it’s sobering-sad

to have lost a friend

poetess of substance

companion for parts

of a journey thru’ life

upon a blue planet.

yet it makes one striving

for betterment

so much more motivated

if you may fall back on

one person sharing

an artist’s ambition/

motivates/ furthers/

prompts/ stirs and

encourages –

and if you are in the best

of good luck –

you haven’t yet fallen

from the skies of your

artistic cloud

floating in the heavens

of your creative groove.


get going! be prolific!

friends/ good friend/

besides cups of sencha-tea/

your chosen muse!





you are in the league

of lucky people

if you have but one

good friend.

i do not mean friends

you’ll make casually

day by day

or good neighbourly

but somebody there

for you at all times

never shies from any


and we wouldn’t talk of

bringing the skies down

or turn around injustice

around the world

with one single action

following your thoughts

or at the snap of a finger

but we talk about

a continual hanging-on


consensus about most

important matters of

the heart/ soul/ and

actions without words

just like songs without

words/ you’ll feel even

more intensely

when friends meet online/

in every day’s life/

listen to the partner’s need

wishes and actions for

his/her happiness

enjoying each other’s


share disappointments/

pull each other up/

but you’ll all know this

about an ageing poet’s

musings and writes

regular postings as his

time will allow

or as it’ll shrink

even writing/ typing

takes now longer –

but thoughts about life

and living turned sudden

to be crystal clear

all his friends love clarity

he himself loves

sun’s unbridled clarity.





purple blaufränkisch

when finishing a piece of


be it canvas/ drawing/a book

of poetry or prose –

he left behind a piece of


drops of sweat turn into crystals

footprints in nature

forever embedded in trees

that grew upon –

tiredness felt

aftermath of his climax

a slight sense of loss

like after a petite mort –

the inner voice demands

to continue

there’ lots to do still

yet his body protests

takes to the streets of his


while sipping a glass of

purple Blaufränkisch

he’ll recover in body and


constantly in dialogue

with his muse.




tis’ rose she drew

tis’ rose

tis’ rose tis‘ rose

red/ purple/ shines

rolls and flows through

minds along my spines

herself awakened…

a morn’ had opened up

its sleepy eyes

not just one garden

in its corner’s tryst

where none dare to go

amidst strange thistle –

fruit on flapping wings

the dew of kisses trickles

rivulets down cheeks

denuded of innermost

secret thoughts

that spin a bubble

ill wind’s bad breath

ghosts-goat’s hairy feet

stall at the shiny knight’s

shielded body

that protects the budding

rose rose rose

petal dresses yellow/ white

and flames of red and purple

amidst electronic gardens

of pale pink dreamers point

their thorny pikes

never will a petal’ed beauty

ever fade or being pilfered

by any barbaric game

who’ll burn their claws

and goat’s feet

on their glow worm fired


a rose is a rose is a rose

she drew she drew

she drew.



every morn’

every morn‘ gym through

fetching purified water from

the shower head filtered thru’

pebbles like in nature’s pools.

ever sunday morn’ additionally

clean the woodlam floor

that attracts dust like steel shards

to a magnet –

in between brew sencha tea

then clean small-sized carpets-

if you haven’t encountered yet


this’ there the poet exists not

only between his stanzas

but also between noises from

neighbours getting up from

le weekend-celebrations

besides one’s spouse who

enjoys the nagging game

pain in the poet’s right hand

operated on a week ago on

carpel-tunnel syndrome

swooshing cars on main road

sixty yards up from the split

gravel yard

where kids enjoy bike riding

with slides of split flying into

our one step lower ground floor

bedroom sitter

more swooshing cars pass nearer

to lunchtime

hurry to die –

birds have stopped warbling

people freak out behind their

masked faces

the poet writes in spite

every morn’

enjoy your day.




dream 10

for waking of a dream

or daydreaming

this poet would not

discern himself with other

than to keep his muse’s


of an intimate nature of

his heart

closed up and placed

into a chamber of his


just like a man

who places his young bride

into his pocket –

so some folksong goes –

it’s not about possession

but solely protection

whatever one treasures

most –

gold or golden dreams

the most golden

the most precious

great wonders of innerness

happiness’ fruit of longing

in a fall of white gist

imaginary float’s sensation

where demons cannot ever

touch angels

for waking-up not quite yet

from dreams

you keep sliding back into.




chemistry & passion

chemistry & passion

to fall in love over one creative

craft product

sold by the hungry artist

who was there to help her

overcome sadness and depression

an artist knows intuitively lots

and lots about. indeed!

to be committed to sexual love

the artist overpowered by one

decisive oral event

to be his culminating first

be laid like a man

developing a taste for it

apply it later to another woman

as it’s chemistry & passion.

the caring man who placed his

his young wife into his pocket

of course couldn’t keep her there

triangulations seek their victims

for instance: a doc’s prerogative

to fall for his patients?

whatever – man or protector

cannot stop love

in a love triangle one corner loses

or perhaps two will fold

losses are irretrievable

even if an artist will create works

of great art – through pain

a great part of the soul has just

drawn back into its carapace


like a crab into its newfound


shell/ carapace/ protection/

pain forever

chemistry & passion.



two cultures meet

zg-heart 2

viv-elfin of the musical scene

special talent/ dedicated/ ethereal

conscious/ cultural blend/ critical

eyes that’ll look through you

quickly secure a place for you

if you carry yourself a cultural

breeding/ tells you who you are.

‘des gibt’s do ned’ the tipsy woman

from the adjoining table cackles

in basic Viennese dialect

then falls back into high german

coloured by some words tainted

with the local drawl.

the poet talks about his work

asking about her education –

she appears to be uneasy

irritated by the couple’s noisy

silly love-tease talk.

annoyed by fruit-flies chasing

for a sip of wine

the poet touches her arm –

“don’t touch me,” she said as if

stung by a bee

asking for a physical distance

the way of far eastern habits

which is unbearable to the poet

who is not used to behave in

ice-cold indifference

but southern joie du vivre.

could you love somebody and

never touch?

hah! how to dance then?

arms/ legs/ lips/ and penis

cut-off like a tree branch

one huge human sufferer

worthwhile living?

the heart only supported by

a glass of blaufränkischer?

“i hate idiots,” she said

“the world is full of them,”

a voice said.

the poet is silent

‘a tale of two cultures’

he writes.                      zoltanzelan   zjg-poetry’20

med’s blue

le blu

i’ve seen the breeding sun

burn-off your clothes

at the cretan sea


when the poet fell from the

icarian wings

a feather in the cap of apollo’s

wish to keep me reporting

the miracle of love at first sight

while driving up and down

seashores at makrigiallos and

passes to pefki and the place

where kazantzakis showed me

a welcome praise for visiting

his memorial home.

have I found what makes a poet

into a poet? –

it’s been people

people believing in freedom

and in more than that

as entailed in one word:

eleftheria –

i’ve learned

miss it since seven years

but as you can’t put your foot

into the same river twice

the gift of detailed memories

such as a powerful eye of a


longing for the med’s blue

piercing trident into my flesh

spurts of white blood still

bind the soul to land and

sea/ sand/ and ashes/ red clay/

and polished pebbles painted/

beads to play/

faded memories.






les yeux du poete

magenta of the heart

cobalt-blue of light in the soul

spirit of colour-hues

envelopes the floating pair

of soulmates

who left the canvas of chagall

over the roofs of paris

while fuchs loves sulphur-yellow

mornings at villa wagner II vienna

in the bath of his tub’s

marble sculpture with voluptuous

taps like boobs –

in midst blue rays of the poet’s

lonesome soul

frizzles the birth of a point

that grows with a bang from


can you fathom this cobalt-blue


or its height without a horizon

that renders it endless

just like longing

the strongest feeling in love.