In the Öffis

An early morn’ as she rises

Let’s me turn in my sleep.

She packs and leaves even

Her coffee I’ve made for her.

She takes words too literally

Even a different opinion

Makes her scream inside

Knifing her delicate stomach.

Life together had been

A ride through hell for her

Besides some glimpses of

Paradisiacal times:



Cape Agalhas



Camps Bay

Clifton Beach 2

Cape Town





Has she forgotten all of it?

Did her nerve-ridden devil

Wipe out all of it?


She still speaks of Edwin

Just as the poet speaks

Of Ana  Anna  Aneta.

Life has rolled on like

Speed trains

We were travelling on

Parallel spurs together

With different expectations.

There were some resting

Places where we would meet

For a glimpse of our journey

We had left behind.






Hot Vapour

The TV has no sound

But if you work creatively

It has no bearing on you at all.


The drawings emerge


Liquid gel


Pure colours like fresh dew

On plants and flowers.


The inner sound is on

There’s no stopping to

The music

There are no soundproof

Chambers of the heart.


You have to heat up water

Add some natural oils and

With hot vapour you’ll

Clear up your lungs

With a first knife cut to

Your throat

Until all settles down

To a sauna-type atmosphere

Covered up with a towel.


You’ll get well soon

You have set your mind on it.





The Don Cossack Choir

The city is still asleep

It’s a day when it closes down

At noon.

Most people prepare for a X-mas

Get together

For in Austria there’s no

Boxing Day like in England

And presents are opened

After an early evening


Mr T

B and the poet

Were yesterday night invited

For a concert by the

Bolshoi Don Cossack Choir.

Mighty voices of opera singers

Let the concert house shake

Move the visitors except for

A local X-mas carol

But welcome for the Russian

Folk songs.

Ce ca.






Body Mind & Art

For days on end the poet

Had lived in seclusion

Body and mind in one

With his art

His soul though lost in the

Sea of X-mas lighting

Conducive to spend one’s

Money at the shops.

The artist’s soul has returned

At night to the warm bed of


Where the batteries of his

Creativity are reloaded.

Yet he wakes to a half-hearted

Welcome of a day

That has not yet decided

To be warm or cold.

The icy grip of the wind has


Children wish for snow.

Days of regular white X-mas

Remain solely embedded in

One’s memory

Like Art & Love.





Hanukah Celebration

The artist had withdrawn

Into the Red Tower recluse

Just a stone throw from

Famous St Stephen’s Cathedral

Where famous festive songs

Underline X-mas celebrations.

Mr T asked the poet to stay

At his side at the Hanukah

Festivities at Esra

Where songs and happy sounds

Tied people together in belief

And social gathering.

Both religious get together

Happiness through communities

Sharpening the senses for their


The artist being an agnostic

Has inserted his prayers into

His canvas.

The poet who observes his

Fellow men and women

Listens to their pleas complaints

And rebellious discussions

Enjoys the manifold of cultural


We all had a special Vodka

From which one cannot get drunk

Carnival donuts and Swiss roulade.

One lady at an adjoining table –

She looks like Aunt Annie –

Speaks continuously to her neighbor

With a preacher’s intensity

Eyes sharpened as if angry

Snake eyes staring at her prey.

A heavy man next to Mr T has

Already eaten all the donuts.

Mrs Black will wrap up the last

Swiss cream roulade

Take it home for her coffee break.

It’s a cold night

A slight drizzle grazes our cheeks.

Time to go home and hearth.

Where is home?





An Ongoing Conflict

There’s an ongoing conflict

Between two strong minds

Staunch individuals at heart.

While the poet investigates

A new venue

Having some relaxation

At a new coffee house

Close to the Red Tower


His spouse denies him

Any other venue than

The one of her own choice.

For him formalistically styled

Places are not important

Neither are the hotspots

Opened up for the number

Of growing tourists

As for his spouse it’s the

Hunger for the city environs

While for the artist it’s his

Inner world

That has golden priority.

So how in the world

Could there ever be harmony?

Individuality has always been

The death for critiqueless

Accommodating others.






A Figure Played On His Mind

The artist cannot find peace of mind

Neither can his spouse

Who suffers at his side.

Since seventeen years Ana’s portrait

Is burned into his mind

As he sets out to take

Words turn into sentences

And a face emerges on the

Double folded page

Of his red notebook.

Her eyes filled with deep passion

Look concerned at the artist

Who creates and recreates

Her face

Furrowed with lines of love

Love strokes with fingers

Hands and body

In a love of burning passion

That masked her face

He had depicted so many

Years after her passing.

More than a figure played

Continually on his mind

A dance of body and soul

In Mystical projections

On his mind.