This Thursday Morn’

This Thursday morn‘ I woke up

Thirsty and got up

Walked to the kitchen

Opened the top cupboard and

Grabbed a glass

Filled it with Viennese water.

Mhh. Tasty. Perfect. What a treat!

Proudly the mayor of the city

Acclaims Vienna to be the best

City in the world.

No doubt about the spring water

Quality –

The public transport system

With a chance for pensioners to

Pay monthly for a greatly reduced

Yearly ticket. Well done, Vienna!

Besides the malls to amble about

In the core of the city:




Naschmarkt/ Rochusmarkt –

Beisl, Bistro, Eateries, Restaurants,

Argentinian Steakhouses,

Galleries, Museums, Parks and

Walks along the Donaukanal

Chilling out at Tel-Aviv-Beach

Even in winter, now, check-it out.

Site-seeing bus on a city tour.

Coffee houses:

Café Central, for queuing up,

Café Hawelka for the history of

Vienna modern art,

Café Korb for Apfelstrudel

Café Landtmann-Sigmund Freud’s

Favourite haunt,

Cafe Museum-Canetti’s meeting

Place with his collocutor.

Everywhere you’ll turn:

Mozart and Klimt, probably en gross

Commercially abused

Schubert and Schiele

Tuned-up again

Mahler and the Opera house

Human tragedy, gigantic composer

Schönberg, Berg, and Webern,

Triumvirate of 12-tone music.

But then –

Between a Sachertorte with cream

And an Einspänner

Calories are neglected.

This Thursday morn’ I enjoyed

A glass of Viennese tap water

Thinking of all the people

Short of any water.

Back to the drawing board


Count your blessings and draw.

Oh! This dark red-purple rose

Is just fantastic

My Muse received for her birthday.

Look at this: She’s nine and the poet

Will be eight

There are lots of favourable numbers

Between the artist and his Muse

This Thursday morn’.



concerned thoughts

what runs thru‘ your mind

when riding on a noisy bus

shaking along an uneven road

which is badly neglected

at the outskirts of the city?

foremost thoughts

influenced by themes

originating from the news or

the moaning monologues of

one’s spouse

perhaps from complaints from

an elderly man

who was once a good friend

but then all people he’d talked to

have become good friends

the poet calls it: the need of

participation in the life of others

the urge of curiosity and the

extraction of info that leaves

the stranger turning to a friend

completely naked in his personality


the poet analyzed the situation

for years

knowing his friend

he’s still there for him and he asks:

who will be caring for me

when I’m of my friend’s age?

concerned thoughts at an advancing

old age.




The terror of a nightmare

Sweat on one’s forehead

Shakes through the spine

Afraid to rise or go back

To sleep.

Terror for the artist

Rattles his soul


Great works of art with

An after shake-guide

The artist’s hand

That holds the tools for

His art.

There are deep terrors

In every heart buried

Like memorial kernels

Deep down

Just like fynbos-seeds

Buried by ants to survive

Annual bushfires

Come back to new life


The terror followed

By fresh life

Africa of the South

The poet still shaken

By memories of forceful

Removal of his art and his

Library: 1200 books.

A nightmare of the meanest


As it cut his deepest wound

Into his artist’s innermost

Scars that never heal.





The white polyurethane table top

Patches of tomato red place mats

Signal the right spot for bad eyesight

In the later hours of one’s life

When tedious order keeping isn’t

The most desirable undertaking.

The purple rose with its magnificent

Folds is kissable/adorable/and more

Desirable in its strong symbolic


Two boxes of white Italian grapes

A red bottle opener

White serviettes with blotches from

A chocolate or cocoa desert

Ildefonso sweets

Kleenex box

Baldrian drops

A new blue calendar of 2020

A folded sleeve with a blood pressure

Measuring device

A rhomboid-system steak knife

A giant clothing peg snapped upon

A pack of notes

Half a bottle of Römerquelle water

In a plastic bottle

One Punchkrapfen and a chocolate


A box of decaf espresso capsules

A dark blue vase with magnificent

White and coral roses

Sugar container

2 bananas

Honey pot

White lantern

Wooden bread container

Kitchen paper roll

An empire style brass clock

Besides the artist’s tools and pens

His black Berlin-notebook

Mobile telephone –

An exciting composition of

Assembled paraphernalia

Mixed with stuff of condiments

And varied tools for art.





The pet’s Muse calls for him

In his dreams

Stepped over a tolerable


He packed his suitcase and

Fled on winged feet

Then put to rest and sleep by

His welcoming hosting Muse.

The calming atmosphere of a

Quaint retreat

The freedom of thought and

The delicately denuded portrait

On his artistic mind.


Rules and regulations of society

Cast a shadow on the gilded cage

Of free love

Only broken by a tryst

And the smooth turning of this

Dimmer switch of the heart and


The mind already ventured

Far ahead

For a long, long time.

There has to be trust

Believe in sharing

Position one’s heart beyond

Traditional thought processes.

It’ll work.

The poet feels

Knows and believes.






At the age of 79 years

Quality time for the poet

The artist

The writer.

At times the poet seeks a quiet


To write-up some thoughts

Chasing his mind.

The artist works best within

A new environment

Provided by a friend

But more so by his Muse.


To switch off all trivialities

Get into the vacuum of his


When he’s isolated enough

To tap into his Inner Self

The fount of creative youth.

And without any much ado

He’s able to produce new work

His Muse had initiated

To have whatever he’ll draw

For her. Indeed. Happiness

Is to be appreciated for

One’s art.


The notion of it will be extended

By artist by poet or writer

In a constant pursuit of


And then: What about love?

The question asked by somebody

Who has lost his touch.





Getting up at 5:30 into the morn’s

Pitch-black wintry atmosphere

But there’s no snow yet here

Instead a blanket f wet nasty fog

Pulled across from the nearby

Viennese Woods.

‘Why did you get up?’

The poet’s spouse mumbles.

‘Because Vinocour supposed to

Play at 3sat-TV’. He replies

However the performance being


The poet sits down at his laptop

And checks out Lev at a concert

In St Petersburg:

Schumann’s Piano Concerto in F


The day’s morning saved at last

Thanks Internet.

Great stuff to move on to Lester

Lester Young

Oscar Peterson swinging

Whatever suits the morning’s

Creative mood.

Getting up early and feel: Carpe

Carpe diem

Catch the happy moments.





Connection to oneself

Time to look forward

Focus on your future

Don’t detract on negativism


Now of a great necessity –

A wake-up call? –


Finding peace within.

Beautiful energies.

Strength with Soul Power

For a new relationship


Do you know your own


Your inner power with an

Infinitive strength?

There’s doubt and fear

Need for emotional support

And readiness to move on.

What do you face in your

External world?

To master challenges and


Confront your demons

Leading you back to the


Of a structure in life.

Be truthful who you are.




On the third day of January 2020

It hardly feels as New Year

Rather the dried out extension

Of the old one

Which had been drowned in the

Oversupply of quenching that thirst.

Same hangover

Same dissatisfaction of contemp


Same grey days in the Northwest

Hamlet of Weidling

Where the poet should rather enjoy

The aura of famous poets

Who walked the tree-studded


And densely forested paths

Along the blubbering brook.

Bad luck if you live in an area

Outside the city of Vienna

Where local council summons

You to bus fees

Double the ones in Vienna

Albeit the half reduction for

Senior folk

Who had to pay already for

A yearly membership fee.

No mean feat in a social


It’s a fight –

The cast-aside

Educated people share with

The under-privileged

The jobless

The homeless

The day-labourers.

If at least there would be

Willingness to communication

Addressing these important

Issues that seem grossly

Imbalanced all agree.

A healthy New Year to all.

‘See what the new government

Will offer’…

The poet has been told by the

Bus traffic organization.