Pill Box Mausoleum

She showed me a small

pill box with a glass top –

Look who is inside –

she gleamed

waiting for me to get


As I didn’t she opened

the glass top cover and

removed pink dried buds

of roses:

See who is inside!

I saw a face of a stranger

it’s you she said.

Aha and Tessa and Teddy

and also Francois.

Yes. She held it like a jewel.

See I keep your picture.

Indeed I replied.

She placed the rosebuds

back again.

Buried like in a private

mausoleum. I said.

Don’t say that. She said

and closed the glass lid.

I rose and entered my desk

to type my journal poems.

The following morn’ she

scolded me: I gave you

nice photographs of me

you never carry on you.

I recall I had them in my


I never carry around

with me since I had been

prey to pickpockets twice

but to her I said nothing.




ZJG-POetry ’17.

Salute (From: ZG’s Isfahan Notebook)

The dog days of summer

have attacked us early

with humidity of 90 percent.

It’s not advisable to go outside

or to move at all.

At least obstinacy and aggression

stay somewhat at bay

removed from one’s mind

even for a choleric.

Long live dolce far niente

understood by the busiest

of human bees.

There are endless debates

about dress codes

and burqas don’t show

who is who.

In antiquity a woman was

praised for her Ionic tunic

nobody took offence to see

the wearer’s figure enhanced

a beautiful breast called

only for admiration.

But politics did not rely then

on marketing

but deeds.

After all the ruling attitude

in general was of sane people

whereby religion was purely

a private matter.

Note Mr President.

Take note Your Holiness.

To you all: Beware of the man

with one book.








Peace (From: The 239 Bus Ride Poems)

Even if you offer

to carry her shopping bag

she thanks for your notion

but will not hand you her

bBag carried with shoulder


Adding insult to injury

you’ll forget having been

used for a round of food

as she claimed back

private expenses

you played a part in.

Besides you shouldn’t have

become involved in her

mobile phone problems.

The usually friendly waitress

has changed her attitude

especially as B is appearing

at Stadtboden

one early morning

wishing to stay all day


having developed an allergy

toward Klnbg-Weidling.

Already in the bus

her friendly attitude changes

to slight thorny affront

as long as it will not turn

into blunt aggression.

The artist has shown enough

Goodwill toward a status

Of peace

That’s fragile but worthwhile

To keep.






Day of Upsets (From: The 239 Bus Ride Poems)

Sweet feelings of summer

into the cloudless blue

her denuded message:

Eroticism pure.

But in its sweetened height

a telephone call interrupts.

It’s about a French Press

coffee maker

she wishes to buy –

My god the sped-up life

continues even at

our mature age.

Why does B run with it

stating to have peace

in an eternal sleep?

Sun-flooded City of Saints

U4 will ferry me to

Place du Karl

walk underground to

Opera and meet her

for coffee at Stadtboden –

Floor of the City.

The usual friendly waitress

too busy to come and

serve me coffee

but when B calls her

she responds.

B is upset about her

mobile phone’s IT provider

who rips her off.

Enjoy the Cityfloor’s dusky


and then let’s buy a plunger

or French coffee maker

she concludes.







Number Seven (From: The 239 Bus Ride Poems)

Today’s date reminds me

of another date: 7747 and

if added together 25=7 again

the number Seven emerges

by reduction

already known in Babylon

and ancient Egypt.

Anna used to play the

number game with me

and we enjoyed these

mental exercises.

The sacred number Seven

remained her favourite

as fixed through her birthday.

However 911 became a

symbol for terrorism

but also the date of her


There might have been

a relationship once

between numbers and life

as we tick to mathematics

of the universe

even if we wish to free

our minds from this notion

of dependency.

B in manic mood this morn’

the new French Press

coffee maker has contributed

to a new coffee culture

that we’d lost in the decay

of social Athens.

Perhaps it was time for this

kind of rebirth at our

advancing ageing.





The Artist’s Eye ( From: The 239 Bus Ride Poems)

If Mr T does not amble

down to the A/F today

the artist Z has to go

and visit his domicile.

Bring along DVD’s

letters to prospective


in German and English

plus reference add’s to


postcards from artist A.F’s

drawings and fifteen white

envelopes plus

his fav ice cream.

The heat of the city’s late


radiating from the cobbles

cooks us like fast food

lulls our brains into slumber.

By five pm the artist’s eye

fell into an anthill

the crafty pharmacist’s help

saves it from its itchy-witchy


Puff. Money rules.

I’ll help my street-wise friend

to print some money

even in smaller denominations.

No way cash ‘ll be abandoned

according to him.

You must love what you are

doing. He laughs aloud.

My meager earnings I spend

in the pharmacy and bakery.

God protect and god bless

our Emperor Franz…

The music sounds from a

nearby souvenir shop

selling memorabilia like

hot buns.






Always on the Go

A quick walk uphill

from the gravel yard

of contention.

The unique Arts&Crafts

master towers at his

terrace railing of Top 1.

Tattoos decorate his

arms –

How are you? I greet him.

Good thank you. He replies.

I’m always on the go.

That’s good he sniggers

with his Swiss accent.

Since weeks I try to have

A few words with him

but when I see him I’m poised

to catch the bus.

Till later – ends our standard

Conversation in passing.

I’m rushing to downtown

to accompany Mr T to

the Federal Cahncellery –

The Bundeskanzleramt –

As it means a lot to him

for me perhaps to meet

an art collector or

a friendly person good to


Stay away for another day

from an angered spouse

from an overworked and

busy mechanic

right among these living


The unhealthy mix:


Clogged-up sewer lines.

Pollen-blowing wind.

A sun battling with cold

winds – B complains about.

For the artist: helping the

wealthy with their toils

scrape together hard-earned


Writer  painter  poet  scribe

Friend  companion

PA and sales clerk.

The artist who once designed

and built clinics offices workshops

factories and Executive homes

could adopt his mind and skills

to anything.