My dear spouse and

Best friend B:

You know me apparently

So well

Over 51years of staying


Having had our best times

In the first ten years of our

Relationship and then

Having experienced the

‘Dark Continent’ together

Enjoyed the lands and game

The colourful spectrum of

People and their varied fare.

Weathered many storms of

Outer and inner causes

Escaped in time the senseless

Slaughter of minority people

Women and children

Celebrated the poet’s Fine Art

Creations in Athens.

I thank you for leaving me

An artist’s free space and

The love of a Muse.

My dear B. This is in memory

Of peaceful togetherness

In a place pushed onto us

Thro’ political constraints

Yet we’ll endure.

Two strong-willed artists

Hungry for freedom.




Jokes & Dreams

Mr P from Germany

Entertains Mr T with his

Innumerable jokes.

Both laugh until tears

Well from their eyes.


The poet sips from his

Cup of green tea

And at times laughs at

One of the more clever


But most importantly

It’s necessary

That Mr T is entertained

Begins to relax and

Kept in a good mood

Overcoming his neuro-


Besides. Mr T entertains

Us all back with the

Storytelling of his dreams.

Jokes and Dreams.




There she was in front of me:

Inga –

The dusky beauty from the

Eastern globe

I used to call her Georgia

The same name song befitting

Her gentle way of a healing




I had intended to call her

Months ago.

I hung on to her face

Something still left from

That original gut-feeling of a

Matching chemistry.


I was the last patient

Walked to the bus station

Asked Georgia if she’d take

The bus.

‘Usually’. She said. ‘But not


Well. Who knows

What could have developed

From our conversation





Zed & Ay

For eight decades

Life ticks off


At times adventures

Seem the worthwhile

Thing to do.

Yet when young

Your fall means to get up

And dust yourself off.

Love‘s a great game

The hunter becomes

The hunted in the end.

Experienced women

Will show you sweet treats

Gardens of joy and lust.

In mid-life finally

All professional work means

To reach the top in the

Art of Building.

Then as tragedies strike

Spouse’s series of operations

Will set back a family life.

Diving into ART as soon

As loss of building work cuts

Deep into self-assurance.

LOVE. Mature love overflies

All life’s problems and

Creativity takes off.

This Saturn-rocket catapults

Your artistic talents into

A universal happening.

All’s short lived but love

Muse Athens remains

A tactile passion replay.

Zed the ZED and

Ay the AY.




Cellular Life

Incredible circumstances

Delay the poet’s

Continuous striving to get

His poetry book published.

Writing time – Bus rides

The U-Bahn time

Waiting for the return


To the outskirts of Vienna.

A traffic system that’s

Reaching all suburbs

But some more effectively

Than others.

Wake – B watches the news

Quite depressing in all.

Take a small cup

Of ‘Harvest Moon’ and nuts

Chia seeds and

Some Greek honey.

For a while my concentration


My friend says it comes from

Too much masturbation.

My common sense bluffed

By new ideas for a poem

I forgot my linen bag with my


But have taken my Samsonite

Bag on wheels.


I had my cellular phone with me

And though I travelled two

Stations too far at first

The picture of Praterstrasse

Appeared in front of me

Haven’t travelled to this spot

Of town for some time.

Yet the vision of an autumn

Alley with its plane trees

Stood vividly in front of me.


Now I was right.

Damn. My cellular phone

Has to stay at least two days

With the Samsung company.

My old Nokia dead.


No communication.

No music.

No time piece.

And no WhatsApp.

No camera.

I’m cut off from my usual

World I’m living in

Assessing now its weight

Of importance.






She misunderstands

The poet’s plan and research

For a change of domicile

Blaming the Internet for


Working herself up for

No reason.

Like Mr T she intends

To control all her partner’s


For a common goal in mind

Of the poet’s way forward.

The insignificant things

Will in the end mean

A crash

For any fruitful dialogue

Nurturing distrust.

For the wing flaps of butterflies

Could well create a storm.





The spirits of the night

Will appear at times of

Creative activities

The flow of poetry out of

A nutshell of dreams

The artist’s yearning for

His Muse

Will slip like a pen knife

Between its seams

To crack it open.

Crack. Crack.

The veil of forgetfulness


Her slick bodylines move

In a seductive dance

So touchable

So tactile

Instant lovemaking –

The artist’s virile present

From the Gods.

An extraordinary walk

In the gardens of

Love & Creation.





MR.T: Friend and artist of survival

Art promotor

Administrator of his dad’s

Artistic oeuvre

Avid story teller

Famous for his jokes

In line with his joie du vivre.

‘Naturally I dream also every night’

He quips

Telling us about his adventurous

Dreams of a romantic nature

Drawn to a bevy of beauties

In his heyday

He still remembers his first


The poet listens and remembers

Himself his first love and the

Tragedy of love and deceit.

Talking Love and Dreams by Mr T

Will perspire as Love & Art with

His artist friend

Part of his own life.

‘I’ve noticed your sketches have

Become dark’

Mr T says.

‘Indeed.’ The artist’s voice replies

‘They come from the dark and then

Take shape!’

Mr T is an astute observer.

‘Something I’ve tended to

Without noticing it in detail

Although in the creative act

I do not see

I just act on the drawing of the

Mirror image in my innermost


The artist in me transforms.




Change of Scene

Thrown out of a familiar


Even if the new one to live in

For a week’s time

Is somewhat known.

Yet at the day of travel

One feels disorientated

But had not imagined it would

Amount to such feelings

But soon all’s well

When two friends meet again.

Stories from yesteryear exchanged

Watching each other will be

Not a cause for discomfort

But to a humane responsibility

For the friend’s friend

An elderly man

Quirky and funny

Who has to keep to a strict routine

Taking his specific medication.

Intuitively the artist in you awakes

And he intends to draw a portrait

Of his friend

He depicts as Mr T

Who will be 85 at the end of the


The artist races to boesner’s art shop

In Simmering

To purchase a watercolour block

And ballpoint pens as tools

For his technique of drawing:

Monographic Art

As he invented it

Since illustrating ‘The King of Ice’.

Change of scene is stirring





What kind of guy is that?

Knocking a man of Jewish belief

Frightening him to death

Braking his nose?

What kind of an oak is that?

Can’t be called a man

Reminds the poet of his Grandpa

Who had been attacked on his way

Home early evening

By the local pharmacist’s henchmen.

As he fell down the brooks ravine

His temple broken

Meant his death. 1944.

History aiming for a replay?

Vienna be ashamed

Following close after Halle

Must we all just sitting back

While disrespect and violence

Of man against man becomes

Frequent news

Only few people care about?

I recall the importance of


Coming myself from a sheltered


The question: Which stable are

You from? Has profound meaning

Especially in the Age of General

Disrespect. To say the least.