no better day than this

albeit some necessary errands

walked vivenot-weg weidling/

a few times

back and forth to dr w’s surgery

certifying him that I’m still alive

required by law for Sanlam in

Cape Town – Afrique du sud –

for receipt of a tiny pension that’ll

accumulate just slowly in a bank

in Gauteng –

I cannot receive in Austria.

hah! What do you think? I have

worked hard as an architect in

a country that treats a gentle poet

for his income so unkindly?

Carl – my engineer-friend I worked

many projects with – meant

I should use it for a return-trip one

sweet summers day, when the cold

northern winds hit central europe.

well –

of course he has a point. I will.

only it’ll take many years to save-up

airfares/ accommodation/ transport/

flowers for the ladies/ presents for

the tour guide / lunches for a

reunion celebration – perhaps it’ll

need another ten visits to dr w’s

surgery along vivenot-weg 

who knows if we’ll be still in a

reasonable condition and blessed

with the spirit of adventure. life.


for now in central europe it’s a

see-saw adventure with obligatory

masks in öffis/ doc’s surgeries/

hospitals – scientifically not proven

to protect that much – but you’ll

know that by now…

the poet takes his Nordic walking

gear and gazes at nature:

indeed/ how beautiful it clothes

itself every year without the services

of a fashion designer. Think of it!

lush variations of green/ blue/ the

poison yellow variations/

it’s soothing to our eyes and you

may touch it all without being

reprimanded to pay a fee – feeling

like a human being again – unbridled.

listen to the ‘Tree of Life’ presentation

well intonated by Klaus Maria Brandauer

famous Austrian actor and director.

all happening ‘Am Himmel’ –

near paradise/ skies above Vienna.

heaven or life?





ZJG Excerpt from Short Stories 2, by Z J Galos on BoD-Books on Demand, Norderstedt, Germany.




The winding road was linked to his thoughts. He loved this place and noticed that he was feeling uprooted again, just as he found the basic roots for a home. Since the last and greatest upheaval of his entire life, where would never be a permanent place for him to set roots again. That was almost a year behind him and was still vivid in his mind. Since he had met Myrta, a young Eurydice, embedded in her mystical presence, her eyes like dusky mirrors of her soul reflecting her being like a painting. In the dusk of its revelation, the pictures of all his Muses melted together into one dot of silver that flowed from the heat of the torch, Myrta was holding close to his heart, turning into a burst of fire that incinerated him at an instant.

But he felt alive and his mind wandered to her. He took her along for an extended walk on the beach and they bathed in the colours of the dissolving sun that melted into the horizon of the gentle sea, like his bracelet she had dunked into the cooling liquid hissing like a snake.

He had visions of her. Was this the return of a vengeful Eurydice who turned into parts of Myrta and wound around his tested heart, to squeeze the spirit of life from all its chambers? Or, was it her disappointment to find only ashes, foregoing a test she had wanted to approve of his new relationship?


As if he had met Anna’s cousin in Myrta, from years back during his time in Athens, with similar tensions and habits that caused him to fall head over heels in love with her. And recently the dark and hot woman from a tavern in a small village with a glorious tree, having come across it through his travels through Crete. Damned! He sensed these women were related. She, an excellent cook of dishes she spiced-up with red peppers from a huge tree nearby, dominating the village square within a decked terrace. She had been flirting with him, some incidental touches and direct approaches quite soon afterward, as she served him a hot stew, Cretan style. “This will spice up your life,” she murmured like Pythia reborn. He knew by instinct that she liked him the same way he liked the peppery food that set him on fire for her. He liked her coincidental brushes and touches, the same way she liked his flirtatious banter. He called her A-2.


To be continued. ZJG-Poetry & Prose-Poetry.

Continue reading


no better day than this

albeit necessary errands

delaying quality time

walked vivenot-weg

again a few times back

and forth to dr w’s surgery

for a paper to be signed

that this poet is still alive

insurance will then pay

as long as I live –

carl said: let it accumulate

In the bank

until it’s viable to travel to

cape town’s waterfront

for now – life in central

europe is a see-saw event

mask wear in öffis and

at doctor’s/ hospitals/

the poet dons his cool

walking gear and takes

to the kahlenberg/ cobenzl

am himmel – tree-of-birth

circle –

and down again

from heaven to earth

through gspöttgraben to

lovely sievering

for a short while in midst

of varied hues of healthy

living greens and trees

felt like a human being

near heaven.




a new day

a fish-woman

within some glorious


a cold breeze penetrates

tee shirt/ shorts

whorls-up a silent protest

on the skin

hair curls up

a gnarling dog stirred-up

‘but what’s this commotion?’

the guard dog of the soul

a fierce looking worrier

with a defending stance

will immediately react

while the poet shifts in his

worn out seat at the Comm’s


sipping his early morning tea

‘all’s quite well –

Fish-Woman of first thoughts

slides about in the sea of

history’s abundant extensions

filled with Water-Art exhibits

the artist dunks his brush into

renders the footprint of his

delicate being.

slow motion renders the

forecourt of his mind

coated in arctic-white clarity.

Art & Words –

a most wondrous portrait will

emerge –

a pretty flower opens its petals

for a new day

and life goes on

in serenest harmony. Water Art


a new day.




the number seven

related to an important

number for living in a

certain culture

or having known a muse

born on 7/7

whatever the primary number

will tell

being born as a/1- related

to the universal sun signs

or being first born and an

only child

growing-up like a blond


on a lonesome beach

on a world-wide search

to find the spot of inspiration

surge among the artist-

challengers arriving

on the dark continent

not recognized by peers

but by poets/artists in midst

the pebble-massed beach

of greek-artistic gatherings

celebrating life

play of colours

juggling words in the dry

mid-air heat

waves of inspired talks

comrades in truth seekers

seven at the muses’ grave.








at 4pm the lights

have been off

all of a sudden

all over our block –

I was told when still

working at my laptop –

only then I noticed

I was on battery-mode


immediately I thought:

the fridge! stocked-up

only yesterday!

light-up the gas-cooker

warm-up lunch over

evaporative steam

cool it down

gave B the melon

eat some berries and


sat then read artmann’s

book on Vienna

before the sky’s dimmer

switch of dusk turned

its universal dial.

Lit a candle placed into

a glass with a motive:

secrets of raphael’s angels –

ok – I’m content with angels

and muses –

then cannot follow-up

sending anna some poetry

or a drawing –

hope not to be misunderstood.

are there still stealthy

get-togethers liked by artists?

Sure – my gutfeel trumpets

But I only asked for piano.

angels.slegna –