besides by his wandering spouse

He’ll be relentless with instant

Orders and stern demands –

Be careful with your replies

Or he might have your ass.

That means you have to anticipate

Be globally alert and always on

Your toes.

However – Busybody and surviving

Artist –

After a day of towing and throwing

And many instant chores

You’ll need to cool down with

A large local draft

Although that astonishes him

The gregarious Mr T

He’ll invite you with some

Additional banter.





He walks on a seashore

Criss-crossing boulders

Rocks and stone

Standing naked –

A Classic Greek warrior

Facing the island of his

Final destination?

The huge rock face ahead

Out of an emerald sea –

A pointed head with a loose

Dark coat around his wide body

Shedding a giant drop of crystal


Like in a burst of a female egg

That hovers in a state of


In front of the hero’s thighs.

Most god-like creatures

Especially man

Have been sculpted by the

Smack of the sea

Bronze heroes rescued from

The depths of the Med

Venerated by Romans

Carrying on with great art

Once Greek sculpture was

Cursed as idolatry

As Saulus turned Paulus

Saul to Paul.




(Reflections to a painting by

Odysseus Elytis on the cover

Of ‘Eros, Eros, Eros’. Poems).

The ‘Med’ in Bratislava

The linen spread across

A converted couch

The poet lies floating on

A raft

On the ship of dreams

He sails across the waking


Absorbing rainbow colours

Reflections of his life

Along the Danube’s flow

In Bratislava.

There now warm hands

Wander up and down his


Chasing the morning chill

From his stirring body

He recalls his Muse

In a final attempt to spend

Her fading powers of love

And enjoy his immediate

Sensual responses

Reawaken past times at

The shores of the ‘Med’.

She talked whale-like

Smoothness in love and

He felt sweet sensations

Diving into her cove below

The blue

The skin-wrapping of a

Soft sanded beach

The pulse of the Med’s


The Med in Bratislava.




A Funeral

Who’ll rejoice on a day like


The ceremony in full swing

Has drawn a couple of hundred

Mourning people

For this tragic death

Victim of an accident.

Was it?

Especially for the son who has

To bury his beloved father

Loved by all in his community.

There are many questions and

No answers.

A delivery van reversing back

From a dead end street

Closed for traffic.

The unfortunate man walked

At that moment from the

Corner synagogue across the

Back of the van.

The pet would be interested

In the protocol.

Unfortunately there were

No witnesses

Or are they afraid to come


After the funeral service

Workers and participants

Take shovels and bury the

Coffin. It’s dead still.

The only murmuring you hear

Is the cantor’s reciting prayers.

For me – guide to Mr T –

It’s sad to think that he was

A victim of an accident

Or was it negligence on behalf

Of the driver who supposed

To make sure there was nobody

Behind his van when reversing

From a state of parking?




Tree of Life

Symbol of life: The tree of life.

Many artists walked around it

Admired it

Drew and painted it

Whatever fruit it bore

Bitter quince

Or pomegranate sweet.

Like women who came forward

In the life of an artist:

Sweet or sour pussies.

Have you experienced

Sweet rose-red petals or

Powder blue coves?

A peek into the lost garden

Of Eden?

Or into the red-tide beaten

Oyster banks?


In between rose-red petal’s

Sweet scented folds

The poet danced around the

Specific tree of life

His Muse crowned with

Olive leaves

Silvery and dusty green

A vessel for rich ripe fruit

Peaches and green apples

Chanting songs of poets

To the tree of life.





Familiar face of pale-red

Karl-Marx-flat buildings

Elongated shadows of man

And trees

Like ghosts from a pre-dorm era

Dreaming on in a bus ride

End station Sievering.

The ‘Gspöttgraben’s’ uphill walk

In midway break’s cops of trees

Posting their wintry structures

Against a pale-blue sky.

The final push for a break

Called ‘Heaven’

With kids playing slides on

Surviving snow and ice.

My soul rejoices with the dusky

Appearance of trees of life in a

Backlit biosphere park set as an


Nature’s graphic art of order

In chaotic density of branches

Blackened like charcoal against

The white-blue skies.

Walking through vistas of scenic

Tree cops lit up through the lantern

Of a wintry sun

Yet turn around completely and

Enjoy the real colour of birches

And oaks.

A snowy icy patch on the way

Towards Hermannskogel

A snow covered ‘Kogelwiese’

People sliding on the last snow

Of winter

Up and up towards ‘Habsburgwarte’

Rest until the waning sun demands

You should return.

Finally, passed the cut back

Vineyards in wintry slumber

You spot a sign: ‘Haseleckersteig’

Where your shadow will be

Passed you in El Greco style.






Just for a few words

You wouldn’t mind

To read them. Would you?

This moment in time

Waking from a dream

With the soul’s

Pleasant extensions.

It has been no twist of fate

To have met you

In midst a mixed crowd

Of celebrating friends

And those recalling their

Historical fate

The poet had accompanied

His friend was drawn

To your presence

Got on with you like

A house on fire.

How extraordinary.

Wouldn’t you say?

For letting the heart speak

The artist in me would like

To meet the artist in you.

Would you not?

I am sure I would be glad

To have the chance for

A portrait session

Let creativity have its say.

Non e vero?




To Be Human

‚Mensch sein ist ermüdend

Hast du das auch schon


To be human is quite tiring

Have you found that as well?

To be human means work

To become one

Have you noticed my man

From foreign lands?

To be a good human being

Means to work on yourself


And don’t tell me that I’m

A racist

If I’m trying to teach you

A bit of Western culture

As you have taken chances

To come and stay here.

I’ve been to Africa for a long

Time and although I’ve found

Friendship and respect and

Learned a new language

Just one criminal act of invading

My private space at home

Has ruined my believe

In a country we could have

Shared together in peace and

With goodwill

Just like Madiba had envisaged

And preached.

And yet you’ve turned the tables

And then left your land

To seek an easier life abroad

Where people enjoy the fruit

Of their forebears

Who worked very hard for it.

Are you prepared to do the same?




Through some good omen

We succeeded meeting in town

And once we had a rest in the

Speed trains lounge

Watching the coming and going

Of airport travelers

Then departed with B’s wish

To catch some groceries at

Gourmet Spar’s near Opernring./

Then as we advanced to the lift

From the Opera Passage

That takes one up from subway

Level to the street a familiar face

Appeared with shoulder-bag and

A pack of groceries: P the fashion


Great conversationalist./

His bag is heavy, his shopping too

And our invite to the opera café

Seemed to be a good way of

Continuing a conversation that

Had started for the poet last time

At this café and seems to carry on

Between creative minds./

Besides P has taken the role of

Gentle pacifier with humor and

Multiple facets of experiences

In a historically tainted atmosphere

Of being away from life at a dormant

Provincial municipality of a grand

Religious foundation based on

Saint Leopold

B says she cannot stand./

While her spouse changes into

A poet-artist-writer-trifactor state

Morphing about in his creative


She cannot morph.

She turns angry when designer P

Is not around

With whom she had many talks

About fashion./

Some good omen outside our

Involuntarily apportioned bedsitter

Forced upon us by the unsocially

Orientated forces of society –

Warm dry humorous get together

Of associated artistic minds.





For some time I recalled works of Henty James, but now his thought about art made me refresh my own responses as well. ZZ.


It is art that makes life

Makes interest

Makes importance…

And I know of no substitute

Whatever for the force and

Beauty of its process.

Henry James.

It’s music
that makes life


Makes order
to your priorities

And entices
you to feel a swing

Taking hold
of you

the adventure

Of your own
creative process

innermost extensions.

It is
poetry that makes my life

creates an endless interest

And makes
out life’s importance

Viewed from
a star above

Seen from
the depth of the Med.

could substitute these


Since my
Muse Anna had guided

awakening talent

Toward this
spur of pell-mell.




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