Wednesday morn‘ so quaint

Waking from a dream of lovely


Dancing figurines in exquisite


Nutcracker with contemp

Costumes and lovely gear

Tchaikovsky’s music forever

Waltzes the poet out of bed

Coffee and panettone

Tea and nuts with coconut


Oats and honey –

Treat for all dancing spirits

‘Up the wall and on the ceiling’

How wonderful to dream.

Let go of verbal feud

Observe minutes of world wide


The Arts as mediator between

All people

Enhancing of the peaceful

Life’s harmonious triad:

Body Mind and Soul.

Away from noisy crowds

With tin-drum chatter and

Opinionated minds

Structured by the dictations

Of the Ruthless

The dark horses against the

White of Light.

Wednesday morn’.

X-mas Day.




December 24

The shops are filled with


The air saturated with smells

Of food


And cinnamon cookies

Shopping for the lunch


Preparations country-wide


Worldwide for many

At least where Western

Values and tradition will

Still be celebrated.

Dogs and kids

The elderly persons


The poet’s spouse in a

Pensive mood

The poet- always felt


But never lonely

It’s part of writer’s make-up

Even sitting in midst of

Chatter at Castelletto’s Café

Sounds of numerous languages

Peace and joy to all.

December 24.




On a wonderful Sunday morn’

When B+Z are waking peacefully

Listening to Mariss Jansons

In Tokyo. Japan.

‘Music was always giving me hope

To carry on living’. Said B.

‘The healer that soothed the

Roughed-up cockles of my heart

And the inspiration for my

Soulful being

In this roughage of a rough world!’

‘I know.

And I’m glad you’ve recovered

From the nightmares of losing

Our life’s savings and all the

Cultural collections

In our musical DVD’s and

All our ART

Clothes and memorabilia

My treasured collections for

My memoir writing’. Z added.

He sat down after a common


Listening to the fine swinging

Music of Oscar Peterson

While he composed the new

Printing block for his next novel:

‘Zora’s Mistake’.

‘Thanks for the powers above

That rule the Universe.

To let us have our talents to

Use’. Z said.

‘For you are interested in

Classical Music and Opera

And I –

Who is creative with writing

And Fine Arts

On a wonderful Sunday morn’

When Body and Soul relate

In harmony in each of us

To each other.





His mind-flights stir in him

Enhanced by the absence of his Muse

A series of lines and imaginary shapes

He hastens to place on a sheet of paper

Into his black & silver journal

While he sits back and recalls the

Lovemaking of last night.

In a breathless wrangle with his dark

Angel or Muse or the love she’d

Created in his last poetic legend.

His mouth open. Dry. Gasping.

His hands fastening on the body of

His beloved in a sea of a warm and

Pleasurable spring.

Waking to a strange noise

Lying across in the wide bed

A neck-roll between his thighs

Just like a body…

He’d check his bed and the cushions

Spread around

But the sleeping partner gone.


How a full moon would beam down

His imaginary dream of love

He’d probably watched on arte

Erotic scenes of a French movie

What else?

Has predictions of his Muse come


She’d promised to keep him going

Declaring him a poet of love

In a Café’s first floor at Mitrepoleos


Twenty-one years ago.

It seems all not real now.

But also not all born in his






What do you think of your present

Art form?

Drawing like Tintoretto/ Vedova and

ZG as the extension?


It’s not at all important how one’s

Art develops

As all artists have an inner relationship

With one of the Greats of Art

Like Tintoretto had with Michelangelo

And Vedova had with Tintoretto.

But most importantly ZG has –

Besides an artist’s capabilities –

The antennae of sensibilities and

He has tuned into the wavelength

Of his Muse

Whose personal habitat he was

Encouraged to enter

Like a series of touches he had dreamt

Of while asleep

One her soft-padded couch

A bed of green in midst the garden

Of his mind

Where he – most vulnerable to the

Aura of his Muse –

Saw her image stepping from the


Of his artist-protagonist

To lift him up to his self-realization

The Kiss of Death –

A kiss of another life.

Is love death?

The heavenly gardens of creativity


With a virtual key of his Muse.





Easy Sunday morn’ lie-in

Music with a life-docu

Of Mariss Jansen.

The poet called his spouse

To share with her more


About famous conductors

The gripping story of a most

Talented man

Living for Classical Music.

Then some talk about recent


It’ll be still an ongoing love

Of poet and his fashion-

Designing spouse

Albeit the stressful life at

Their mature age

Yet this had been neither


Nor foreseen.

Just now Mr T called for some

Help and the poet filled his

Plastic tube with medication

Boiled some water in the kettle

And prepared instant coffee

For him

Green tea for himself.

Easy Sunday morn’

The music has ended

It’s all quiet for now

But for the ticking noises

Of the wall clock…

Time for reflections

Sit back

Take the velvet black and

Silver notebook

Draw. Write.


Into this seventh of December

Cold wet grey clouded Saturday

Thoughts have chased some scenes

Of the play of life.

Incendiary to friend

Muse and spouse at times.

How often have we in families

Questioned the role play of


And then during the good life

Pushed the upsetting stumbles

Vehemently aside

While life had decided to push

Us around

Like flotsam on the sea of

Never-ending sailing

Original family ties lost

Yet experiencing new extended


One never had thought existed.

Into this seventh day December

When the poet counts his


Protected by an aura of well-


He’ll care for an elderly friend

And extend his own protective

Umbrella to him

On this cold wet grey and

Clouded Saturday.

The glow of love

His Muse bestowed on him.