A morning’s offering

Of brilliant sun and skies

Most suited for a swift

Nordic Walking tour

The poet driven by his pride

To publish his literary efforts

Had been feeling abandoned

By fate’s abduction of his Muse

In an environment

He has been destined to undergo

The heights and lows of a love

No man has ever been overcome

With only one song

Only one dance

Only one tear

One crack of the heart.

The poet has been steeled by


That strengthened his ailing back

As he bends down and writes

For a world-wide readership

Of a few loyal fans

Interested humans in his art.





A beautiful day with the sun


disturbed like a shining artist

by curtains of clouds

drawn close by jealous forces

moving rapidly towards the

famous Kahlenberg mountain

the muggy air suggests a storm

will be arriving here soon

but Superman Nature decides

otherwise – by the drop of a hat

let a few huge drops of heavenly

water graze our heated faces.

The drops are a welcome warm

shower for the poet on foot

to collect a gas cooker for heating-up

some charcoal cubes that should

burn in a metal vessel some cleansing

incense/ refresh our clothing.

the woods nearby

The dew aplenty.

The drying up so slow.

For nourishment : a selection

of colourful berries / blue/ red/

amber/ green speckled.

For the soul: Poetry that moves

and stirs up once’s skin.

Skin stirer.



Opera Cafe

You can’t write like before: PITOI –

Poetry in Times of Isolation –

as it is now with half-half measures

in limbo – many still wear masks


However / In bus & train/ tram and

subway – we call here: THE ÖFFIS –

it’s still obligatory and punishable

as papers state some unheroic cases.

Fear has been the strongest tool

in manipulating the people / but then

so was good dictatorship ruling to

their benefit.

there’s a fine line between wise and mad

as well between laws for the benefit of

people / or for the manipulators.

however/ the poet commutes to town

not for pleasure but for the prospect

of staging a possible presentation and

who knows one of these rainy summer’s

days it might be happening – what did

the young upcoming director of artistic

movies say? It’ll be successful or a flop.

For now a good-bye drink at the Opera Cafe

Cafe de’l Opera Vienne / OH what a great loss

It’ll be if their doors will close forever

by morrow.

Until then – cheers!








For years he tried to hang

His painting on the only wall space

Between the glazed entrance door

And an oversized window.

Then as his spouse had objected

To his selection of his contemp art

He turned suddenly numb.

Tempus fugit.

Life went on.

Here/ the artist and poet/

There/ the fashionista and spouse

At convenience.

Health problems can be a stumbling


But overcome –

Willpower’s a wonder tool.

Finally his spouse agreed to hang

One of his paintings

Due to her friend thinking that

It’s great what her other part does.

The painting in question

That had suffered with a story of

Lost and found

Had suddenly caused a positive pulse

Will it then last on this wall?

Could it fall eventually?





There in the inert earth

Lies no boredom

Albeit the dead stillness

Just before a storm.

There’s no sand at present

That blinds your eyes

But there’s a sudden outcry

A lyrical concert that explodes

At times

Red rocket taking off into the

Deepest blue

Music with sudden pulsing

In the clouds

Orange-red formations of

Sunrays in double reflections

There’s only love yet in rashly

Meeting minds

Invisible hands electric

Allusions of high desire

Picking your clothes

As if a garden of mature

Rose petals in full bloom

Messages in the bees erratic

Crossroad’s flight

The city’s air laden with

Sweet promises of Jasmin scent

From your imaginary Muse.





Morn‘ that feels like

A ride on undulated

Cushions of land:

Remarks of people’s

Bad deeds

Sting like thistle on the

Poet’s being/

Warm water splashed on

The face

Will dilute bad news

Soften-up the acceptance


Of new world slavery.

But/ as soon as he places

The Moroccan-green tea

Into the stl/stl sieve insert

Into the Pyrex glass-teapot

Made in China/

The pouring ritual of hot water

Brings out the first great scents

He is keen to smell above all/

While the poet types his journal

The sulphuric green tea dissipates

Into the pot/

Colouring the water in ongoing

Hues of amber colour blends.

His taste buds rise to welcome

The first tangy taste of the

Golden brew.

Now then/ he muses / morning

Has arrived finally in style/

Musing with cups of /the verde


Then some more typing

And a look at his latest artwork

To be framed and hung in their

Living area/ but an input for the

Coloured passe-partout by his

Spouse of green beginnings

Who’ll choose.

ART: CUSHION for his soul.



Morn’ Eight

Morn’ eight: she urged me to clean our

Bedsitter flat in Weidling.

“Don’t go walking before!” She insisted.

Well/ It’s my duty this month of June

To work up an anger toward dust/ grime/

Polluted air

Finished by nine donned gear quickly

Scratched the corner at Vivenot Bridge

Nordic Walking rhythm keeps me going

For miles/ I thought.

But then/ Will not overdo it after one year

Of a brake

Nursing my bionic knee joint.

Yet/ Enthusiasm is all that counts

For now to find a location in Kierling.

A quick descent down the city’s business

District towards the road to the ferry boat.

The access road is not very interesting

But OK for tagging along and improve

Your walking technique.

On arrival at the ‘Ufer Café’ with its steel

Sculptures by an artist

Decorated with strong red rust

The view towards Korneuburg across the

River Danube is sitting well on one’s

Tested mind.

The boat arrives and cars and people with

Bikes move on and leave to the other side

Of this unusual spot

While I consider to walk next time from

Weidling to here/ take the boat and head

For a check-up at the hospital.

Back along the Danube’s eastern flow

The wind increased blowing my hair

Like a sail. There/ A spot to rest/ drink tea

Watch the boats go by and dream about

The Danube-elfin to meet perhaps one day.

Change to a long sleeved shirt at a tree-seat

Pick-up a hand sized stone/ well rounded flat

I’ll use as a paper weight/ I mused.

Sitting at the bus stop/ resting after three

Hours of good walking/ time to have

Something wholesome to eat.





Evila in Med’s Blue


Lost in gardens

Of mountainous

Pink Floyd music

King of Ice’s magical

Crystallized life-scapes

The poet’s soul froze in.

From white stark and

Icicle wonders

There’s a long walk to


Ithaka’s bird-woman

Once a beloved calypso

The wanderer learned

To love.

Now past seventeen years

Don’t fear the Lystrygonians/


Wild Poseidon/

Float on your belief of the

Med’s Blue.

Athens’s Zappeion’s green

Patch of heavenly relief –

Athena’s Delta –

Between Lycobettus and

The ‘Sacred Rock’.

Karpathos-flight to Olymbos

Kriti of Fate as for the poet’s

Roots near Heraklion.

Karpathos of peace reflected

As an act of faith.

Zakynthos of wondrous

Woman in an olive groove

Anna’s overlays of silken

Dragonfly wings

Colours this genuine artist

Will subconsciously planting

Like the poet’s words

With trees designed as being

Once originating from ONE

Olive tree.

Tree of love

Love is Art.

Where hearts always grow…