At first flashes of lightning

Out of the blue skies of illusions

An intriguing face of a woman

Emerged.

The artist in his inflamed

Romantic state

Created a canvas with a face

That was part of her as a young

Woman

With added features of his most

Important Muse

No doubt?

Perhaps it would hardly matter

As sun and moon stood still.

His art accepted by her

For its colourful composition

She grew strongly on him as

A woman

For a year or two

With more portraits showing

Her personality.

Finally the magic constellation

Of the stars changed entirely

But she still watched over him

Rather like a sister.

An aunt.

A woman who experienced

A difficult phase in her life.

Now the time’s right

He thought

To present her portrait

True to life

At the high-point in her

White-coat

Professional existence.

In a way the artist’s portrait

Unusually to his style

Went beyond it.

This time.

BEYOND.DNOYEB

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Eyes with life’s light fading.

Greater than life in a continual race

Against mechanical parts

Which once could not stand the

Knocks and beatings during the heat

Of extreme fast driving.

In spite: World Champion three times

Over

But the greatest champion of a

Tenacious mind.

The pain in a last half-portrait

Expresses in fine lines his life’s story

Ruled by fate into his facial skin.

A brave man among the bravest.

A hero of Formula 1 race tracks

Known throughout the world

In a last race toward the stars

With his undying spirit

That’ll remain with all of us.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19

He came one day to my door

Showing off his skills on his bike

Power-sliding on the split

Covering the surface of the yard

Between two blocks of flats.

I praised his skills.

He laughed with eyes sparkling.

‘I’ve got something special’

He belted out red-cheeked

And excited.

Suddenly he appeared with

Racing helmet and gear

Boots and all like petite

Superman.

‘Hey Noah what’s up?’ I asked.

‘Watch!’ he shouted and

Took off in a flash.

‘What’s that?’ I gasped.

‘My Wobble-Sobble…

His words faded as he climbed

Over the roofs of the village.

He looked good with his blue

Machine blending into the

Matching blue skies.

‘Have you seen Noah?’ His Mom

Appeared.

‘He’s cycling the skies…’

I murmured and watched her

Eyes hit by blue flashes.

‘Oh he took the Wobble-Sobble’

She said and left.

I was still staring at Noah’s

Blue dot disappearing.

WOBBLE-SOBBLE.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

She should have been

More consequent

To forge her own fortune

Being extraordinary talented.

He should have pursued his

Own happiness

But without a Muse eating

Him up completely

His creativity flared off

Just like his aging libido.

So now we have a woman

Living in a world of mixing

And weaving with a last knight

Of creativity.

We have now a man who’s

Looking for a suitable Muse

Who will be his protagonist

And model for his paintings

He could devour thru’ his

Art

But he’s too old a dog for

All of that.

While she pursues her

Happiness as a commuter

To town’s cultural centre

Stirred by its airs

He won’t shave off his

Moustache and goatee

His potential Muse dislikes

To feel on her skin.

BAD LUCK.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

The eyes of an owl

A stargate to heaven?

Prehistoric man

Cave man

Pre-Horus-man

Egyptian man

Painters of the Apis bull

On the tomb’s ceilings

Monuments with squares

Summer solistices

Winter solistices

Squares are no coincidences

Like on the Taurus

Constellation

Compared to a wormhole

For mankind’s escape?

Apis bull and sun.

Check out the doorways

Gateways to the sun.

SUN.NUS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

You may prepare yourself

For an interview

As much as you like

In the end when the

Interviewer arrives

Whom you already know

Through a friend

With time of the day and

Circumstances

You don’t need any notes

As soon as you start to talk

About poetry.

Your POetry.

Your reflections

And a poet’s dialogue with

His drawings

Paintings

Assembled pieces of A4 size

Standard sheets of paper

You’ve transported from

Their plain appearance

Through the use of a blue

Ballpoint pen as my medium

Into fine-lined graphic art

Art piece by piece.

Art nethertheless.

Packable.

Assembled.

Astonishing.

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

On the road down towards

The village church

The traffic roars thru’ the

Cobbled road

A mere ten minutes’ drive from

The capital.

The poet has fortunately

Recovered reasonably

To walk down the narrow

Pavement

Light-headed though

But his unsteady gait tested

By instable atmospheric

Pressures of month May

That reminds of April rather

Many blame on the worldwide

Climatic changes.

Whatever.

The colourful team at the

Pizzeria

Close to the village church

Is booming with hectic business

Three. Four. Five. Six pizzas

The gregarious chief produces

While the poet waits for his

Turn to collect his order.

Minestrone

Sliced pancake soup

Pepsi Cola.

SOUPS.SPUOS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Not the best of Fridays

With cold winds and a weak

Sun

Whose strength has been

Blown away somewhere South.

She’s in no good mood

Disliking her sneeze

Battling with a fever

That eats her up.

The poet feels like a gentle

Poodle

Doused with a bucket

Of icy water.

Yet he brings good humour

To a scene of her Armageddon

That recurs more often

During the birth of spring.

Yet the poet will still let

His flow of words bubble

From his soul

Like an awakening spring

And flood his notebook

And cool his physical wounds.

Most good things come in threes

But so do the bad ones too.

THREES.SEERHT

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

What is it why I write?

Is it all our striving to leave behind

Something for future generations?

Is it then – as I have no kids –

The longing to be discovered

As a true artist

Who left behind creations of:

Poetry

Stories

Memoirs

And a new way of addressing

A novel?

Well

Indeed

Besides adventure stories

Thrillers

And memoires

I’ll push on to challenge thoughts

Of contemporaries

That the traditional book is deceased.

Once already it had been stated:

Poetry is dead!

And I challenged it by writing more

And so do my colleagues

And fellow artists.

Long live the BOOK

Long live the art of writing.

BOOK.KOOB

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.

Don’t be intoxicated

By the day of the week

In hearsay

Like Monday is blue

It all depends on you

Not the message from

The herd of men.

People claim anything

You should listen to

Yourself

And sit down for a while

Reflect your innerness.

Think of life as your

Greatest gift

You have to look after

Every day from anew.

Nobody has to tell you

How you should live

Your life.

It’s a great day to look

Forward

To share the fruit of

Your talents

With somebody.

SOMEBODY.YDOBEMOS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’19.