the poet had lost the edge

of instant communication

back in times of guns & roses

in gauteng – land of pioneers

afrique du sud.

ten years later on a Wednesday

morn he steps out into a day

emptied of people and deer

lack of empathy and respect

but just don’t take it too hard

on this Weidlingbach trail

try a new one to the world

of Wienerwald inns

thistle’s lush showing harbours

emerald lacquer-finished beetles

sucking sweet-rotten scent.

hinterweidling’s houses lie

already deeply embedded in

the lush green overgrown

valley below –

what trail is this?

marked as a red one

steep like the man who forged

it out of nature –

smooth silken barks of beech

huggable –

roots like steps across the path

pause the hard walk-up

look into the crowns of brother

and sister trees converging.

have you pal tattooed your

fav tree? Wounds heal but

scars remain.

life & death in nature will

confront you fellow wanderer

truth-seeker/ mind cleanser

habsburgwarte/ charming couple

from barcelona in casual talk

comparing notes

poet and teachers

back to brunnstubenweg/


all’s in flux.





the poet on a yellow bench

reflects on his repetitive trip

from weidling station to the

subway station at the city of saints

but then as he runs from B to Ira

from A to Jo

from muse to muse

they all dance in a round dance

schnitzler to zz knew this perhaps

with eyes close shut

and belle du jour

have entertained us with a

traditional theme

in midst of a hot terrace

above the heart of vienna

where the poet’s carapace

lies unblemished in the open

exposed to some vitamin d3.

yes. He fetches Italian-made

fish dishes for the ladies

and salad for himself.

his thoughts caught-up in

the slightly poisoned food

where’s no escape from what

fish swallow.

birds still warble in weidling

horses still neigh at stephansplatz

and the trees shape the wind

the wayward child’s face.






where is god? the poet asks

no satisfactory answers from

intellectuals/ artists/ models/

folk – impossible to ever receive

ending in absurdity.

does god want us to suffer?

c s lewis already extended on it

in oxford

camus – in paris

zjg – in weidling nö.

blocks of granite chiselled to

turn stone into perfect pharaohs

man or woman into god or

marbled goddess.

she comes/ she cleans/

she swears/ she leaves.

were you once hurt deeply?

when mom’ married my dad’s

brother/ but then I didn’t grasp

yet survival.

what drives me out of this

imprisonment of a bedsitter?

it’s suffering from her verbal abuse

meant to counteract pain she

suffers/ it’s not a personal attack.

this ’s love’s many shades?

at one time she looked golden

gilded by a life-spending sun

warming her elongated back

iced by living in these shadows

of a bitter northern land.

is pain part of a distant

happiness lived in the warm

sand of samos?

god might have chiselled the stone

we come from and with every blow

inflicted pain for making us perfect

but we still are far away from that.

the small bit left for perfection/

a big innocent canvas is set aside for

a human being’s creativity –

thus’ art evolved.

art is love

love entails pain.





the lone man’s mobility

on the countryside’s hamlet

depends entirely on a well

working bus system

that’ll take one to the city

but more so on the mood

of its drivers: the friendly/

contentious/ the grumpy/

the funny/ the unreliable/

as well.

on a saturday afternoon

the shown timetable is not


the poet waits at 15:52

and the bus is not arriving.

for god’s sake –

no use to complain –

offices are closed on a saturday

for ‘le weekend’.

now then/ walk a bit to the

next bus stop to kill time/

another bus in 30 minutes/

or else: walk half an hour to

the main road ‘wienerstrasse’

and get main line transport


it’s ok/ if one has nothing much

to carry

but now the poet has a painting

of his artistic endeveours below

his arm

for exhibition at a fashionable

coiffeur’s shop adjoining a

famous landmark

in the heart of vienna.

It’s not important to the vor-

busline organisation but for

the lone poet

or has there been some other



zoltanzelan    zjg-poetry’20.

paradise lost

paradise lost

sexy movie that’s French/

the coiffeur’s vaulted place

where already mozart has

been attended to his curls/

the artist’s paintings hung

very soon on a stark white

wall south-east agreeing with

feng shui/

lost paradise depicted with

the art of artist zg/

manuel the artist of hair will

arrange and honour/

it’s not covid 19 that separates

people through regualtions

but ignorance for genuine art/

does your art smell good?

like freshly baked croissants

at the U4 bakery close by?

like a fresh shirt or underwear?

hey artist zg/

does your carpel syndrome

hinder your freely moving brush

or pencil/ gel-pen/ your slider

visoglide/ your intensely burn

of rendering?

you’ve searched for a used copy

of blumenberg’s biography

extend the imprisoned horizon

increase the hills at the bed-sitter

until a mountain will squash us


but on the faces a smile of knowing

will remain

in this 34 m2 temporary home

where most furniture belongs to

the awkward landlord

but all paintings and books are

zg’s and he shares them with all

his muses and art-interested/

his heart though has flown to the

aegean isles/

the soul of his art reflects what has

been a colourful love/

cat-sighs from the barn of an imago

a woman looking like mom

locked-up by a stepfather’s bad


and lucy/ like anne/ feels sensuous

without a top

touches herself with the pot’s hands

whose mind is afloat in the nearby


his dangling feet extended like

spindly sculptures

cannot tap into the sane water


he’ll run south from an infernal

fire that rages within his carapace

and has gutted all his physical


his mind survived

thanks to the cooling brook.

most of his senses still alive/

paradise though lost.



first time: jägerwiese again

after one year

the poet felt again

well-recovered from his

knee-joint operation

to take on k j grünberger-weg

and make jägerwiese in ¾ hours

from home in picturesque old


he was to be soon in form again

continuing to former cobenzl

the count’s super-positioned

castle/ winery/ and restaurant

at present under a renovation

and reconstruction contract

for coffee and cake at spectacular

views on vienna.

nearby the trail leads to a place

called ‘am himmel’ – near heaven

where you may hear something

about your respective tree of life

related to your date of birth.

helicopter circling is unusual

the police units were searching

for a missing child

perhaps from the nearby school?

down the gspöttgraben to old

sievering’s historical village

meeting a young girl who walked

from döbling to here – good going.

she told me about even narrower

city roads in perchtoldsdorf.

take the bus 39a and change over at

heiligenstadt to the 400 bus to


a great first time round tour

many more to happen soon.



jägerwiese vienna woods



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.