Quartett of Thoughts

B’s morning song

20150225_093837-1B sings her morning song

praising a life in the sun

we do not have an inkling

of in February’s Weidling

for her life revolves around

her heart’s own drum beat

I suppose to follow.

But yesterday’s fight with

misunderstandings on end

lingers on

besides a night with

interrupted sleep.

Her own demeanor

verbally underlined

with continual comments

questions and answers

oozes her anger if I would

not agree.

Is this a life together?

In my kitchen corner

domain I’ve drawn back

to and regroup to her

manic depressive state.

Since years we would have

already separated

if not for economies and

a roof above our heads:

That is the golden key

in these windswept

Austrian lands.

Welcome to the cage

Of basic survival

Yet another spring is

on its unstoppable way.




The 239 Bus Ride Poems – Virtual Scene

On a pink-clouded day

Along the Danube River

The sun like a huge stage light

Illuminated a virtual scene

Riding along bus 239

I gathered I knew only

As usually quite drab.

What is it on this Wednesday

Morn’ that has influenced

The way I feel?

Perhaps the New Year still

In it’s infancy

But serious thoughts about

Its growing up?

Life might offer a respite

From living in between

Air pollution and the hope

Of an escape to an Island

In the Med.



ZJG-Poetry ’17.tavola armenica (2)

Don’t say a word

Featured Image -- 535

Don’t  say anything.

Don’t say one word

she’s angry inside

bursting forth.

A living volcano

spewing pumice of


like rocks on fire

hitting you

in a life and death

onfrontation at your

mature age

where most of loving folk


To keep the peace I’ll rather

dress and when I miss the bus

I’ll rather walk along the brook

to catch the one to the subway

not minding the thirty minute

walk to reach it.

Don’t say a word

just walk and let my feet digest

all poisoned arrows

that wounded them with

sudden impact.




EVOL Forever

Bodies & Faces 15 Scan.jpg

What in the name of LOVE
Have I done wrong?
The poet cried-out addressing his elusive
Collocutor, Albert.
It’s not the great love
That happened on the side
Became more than just 21 days in a garden
Of sexual bliss
LOVE’s ephemeral
It’s like a spirit of heavenly scents
Capturing one in completeness
Dissolving body and mind
Shooting star of desires
The poet never encountered in a marriage
Of 36 years while travelling on separate
In spite of all talk and intellectual d’accord
The pain for the one is lust and joy for the
Other and the artist remained the nucleus
Who’ll attract the female neutrons
Even if he’d not desired so.
Still after eleven years
Since his great LOVE dissolved into the palm
Of the Great Void
His Muses’ spirit is still felt as a guiding force
Even his spouse senses this eternal LOVE.
Nothing’s ever wrong in the name of LOVE.


she tied me up

She tied me up
with her mental attitudes
gagged me for I am allowed
to write only.
Perhaps she desired BDSM
or any other sexual play
after living together
for 47 years.
She had locked me
into a desk space in the kitchen
where I write my poetry
the floor space where I place
my printed sheets to dry.
But I said nothing as advised
by a sensible woman who cares.
She lives now for her own
pleasures depicting her fashion
while I translate my novels
reliving them again.
Creativity needs personal space
quaint hours of
concentrated efforts and
no disruption of one’s flow.
She tied me up
repeatedly in support of her
own space
and even if I have to respect
her antics
it hurts me physically
but mentally I’m on a flight.
One may tie up
one’s partner for whatever
pleasures one wishes to derive.
One can tie up
a partner physically
and in a fight with anger and
but never tie up one’s creative
one’s free spirit and a joyful




The place where I used to live
confused me
as I stepped out into the cold air
of indifference
that slammed the door of comms.’
into my face
shut out the uncanny collector
of words
or so she said repeatedly
in a continual round dance.
The lack of basic senses
confuses the strongest human
with mysterious misconstruing
that happened when building
the Tower of Babylon
in human relations.
It fell like a house of cards
through man’s arrogance
challenging the gods.
And nobody gave me his hand
to pick me up from the kerb
of cast-out social failures
save for one man.
Although I still could contribute
been enriched through 75 years
of life experience – you know?
Where the boil of dog days
left many wanderers stranded
on endless highways
to seek a better life ahead and
many will make it far better,
than the people of Jewish faith
who froze to death or were killed
during the Death March in 1945
in the Polish Woods
eliminated as witnesses to the
pogrom at Auschwitz-Birkenau
don’t you know?
At least education should have
done its duties long time ago.
However now the people line up
patiently along main roads
as Greeks Macedonians Hungarians
and Austrians help the vast stream
of mainly Syrian refugees along.
Has the European community
not yet woken up to a human
time bomb
or has bureaucracy again
shown its indifferent face?
The place I used to live
confuses me
although some apparently
poor folk
took all our possessions
earned all during our lives
be it in Africa
or be it in Greece
referred to as Greek tragedy.
A great social consciousness
exists in Austria Germany
Denmark Norway and Iceland.
Perhaps more countries will
and soon the European dream
to unite in spirit and deed
will come to be true and
not remain as an ideal thought
printed upon durable paper.

ZJG-Poetry’15.Bodies & Faces 13 Scan (3)

Deep there-under

Deep blue there-under.

She finds her life as stress
In continuous mode
without a brake she’d afford
caught in a verbal labyrinth
that reflects her state of mind
deep ambiguity within her
a manic depressive prison
while the poet is hammered
suffering’s a new dimension
yet he’ll not leave her
for her mom made him stay
midst a neon-green splash
of promise to see them right:
Selling off inheritances
living comfortably for a while
buy furs and jewels
having once lived through
an armed robbery in Jo’burg
traveling thru Israel
for personal healing.
compose poetry as a ritual
live in the subconscious
in the deep blue


.Blue Nites 15 Scan

Milestone event

milestone event poem

milestone event poem

Milestone event.

One fatal trip or would
you say: eventful rather
a milestone event
companions with equal
minded spirits
hands down beaten hearts
what else will count
in a world of grabber teams
nurtured by the power-hungry
mutilating in front of many
millions of eyes.
Art misunderstood as blood
but in one fortunate moment
lifting his arms and legs
he saved his friend on a
grey day
in midst of milling masses.
Good fortune for the artist

mass-slaughtering the public
the smart exhibitor
the humans and dancers
with spirit and flesh
resurrecting souls for
a common cause:
To push aside dishonesty
create need for ingenuity
and take in the great thirst
like high-altitude water.


Summer Solistice by zoltan zelan


Summer Solstice (take 02)

The day started with music from speakers

afar, vibes that move the leaves of the

magnolia tree in the front garden

shaping an image of her young and ready

for turning into a well-heeled woman

friend and lover alternating at times

if mind, body and soul will ask.

Madmen shout and blast gas canisters

against the growing tree of people

who defy pushed into subservience

giving freedom the sap of their leaves

napoleon, hitler, assad, whatever

history shows as its grim repeat with

black, red green and yellow seeds.

This, my beloved muse great friend

one day to the next we’d be caught

in the city’s magic acropolis of riches

lying just below its marbled veneer

of palimpsest emotions gentle probes

at first soft pushes of first digging

all the way to its pulses’ throbbing.

Sister temple lights through glass

marble, concrete its core of faces

figures shaping statues in our minds

their shells becoming flesh and blood

high art that holds us close, covered

with the shields of fateful lovers

red-hot sun and cool-blue moon.

Zoltan Zelan