warped

“you have a blue eye”

she said

“oh i thought they both were

green/ brown specks

he replied

“seriously/ somebody hit you?”

“no – i would recall such an

incident!”

“here is a mirror/ look.”

“i can’t see a thing. you must see

colours galore.”

“no/ i think you deny it/ keep

secrets from me…

is it over a woman?”

ha! ha! what is your imagination

doing to you?” he’s surprised.

“now put your new glasses on

and have another look.” she points

to the right eye of the poet

who cannot see anything blue

on his face or his skin.

he makes fun of her.

“ho! ho” – she imitates his laugh

Sarcastically

“you wish to put me on and it

annoys me “ she repeats.

“ridiculous – he replies…

you make a scene for nothing.”

“you are aggressive and a denier

of facts.” she says aloud.

“indeed? i’m also no streetfighter!”

“go – and leave me now

i do not wish to travel home with

an aggressive man.”

“sure – good-bye.” he rises/ pays

the bill for a milk-shake and

ice cream

and leaves for the subway in a

disturbed mood.

no wonder his friend recommended

that she’d see a neurologist.

warped.depraw

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

busride 400

in the upholstered seat

of a 400-bus

that pulls the landscape

left and right

by its long hair

with changing speed

it’ll stir the poet’s thoughts

that percolate like fresh

ground coffee beans

hit by steaming water –

a wondrous day

a spray-painted sky

in pale-blue

at a bus stop the artist

sent-off as a postcard

wake-up dear poet

see the onion-shaped

turret of the hamlet’s

solely church?

it’s high time to prepare

for the exit next.

in a few seconds uphill

the acceleration flat-out

the poet will fall thru’ the

bi-parting doors

and passed two-lane

moving cars of weekenders

from the city

who are used to unusual

events at forgotten hamlets

they’ll stir-up to new life.

the poet has succeeded

to enter his writing pad

and settles down to some

gunpowder-tea

and whole-wheat bites.

busride.edirsub

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

salud

sitting daily on buses and

trains

commuting from village to

city

existing thru’ movement

keep the humour for a friend

the smile that left from our

temporary shelter

appears on the face of a muse

who listens to the whispers

of a breeze

above industrial roofscapes

extending a helping hand

slender fingers that curl around

a virtual image

like pearls around the curves

of her well-shaped neck

and thoughts about a

romantic tete-a-tete

lost

in the dense foliage of tall

smooth-trunked beech trees

close by at geometrical rows

of vineyards

show piece of the vintner

school. prost.

salud.dulas

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

between lives

end of summer and

roadworks aren’t finished

in general –

people commute to work

rush to shop

look sheepishly at one

young people laugh

share cynical remarks

talk shop

play games on their mobile

phones –

life in the city has become

a hoarder of masked persons

less individual expressions

of style/ less affordable garb/

less visitors/shops close early/

healthy food is rare/

fatty and sugary stuff in huge

abundance/ open friendliness

is scarce/ a visible rise in

selfish behaviour.

roadworks everywhere.

the bus station at the node

of the City of Saints

had been moved further

adding awkward crossing

of roads and more distance

between connecting lines

narrow pavements can’t cope

with a two-way people stream

passed waiting passengers.

summer’s end/cool air invades/

between stations/ numbers/

between lives.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

happiness

he settles down to his

restaurant-styled desk

and he tries sorting his

staple of calling cards

thinking of visitors for his

exhibition

that lies in a static state

since april and frozen

since the start of corona.

but then he types some

intimate thoughts

as if he’d do a striptease

for his muse

just like anne did for him

virtually

and if eroticism and faked

climax mix

diluting borders of true

feelings

so it all happens in public

life and in politics.

he settles down to his

writing desk

editing poems he wrote

at a bus stop/ the subway/

waiting between fast food

kiosks

the waft of spices colours

his words

wynton marsalis with his

refined orchestral breeze

lets the words dance along

for a grand ballet/ colours

blotched upon a giant canvas

of imagination

for great happiness.

happiness.ssenippah

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

he/she/it

returning again for

a walk/ not directly/

searching for some

lost time/

at this grey cloud-covered

day/ when few will travel/

train/ bus/ subway/

except for the eco-tourist

who takes the gap

between lockdown and

the easing of pandemic

laws.

the fire’s gone –

an interesting experience

with gender turned women

perhaps the poet has more

experience

sensitive to some layers

of bisexually oriented girls

and women.

the gobi-friend said:

see zeni. my mate –

they are often playing with

men they like

or are attracted to/ but then

having excited their

potential mate/ lay off

as rapidly as possible.

i know/ the poet replied

being sensual doesn’t mean

to be categorized

as a pure he or she

but at times/ just like anne/

they are afraid of commitment

to a man/ and flee for sex

with another woman.

indeed – gobi replied.

my girlfriend hated her

longing for another woman

she had to bear

as she had fallen completely

for a new distinguished man

in her later life

having abstained from sex

with her hubby for 17 years.

ohhm – the poet said

i guess i’ll soon near that

moment myself.

gobi laughed.

na! no way/ you are

a full-bloodied male.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

tears

where i live – the poet

said to his friend –

looking out the window

will not always tell you

the weather condition

around this area of hamlets

strewn about

along the murmuring brook

called Weidlingbach.

the bus that takes you to the

north – not always a pleasant

drive

suddenly a landscape you’ll

hardly recognize

dunked into the eerie look

of condensed fog

at this early September

touching a sad nerve

on the memory of yesterday

when we still younger

filled with fire of adventure

rushing to find out the

results

of one’s expectation

striving for a life in continued

creative mood

ready for a seductive dance

testing limits of physical

endurance

from initial surprises of a game

excitement that harboured

not always good sex

but often a fight

of having missed out in life’s

fruit of holistic happiness

creating a continuation of

one’s life for a next generation.

she cried – the poet said

hot tears of love

rivulets along his chest

imagine!

i still feel the trickle at times.

tears.sraet.

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

soulmate

looking out of my window

at my writing desk

once i’ve recovered of

getting-up to conscious

awareness

but still with cobwebs of

semi-sleep-dreaming

determines to a great deal

the mood i’m entering the

new day in my later life.

quiet sunday morn’s are

not adverse to a poet’s

striving for reporting about

his state of longing

as yet – 

he constantly longs for a

muse

he once felt being close

to his heart/ both/

aesthetically and mentally

related in the choice of

elective affinity/

it’s a natural gift of conscious

selection

finding a potential soulmate

isn’t it?

soulmate.etamluos

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

clarity

a cool mor’n will

wake the man who

felt close to his muse

the night before

a worthwhile thought

a soulmate’s closeness:

pot to artist –

a wondrous feeling of

belonging

artists will have more

appreciation of each

other

even though being

subjects of derision

living on cloud nine –

yet all inhabitants of earth

live on different types of

clouds

just like their personal

beliefs

shaped by their specific

process of upbringing

their genome inheritances.

a cool morn’ still

but it may change later

to a warm afternoon

to an indian summer maybe

just as poet is blessed with

good friends

the kindness of his muse

as he admires her talents

the radiation of her soul

on her face of

gentle appearance

her senses sharpened for

clarity.

cool.looc

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

jockeying for position

between tablets of friends

and handy gadgets of the

next generation

the poet has not found his

adequate space yet

has he not been accepted

as an equivalent help yet

by the secretary-crowd

but that’s also explanatory

as his help to a friend

has been looked upon as

a race/ jockeying for best

positions

especially for the use of space

and a possible habitat for

the procurement of art

or an instant event search

for an ophthalmologic

institute

where bodog roska could

heal mr t’s ailing retina –

so the article of a paper

features a world-renown

ophthalmology-surgeon.

where are the days of

easy going

amidst a world passing

in the fast track?

all’s slowed down since

covid 19 attacked us

but let consciousness

evolve towards nature

badly treated for generation

after generation

now with a high-time of

renewed appreciation.

nature.erutan

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.