A Meeting

Imagine you’ll sit in a fairly

Well renovated subterranean


Amongst hundred Slovakians

Listening to the talk of a female

Candidate for the position of

The presidency of their country

But you don’t understand the


How that all might be

The poet likes to be the guide

Fr Mr T – Who –

Whatever excuse he might need

Is keen travelling to Bratislava.

Isn’t it though his home town

So once beloved by his father and

Now again by his son?

Here at an assembly of people

Good looking Zuzana C holds her

Open discussion at the start of

Her campaign to become elected

For the presidency of Slovakia.

The poet doodles into his notebook

Adds some words and studies his

Contemporaries at the discussion.

Zuzana’s emerald green costume

Not only suits her golden hair

But the poet guesses

Is symbolically relevant for what

She tries to get verbally across.

Mr T takes the microphone and adds

His responses with empathy on

Salient points of democracy

As he tells the poet later

When they say a few words to

Suzana C wishing her good luck

Handing her A Frankl reproductions

And their personal calling cards.

All friends are here from many

Get-togethers before: Ferro/

Ivan/ and others.

The poet knows many by face

But not by their names.

‘Here is a familiar face’

A man announces with a broad

Smile. Indeed. The poet greets

Him back with a smile.

That’s how Ferro met him last time

In Bratislava for a video-filming

On Holocaust survivors and also

Witnesses of such horrendous


Ferro tells the poet that he admires

Mr T’s tenacity for widening the

Circle about his father’s quest

Teaching tolerance against racism

Brutal repression and pogroms.





Every hour since 3:30 am

He wakes up as if somebody

Had pulled his hair

Maybe his ghost of a Muse

Sensed his need for love and


His body aflame with drops

Of sweat from an alp.

The morning still young on


Just now will be loaded

Heavily by verbal gunfire

From his spouse

Attacking the quaint state

Of his preparation.

He removes the shield of

Achill and defends himself

With words against the hurt

She’d belted out like a

Wounded deer.

He leaves with a heavy heart

Walking 40 minutes to the

Main bus line commuting

To the city with world status.

The poet dives into another

Life as a guide for Mr T –

Art gallery owner

Artist for life.

Interrupted sleep transformed

Bad feelings into god ones

With every word the pet writes

Word by word

Strophe by strophe

Life’s vision has been turned


To a point of mental flight.





Thro‘ life’s looking glass

Time has elapsed

In rhythm’s of ups and


To the waves of an Aeolian

Breeze at times heavy felt

Leaving behind awakening


Below the fortune of the

Great Wheel of the heavens

The story of life

A sand corn in the southernmost

African desert

Glistening light from dusky


Setting out as freshman captain

The beauty of exotic seas

Left behind

Stranded at the shores of

Greek Isles

Dreams to be buried at the

Arcadian Heights.

The power of thoughts

Lead a life on their own

Love’s ultimate power

Remains always the spirit’s

Reviving fount.





The poet has reflected on his

Past love

Having seen a YouTube movie

About unusual love.

Thinking about his protagonists

In his own story telling

Be it journal verses

Ballads of the heart

An elegy to a great love

Blues about a great loss.

Listening to Michel Petrucciani’s

Piano solo in Barcelona

A bundle of energy

Focused sensitivity

A great joy to listen to.

Forgetting immediate domestic



Of two separate worlds

That are often brushed aside

By the poet in a creative mood.

Often rising from chaos

All around him

Where his talent emerges

With a new song.





There are the womanizers

A mass of identity seekers

Protagonists of the social media

All in all people who are lost

Without the humdrum on life’s


The poet keeps to himself

But observes the social humdrum

Life of the masses that leads

To street theatre

Dialogues of chance

All the stuff like too rich food

Drives one into the open arms

Of nature’s solitude.

A writer has to become a recluse

Being overfed with humdrum


There are only a selective few

Who are installed with talents

To listen.


And react.

Listening to the truth in their


Having touched the poet’s mind

With a peek into the ante chamber

Of his soul

Stirred up for a sensual life.




Artist’s Runaround

The artist posted his work

On artquid.com

A website for art appreciation

A gallery in Paris/ France.

One painting from his exhibition

Was an interesting rendering

Of an integration of faces with

A female body

Mother earth who let the spirit

Of the poet fly.

An interested art lover sent mail

To purchase the painting

Why not thru’ the gallery?

The artist wished to know.

Mr PT was silent while the artist

Searched his files to find that

Piece of art: Integrated Portrait 03

But it was nowhere to be found.


The artist’s spouse asked him

To paint another one like the

Image depicted on his virtual


But she was not satisfied:

It’s too aggressive

More muted colours! She said.

The artist set out the image to

Watercolour paper and created

Another painting

And this time he thought he had

It right.

But his critical spouse disagreed

Again. Fuck that! He murmured

While she added he should apply

A white softening highlight to

Dampen especially the red tones.

The artist tried but gave up soon

As the white pencil did not would

Not cover all the colours

She felt were too strong.

You know he wishes to acquire

A soft-toned drawing

Just as you have online.

His spouse replied to his deep

Murmuring protest.

Meanwhile the artist had found

A website where the potential

Buyer Mr PF had been declared

To be a PayPal cheater.

Well now

The artist mused

I’ll test my painting on my friends.

Showing his recent painting to

Mrs IRA who thought it’s a great

Addition in his typical ZG-style.

Mr T agreed to be good art

As expected from his befriended


Now then

The artist sniggered

Whoever wishes to buy it

Will find it on my virtual gallery.

An artist’s runaround.





In a state of daydreams

The fine porcelain plate slipped

From the poet’s fingers

Plagued by sudden lameness

And fell to the tiled kitchen


Shattering into a pattern

That showed distorted faces

In an inner turmoil fight.

Not moving the plate

Until he made a sketch of

The shards

He sat down at his nearby

Desk and made a drawing

His mind with flashbacks

Of bygone creative peaks.

The dream of loving another

Human being

Like a sculptural density of


Who’ll never understand

Each other

But create unusual art

By controversial frottage.

The poet’s inner world broken

With exception of his Muse

Who glued together all the

Pieces with her love

Made life between these

Contrasting spouses

Bearable again for some

Extended time.

Don Pullen’s solo piano

Sounded on a ship that

Sailed the deep ravines

Of hurt

In a miniature odyssey

Reflecting on great poetry.

Soft cold rain fell and rendered

The split up portions of land

In its colourful conglomeration

Which once formed one

Great continent

Shattered by Zeus’ bolt

Out of a perfectly blue sky.





Out of the city’s tangled grey mass

The writer sped toward the meeting

With the poet

An illustrator of his dreams.

He rushed into the hall of illustrious

Coffee drinkers in a hum of

Trivial conversations

Except of some serious contemp’s

Who kept enclosed to themselves

Notating their thoughts on digital


‘I’ve conceived the story’ the writer

Said with his blue woolen cap on.

‘I’ve sketched down first thoughts’

The poet replied and added ‘let’s hear

Your story’.

Writer E prepared his laptop.

Poet Z opened his unlined notebook.

‘I wish a glass of Viennese water’

The poet asked the rushing waiter.

‘You mean tap water’ the waiter                                                                                                  

Replied ‘otherwise it might even come

From Tyrol’.

‘So?’ the poet felt pulled by his legs.

They both began to laugh as the poet’s

Question mark blew up a balloon

And rose toward the high ceiling.

Writer E started with his blurb of

Fantasy and it took off for 90 minutes

And intermeshed at the ceiling with

The poet’s huge Question mark-balloon.

Soon the succus of it came down like

Soft ‘Salzburg-drizzle’

Wetting the poet’s hair and skin

And sank into his innerness to ferment.

As the writer E ended his talk

A colourful balloon blew up and rose

Toward the high level ceiling

Where it hovered at the kerb of the

Main street thoughts

To be picked up like a waiting child.

Back into the city’s rushing mass

Of people cars trams and cyclists

The mind’s waves escaped into the

Early night air

Like a bottle of uncorked wine

Must ventilate

To turn into a pleasant drink.




Day’s End

Not all days run at a general ease

But some are jinxed indeed.

The bank card not found

Has to be claimed lost.

Well then there’s need to chill

At a typical Viennese Café.

Yet as some Furies are on the


Direct powers of a great Muse

Had not been switched on this

Peculiar day.

An order of espresso macchiato

Is not served everywhere as


So hunt for the near ideal

Italian taste

Your palate still recalls.

The poet meets a writer friend

In Café Prückel

A place bustling with a hub.

The waiter lacks Viennese humour

But even he’s from a neighbouring

Country one thought that this city

Has still a ‘Golden Age’- tradition

For central Europe’s melting pot.

The poet tight on funds has to

Fork-out the total bill

The writer offers one of his pens

A kind of tradeoff between pals

Who’ll engage in common dreams?

The poet recalls all his grand losses

Of a topsy-turvy past with an

Innermost sigh.

Only the day before the poet has

Annotated Art-Repro’s for Mr T.

Until the artist of survival sank into

His comfy couch and fell asleep.

The poet had left behind his black

Journal poetry book as he left

The roof apartment on silent feet.

It’s hard today to find Vittel water

But lots of other stuff loaded with

Minerals and gases one doesn’t

Really need.

At least a spark of a thought that leads

The tired poet to his knapsack

Stored below his writing desk

Where he retrieves his glasses buried

Below his walking gear.

Some mint tea! A good night’s sleep

Is all he’ll need as a final offing?

Music by Satie from his headphones

Cuts out the word rushing bye upfront

On Main Street Weidling at the feet

Of the Viennese Woods.

Day’s End.



Soul at Ease

Imagine an early morning

With Mr T. and the poet

Exhausted from yesterday

Evening’s talk of a good looking

Female candidate

For the upcoming presidential


Wishing her good luck.

Mr T. spoke about her strive

For successful fulfilment

Of her ambitious program

The poet applauded her

Handing her his own designed

Calling card

As usual token by creative


After an extensive evening with

Great characters like Ivan.

Ferro. Paul and other friendly


The poet gets on well with

The local Jewish community

Talking Hungarian

Not having yet managed to learn

Basic Slovakian.

Besides dining at Jasmin’s

It’s amazing to listen to the

Chinese owner. Linda. Speaking

Slovakian to Mr T.

While English to the poet.

The renovated Chinese restaurant

Has a gilded aura and cooking

That compliments body and soul.

It’s all music not alone to the poet

As well as Mr T.’s soul will be

At ease.