On my way to KO-HOSP

“What’s the time?”

“It’s 6:30 am!”

“Do you want to have coffee

With me?”

“Well I have to leave 6:45 am.”

She still brewed coffee

But I had to leave.

“I do not wish to be late.

Good bye.”

I left just in good time.

The driver of the bus 401 will

Not stop at any bus-stop

If nobody stands at the sign.

It happened before.

It’s OK today. Sunshine.

Blue skies.

I have to recall our neighbour’s


“It should be sunny at Easter.

Thank God.”

I agreed with her

But thinking of my stay in



I saw my surgeon in January

After the X-mas holidays.

She looked well and rested

And had a good time out


“I’m sorry I can only give you

A date for your op in April.”

“Fine with me. After all I’m not

An emergency.”

She looked at me with concern.

“Recuperation time is longer

Than after the hip operation.”

“OK.”I said.

“Six weeks,” she added.

“I’m OK with that.”

At least I’m in another mode

Of routine and could attend to

Writing and drawing. I thought.

That’s what my preferred activities

Are anyway

Since I have been barred from my

Original profession thru’ politics.

Except for Mrs IRA

Nobody else wanted to use my talents

For architectural work.

Unfortunately Mrs IRA had limited funds

And her so called ‘Schmuckschachterl’ –

Jewelry Box – weekend domicile

Could not be thus realized.


It was a good design

Contemp and minimalistic.

I’m on my way to ‘Heiligenstadt’ –

City of Saints –

On a splendid day like this

My thoughts fly to Athens.

At Handelskai station there’s an extensive

Crowd gathering

Milling to the Classical sounds of a

Mahler symphony?

Interesting and besides calming down

Waiting passengers

Also culturally most important.

The trains come and go punctually

Today and the vistas are sharply defined

In the sunlit landscape around.

At this train the speakers announce

No stops at two stations

Traveling along the stretched out

Viennese suburbs.

It’s a short train ride.

Soon I walk out the KO-station with my

Two crutches fixed together with tape

My black holdall with my poetry

My notebooks

Drawing paper and pencils and felt pens

Some tee shirts for changing

And other stuff.

Towards KO-HOSP.



Accident Ward Room 6/2

Listen to the wind

Listen to the wind…

The sounds of a song realized

At the accident ward Room 6

Bed 2

While the poet wakes to the

Fresh draught

The man with the one book

Has caused

His bed-neighbour asleep

In post-operative mode

While the poet gets up

To shut the window close.

This Tuesday April 24 may be

Reduced to number 6. Fine.

Hopefully end game here at



Interesting well-being after

A knee-op

Entailed in a Viennese word.

One week thinking about life

Seven days completed

Just like the symbolic act of

The world’s creation.

Three times the poet had handed

Over his life to his surgeon

He is thankful for trusting.

Has he not built up a spiritual

Relationship with her as well?


Another work of art considered

He will be glad to bring joy

To her in human terms.

This’ll be the joy he’ll project

To his friends and Muses

He’s found and met.

Art speaks a language

Understood without words.




Trails of Life

Fallen asleep with a half-empty

Mug of water

Something not happened to him

Before means –

After three days of light and

Interrupted sleep –


Well ZG.

Hear ZJG.

Notice you are a human being

In your 79th year of your life.

Your decision has been right

Especially as you have the will

To a fuller life with a passion

For Walking.

Nordic Walking.

Being in motion on one’s own

Two feet.

Waking from a dream of flying

Has creativity cells renewed

For any artist

Especially the one writing these


Having revisited all his Muses

During his life

And his magic has returned

In shorter cycles

To the happy crowd for gratitude

Of having met each other.

For extensive thanks for having

Had the privilege of exchanging

Positive vibes and the sharing

Of love’s sacred intimacies.




Like the pearl-white drop of water

Trailing from hard-awaited rain

Drops stick to the window’s glazing

Like white blood of love’s joyful


To the window of the souls.





Third Time

The third time the poet lands

In hospital due to bad arthrosis

In his knee joint

Yet waiting for two months for

A spot in its busy operating


He is in best hands and assured

By his surgeon of a great team.

When he wakes two hours later

He’s floating on a dizzy spell

Perhaps a different dose of

Anesthetics than last time.

Finally awake after stretches of

Sleep and slumber

He notices blood in his urine –

Not dangerous – the nurse is

Quick to assure him –

At times it happens with the

Set up of a catheter –

Damned! The poet murmurs

Has the person done humans


Well now

It means lots of fluids to rinse

The badly treated penis.

As long as all will still work

Normal. The poet thinks.

The next day the rinse was

Successful and the Malheur

Is put aside.

The pet will live.

The poet will love.

Bothe surgeons assure poet

The patient of a job well done

And another piece inserted

Towards a bionic poet.

Hah! Hah!




There are some subtle

Electro-magnetic powers

With invisible actions

Whose inert causes are not

Immediately foreseeable 

Or known

For the better or for the worse

How would one know?

What’s the gut-feel?

That’s all there is you could

Work with.

OK. Let’s detect the thoughts

That slide-show on one’s mind:

A night on a runaway fast train

The body hampered with endless


A heap of bones and skin

That lies rejected at the

Luggage-coach’s dusty floor.

The cooled down body warms-up

Gradually in the morning sun

That streams thru’ the gaps

Of rough wood-slatted walls.

In a flash of light the scenery


Strapped into a new-age-

Batman suit

The artist flies across the world

In mere seconds

And enjoys sensations beyond

His wildest dreams.

Another flash and he stands

At his easel drawing the woman

He desired

Painting her in her blooming youth

And half a century later he realizes

In a double portrait

That time has chiselled many lines

Into their faces

He layers into a cut beech tree

With a hundred year rings counted.

The artist will not have to wait for

Another time flash

Creative moods gather like clouds

And their contents will flood

The artist’s canvas

In one continuous wash

Its sediments remain.

Art the great Electronic.

The endless adventure

We artists ride.





What happened to the Europeans?

Flames destroyed a huge part of

The most important cultural landmark

Of Paris: Notre Dame.


The world shocked about this

Shouts of gross negligence

Hang like a Damocles’ sword

Over France and over Europe

Over all of our heads.

It came as a shock news this


The poet walked to the Clinic


Where he had to check in for

An op.

His spouse B was in an emotional



How come? All of us asked


Now then

Where will dissatisfaction with

States and their rulers end?

In destruction of cultural heritage

And their valuable symbols

Attacking values sacred to us all?

What happened to the strong fabric

Of a European Middle Class?

We heading into the wrong direction

Destroying art and architecture.

It happened before in the 30’s

And antennas of artists are on

Red alert.




Amour sans amour

Amour sans amour

For years songwriters wrote

About love without response

Love unrequited

Love standing alone.

Poet’s described the mood

Of yearning

That created the basis for

Outstanding verses and

Soul-touching poetry.

Amour sans amour

Widely experienced


The poet’s Muse has called:

The Bittersweet

That caused heartaches

Yet opened a window

With a view to a garden

Of love redefined together

As star-crossed-lovers.





Friends remind me on

Facebook of my birthday

My spouse celebrated with me

At Bortlotti’s excellent cake

And ice cream parlour with

Its stylish interior related

To Art Deco with Italian flair.

Reflecting back 79 years

It seems that the scribe in me

Has to survive to tell the tale.

Hopefully challenging tasks

For drawings

Paintings and novels

Will still come to fruition

While my spouse has a mission

To find a free space

Exhibiting the paintings of the

Artist ZG

My Muse looks over my shoulder

I feel gentleness

Love and sensuality

All she promised to send as her

Spirit to me.





Weather hikes and lows

Cause physical disruptions

Especially to people sensitive

To atmospheric pressure


The poet has only to observe

His spouses’ behaviour

To know what kind of weather

He’ll face.

Good things: He’ll support his

Spouses’ cost of dentistry.

Bad things: She’s holding against

Him bad management of his


‘But that’s in the past’

Is all he replies.

She always talks of bygone times

Whenever he has to leave for


Besides he slips then quickly

Into an elephant’s skin.

GO ZG. GO. His Muse will say.

One he has locked the door


Happy thoughts fill again his

Entire being.

Bus riding feels like fun

Albeit the rattle and roll.




Sweet Height Memories

In love’s sweet moment

Of reaching one height or two

Time seems to stand still

While you listen to the

Petite-mort’s breathing

Your soul’s distant pulses

Of conquering one peak

And another…

That’s how the poet recalls

His experiences of ecstasy.

Later in life the artist lives

From these kind of memories

His past Muse has imprinted

In him 

For life’s never been

That sweet.

His spouse wanders on

Another plane

Another projection to life

The artist has tried visiting

Many times

Not that successfully.

Yet friendship still prevails

But like in love

Some friendly moments

On a congruent line of


Last only a morning

A day

And no longer.

A called that bittersweet.

The bittersweet in love.