Venice, the daughter of the sea
Winding paths, waterways or cobblestones roads
Rulers of the renaissance, noblemen would be
Her navy full of conquests, her triumphs all would see
From nobility rose, a woman fair
Her life a whirlwind, with her share of despair
Banished from Venice, for daring to speak
Her desires and wit, did many a man seek
The golden rose the pope did give
As she fled to Florence, so young and deceived
Her strength in spirit and a mind so refined
Her friend Marco, the captain, with whom she dined
He parted his wisdom as best he could
He sailed victorious, for Bianca he should
His secret was safe out on the seas
Which is why he and Bianca, could never be
Her royal blood would keep her in stead
As nobility in Florence would turn their heads
Francesco indeed would commission a palazzo
For Bianca his mistress, in waiting, his queen
The Grand Duchy of Florence, all powers bestowed
A seeker of knowledge, of wisdom composed
His Austrian wife, alone, cold and barren
Could not compete, with his love yet to be
They danced, they confided, in each they held
A love of intellect, beauty and lust to be feld
And sadly, one day, the enemies of Venice
Plotted and schemed to bring about a demise
The poison was swift, and an era did end
In a villa in Florence, Francesco was dead
Bianca his love, her beauty unblemished
Fell by his side, and whispered to thee
My dear, my love, it was meant to be
Bianca Cappello (1548 – 17 October 1587)
Note: OK OK I invented 1 new word, that's what poets do
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013
What Kind of People Are We
In a Shakespearean sense of tragedy and doubt the well-used
“To Be or Not To Be” from Hamlet is not the question I shall
discuss in this narrative. Rather, I shall consider a few things
concerning the current Middle Eastern and European migrant
situation that has riveted the attention of the countries in those
regions as well as the rest of the world. And it’s my opportunity
to reflect on some of the things that have occurred (and are still
occurring right now), that I find quite troubling and morally
offensive to me as concerned person and citizen.
As a writer and poet, and as a moral human being, I can say
that I was truly shocked at the sight of an innocent, young Syrian
refugee boy named “Aylan Kurdi,” who had drowned and was lying
face down on a Turkish beach near a resort with his head turned
slightly on its right side, as the ebb and flow of the salted waves
pushed and pulled on his little body. A real tragedy for sure that
might have been prevented, if humane, responsible, and responsive
migrant immigration policies had been in place so his father
would not have been compelled to put his wife and both of his
sons—who all drowned together—on that fateful boat at the very
mercy of ruthless and evil human traffic smugglers.
The horrendous scenes played over and over on the 24-hour news
cycle of the migrants and their innocent children from Syria, Iraq,
Turkey, Afghanistan, and other countries being treated like cattle
(or even less than cattle), and indiscriminately pushed around and
tear-gassed by unfriendly and unwelcoming jack-booted Hungarian
Rendorség (Police) were certainly most shocking and disgustingly
revulsive by both their malicious tenor and insidious intent. The
actions also of some right-wing Hungarian demonstrators hurling
loud and abusive comments at the refugees was also quite tragic
and disturbing. I found the actions of the Hungarian Police under
the direction of Prime Minister Viktor Orban to be similarly
reminiscent of the actions of Hitler’s Gestapo and Sturmabteilung
or the SA Troops after 1933 in Nazi Germany. Shame on them!
Shame on them! This is the same old tired bigotry and stupidity
on display today.
Despite these despicable actions of the Hungarian Police and many
of Mr. Orban’s governmental officials, a number of Hungarian
citizens still showed their kindness and humanity in helping the
migrants at various junctures on the autobahn as they trekked
toward the Austrian border in route ultimately to Germany. This
caught my obvious attention as well.
For me, the “so-what?” here turns ultimately upon the following
philosophical and human question: “What Kind of People Are We?”
The migrant problem as we know is largely the result of the massive
displacement of people that has occurred (and is still occurring) in
in the war-torn countries in the Middle East and in certain areas of
Southeast Asia. This tragedy is one of many of our world’s current
and future 21st-century challenges. How each of us as “concerned
citizens,” in consonance with the policies and actions of the various
governments in the countries we each live under, will certainly
play a role in reflecting in the end the kind of people we really are.
For me, the nationalistic actions of the right-wing parties and
extremists, in many countries (including the United States) and
particularly now in Europe, provide no real solution at all, and
become a convenient excuse for many people to forsake their
conscience and basic humanity—and to stick their heads in the
sand like a bunch of frightful ostriches lost in the reveries of
their hate and prejudice, and disgraceful cowardice! There can
be no apology and justification for this ever! This type of
behavior is a deep-seated cancer ever-lurking in the genes of
our human society and in mankind’s soul—awaiting its chance
to metastasize and reek its horrible destruction upon its victims.
The point I’m driving at is this: The current responsible actions
of a number of world leaders, to particularly highlight those of
the European Union, appear to be taking several of the right steps
in helping these refugee migrants and their families undergoing
this terrible strife forced upon them by the tyranny of war and the
resultant poverty and dislocation. Being stupid, hateful, and clearly
prejudiced as some people and certain governmental leaders are in
our global community today is not the answer and it never will be!
To people who really do care about this ongoing migrant tragedy,
it’s time to rally and act in support of local, regional, and worldwide
efforts to help these migrant people and their families so afflicted
by poverty, disease, war, injury, death, and territorial displacement.
For me, I desire to make my voice heard loud and clear as a writer,
poet, and concerned world citizen on this matter and in my own
most humble way. Keep in mind that many of us are descendants
of families who at one time or another were migrants from other
countries escaping the whip and lash of cruel dictators and their
terrible regimes masquerading as legitimate governments of the
In my estimation, the kind of people we should be or aspire to be
are those who relish the winds of freedom, the certainty of justice,
the spirit of friendship, the values of fairness and fair play, the
magnificence of humanity, the desire for cultural diversity and
inclusion, and the love of our fellow man under the very eyes
of God Himself.
What kind of people are we? With this, I rest my case.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
September 11, 2015 (Narrative)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.
A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.
My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.
He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”
He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”
While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”
As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on. My hands were steady.
Yellow with black dots and a weed guard.
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.
As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.
So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes.
About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”
When the Bass broke water, it scared me.
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook! Set the hook!”
When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.
My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.
“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez. Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed,
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”
He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready. This is the part that’s great.
I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”
Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.
My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”
“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”
“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…
but for the great stories we get.”
I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.
You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.
They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”
Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014
Otto`s life is not
Grue is his banner
left by his
blue-eyed Brit mom
left long by one of
those hated South
His guilty pleasures
in Green Street have
no recognition like
many such Aussies in
Yet he shovels the
stake of hatred and
As if sheer pain as
tears digged large
A pineapple in
search of an apple
lurking in the dark
reality of snark and
A noir youth
So is his life-an
hackneyed into codes
they call secularism
His way melds
through smog hogs he
hoggard for heydays
eats grief, drinks
Flowers though bloom
on his washed soil
and again bailiffs
Anacronym to London
No star and no moon
and no jack in the
trade that allured
From marijuana to
cocaine he manscaped
Years unheard he
found at last his
living with his
Andalusian mare in
the city of angels
undermined him once
are now just
mere dissidents of
from cartrels in
Cuba to brothels in
to escorts in
Dominican his blood
strengthened in the
verizon of Panama
Enter the new duel
from drugs to
though he remained
dormant in all those
and long drive for
Though warned and
jailed and derailed
a few times from Sao
Paolo to San Antonio
Unfazed a prophetic
man for some
he found new breasts
to grab somebody -a
his broken glass
Women are always
announced him in
Moscow after a trail
of long bellowing
Mistaken and misled
Chillax mood in
Russian vodka and
Austrian redbull and
A highwayman is he
now way away his
breath from their
In New York he bonks
in those trader`s
Brunch with Japan
and now a doting
father of two
Beyond every hatred
what started a
Thanksgivukkah and a
regular blogger in
Copyright © Amit Ray | Year Posted 2014
SYLVIA WAS AN ‘A’ STUDENT
and Alpha woman
The Abyss was bared, and malevolently yawning,
The deep black pit of endless loss to rile
You, and you didn’t know the world was turning;
And you saw the winter trees in mourning
You weren’t short-changed on their willing lack of guile
In the Apollonian myth - your soul was burning.
Telling time too true, that spring was coming,
But you let the yellow sorrow of your bile
Flood the Arcadian dark your soul was scorning-
So, you died, without ever learning
That your Attic grace would give time its shining dial,
You did not know it then, but the world was turning,
The aureole of dawn crept in, to us a warning
We only have our children for a while
The Austrian angst in which your soul was burning,
The sense of happiness missing you by a mile –
In our Aphasian gloom, your words are burning
Up rivers, mountains, roads, with a killing style –
You didn’t know it then, but the world was yearning.
FROM IN MEMORY OF HER 2004, 2008
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2016
Lying in a verdant spring field,
scents of fruit and roses permeate the air;
thoughts of you are never far.
They caress like the sun's warm rays,
bringing a suffusion of joy to my heart.
The hum of occasional automobiles
blend with the drone of honey bees
lulling my senses like a Gregorian chant
in an Austrian monastery.
You and nature have become
my tenants of religion,
calming my restless spirit;
soothing my soul,
until I am a placid lake
soaking in all that is you.
Copyright © Jaycee Cervenka | Year Posted 2015
Visions of Europe
Alizee is dead to me
Indila can eat all of Paris
She can never have even an ounce of me
My heart belongs to France
Moi et France took a vacation to Austria
Where I met my new love, I call her Zoe!
We sing and we sing, and even more
With mi amour, je suis, je suis
Notes: Zoe was the Austrian entry in Eurovsion 2016. singing a song in French. Alizee and Indila are French pop singers.
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
« She must suffer to her last breath. (…) They’ll all soon be as Dead as 0-Ren Ishii. »
« That woman deserves her Revenge. And we deserve to die. »
From « Kill Bill Vol. 1 »
Two French girls in Paris
one aged thirteen
the other fourteen
together take wing.
The police bring them back home.
Then hand-in-hand they jump
from their seventeenth floor flat.
They leave behind a note :
« This life has nothing to offer.
What are we living for ? »
An Austrian socialist philosopher-journalist in Paris
in perfect physical health
lies down beside his terminally ailing English wife
never to wake again together
after bequeathing their papers and wealth
not to the Socialist Party
but to a Catholic charity.
He leaves behind a long love letter
his very last remember-me book.
Till death does not do us part.
A Stateless poet passes through Paris
with his Spanish putative spouse
and infant boy.
Paris casts a covetous eye on the mother.
She plans the poet’s murder
and maims her son for life.
The People’s protectors pressgang her
and daily pound the poet to pulp.
Vive ! la France ! Viva ! la Francia !
A lone coyote trumpets over the sakura strewn snow
A moanful flute tugs at nostalgic heartstrings
Meiko Kaji comes on with her plaintive lilt :
We’ve not long to go in this void
The still frozen air gasps through swishing slices
Spurting Strüwel-Peter blood and bones
cherry blossoms on the snow-clad parapet
struck down by the lethally-chilled sheen
of the Hattori Hanzo steel
To kill there need be no will
The will to kill resides in the sill
of the vengeful white of the eye
Even if we can’t stand it any longer, Lady
We’d rather not leave just yet in a hurry
Would we see the likes of this world again
Ever know what’s better than this domain
Unknown to us the slow melodious dirge
Tugs at us : stay yet a while, it whispers !
Who knows who’d be there to receive us
Yes, yes, stay yet a while, little lady !
Hum a sentimental ditty
Recall even a fated memory
Revive some moments of levity :
A friend a face an outing
A little tenderness
A tiny moment of harmony
Together in this wilderness
© T. Wignesan – Paris November 14 2007 (Rev. 2012)
From: T. Wignesan
Copyright ©: T. Wignesan – Paris November 14, 2007 (Rev. 2012)
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2012
Trust and honesty is so rare
in our world nowadays all around
but we must start at home
with ourselves to get off the ground
We need to be absolutely true
check ourselves to see it real
nothing must be held back at all
make sure we are the real deal
This is a very good exercise
for if honesty can’t be found
in ourselves we can’t ask others
to show the honesty sound
So be sure you are fully true
no matter what the outcome
at least we’ll sleep sound
know our honest line is plumb
(‘Being entirely honest with thyself is a good exercise’ - Sigmund Freud, Austrian psychologist) (1856-1939)
Copyright © Gordon McConnell | Year Posted 2016
strawberry incense and baby oiled bodies
a twist of lemon in extremely hot toddies
sipped by succulent lips....
spellbound, i set my glass down
austrian crystal no match for a love so profound
she glows golden, silken as satin
whispered words which may as well have been latin
deaf to the world, lost in her mojo
petite hands brush my chest but i remain immobile
do something! say something! my mind screams
but it's such a little voice lost in my wildest dream
i find myself spiraling up the tunnel toward reality
awaken grainy eyed and..... alone
i turn to the headless pillow beside me
Copyright © brian anderson | Year Posted 2009
black and white picture of an
austrian girl with a torn coat
watching angels drown sinners
to see if they float.
arms of clouds folded in a
blackened charcoal burns into the sky
faster and faster.
yet still the museum curator seekes to find.
recessed lighting on the wall behind.
but all he found was white and black.
to hang a picture of a girl on a tack.
while outside lamps look down
with dizzy heads.
words over cobble stones that have
contrasted by copper wheels
that charge at night.
nocturnal powerlines reserve
Copyright © nathan martin | Year Posted 2014
In a village near mine an old man lives, so ancient
a TV station took an interest and interviewed him,
they thought he must be 104 or more. I looked at
the face his mustache, white and he had gone bald;
spoke Portuguese with a heavy Austrian accent.
No doubt in my mind I was looking at Adolf Hitler.
To my deep suspicion and when asked about his
longevity said he a vegetarian but liked strudel,
told the village policeman about it, but first I had
to tell him who Hitler was; a shoulder shrug, all so
long ago no point going into all this now.
I called the TV station they hung up on me, but
not before I heard their unqualified laughter.
What am I to do? Can´t just chain myself to him
and take him to Hague…he´s too infirm for that.
A last resort is to send an email Israel, ask them
to let Mossed (their homicide department) send
a couple of agents and take care of the matter.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2013
Praise to the beautiful mountains and lakes,
The humble log abode that provides a home,
Where the parents and children of Austria live.
The wooden table where they sit and dine,
Delicious foods prepared, freshly baked bread,
Cheeses and cakes and cookies,
Dinners cooked to perfection,
The bright dirndls the women wear,
And the lederhosen worn by the men,
Evenings of good music and singing,
An exquisite destiny to visit again.
Author:Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz
Copyright © Gwen von Erlach Schutz | Year Posted 2012
God's mighty fortress reigns,
Mountains jagged and tall,
Snow on the peaks of the mountains,
The fields of green with the edelweiss and wild flowers
The waterfall tumbles down the mountainside,
Fresh and healing, beautiful to look at,
The performer sings a song of God,
Which caresses the mountains and valleys,
You are enamored by his performance,
He is very handsome to look at,
A prince of the mountains,
The beautiful and spacious chalet nearby,
The princess dressed in a lovely dirndl,
They bring much happiness to mankind,
They are blessed by god, thankful appreciation,
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Copyright © Gwen von Erlach Schutz | Year Posted 2015
Across the Swiss and Austrian Alps
brutal gusts steadly blow,
calling for heavy snowflakes
dancing as lost butterflies...
falling as summer's lonely stars.
Ginger bread smells good,
honey in tea is superb;
I inhale the steamy swirls that
jackrabbits love to smell.
Kaffe Klatsch is strong
lurching through their nostrils,
making them too hyper.
Northern Italy's wooden shacks
over the wide, frigid vallies...
point to a warmer South
quiet only at evening or night.
Roam as deer on snowy slopes,
stunning is the alpine scenery:
trees as tall as redwoods
ululate louder than hungry wolves...
vulnerable to snowdrifts' attacks.
Watch the skiers having fun,
xelophones making music,
yummy polenta being eaten...
zealous alpinists singing.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2012
There is a sparrow-hawk souring high and low around a huge forest,
Searching, just above the ground into the farm lands and gardens,
He swoops down in a morning sun an atmosphere soft and delightful,
Like a bullet over cowslips and primroses, there is one less robin,
His tail is long and slim it sets him apart from the other hawks,
He flies through his skies clipping the abundant nightingale wings,
Although his eyes see for miles he flies fast and near the ground,
Young pheasants hide in the rich green grass of a lush hidden meadow.
The secret meadow has been left untouched and alone for many years,
Home to the Austrian briar, Guelder roses and fiery orange poppies
Enjoying the peace of a spring morning the grass rich with clover,
The hawk catches a small bird that hangs in the air and swoops away.
The air of the grass is delicious, scattered flowers nod in a breeze,
Butcher-birds are noisy a sure sign that they have some young chicks,
Turtle-doves are abundant in the near by forest well hidden by thorns,
Above all, in an old oak a hawk sits watching, waiting for his dinner.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
I picked wild berries, gathered ripening grapes
and tasted life's bittersweet wine.
From fountains of youth by the river shore
I spilled the gold from the Rhine.
In Caucasian Mountains and the Austrian Alps
I sought the elusive Edelweiss;
Wild columbines I found in West Virginia
where I searched for paradise.
Keeping pace with my children's
laughter and tears,
my Rhine castles in sand faded away
and I entered a vernal quietness
in the dawn of a different day.
When I traded past splendor
for "Almost Heaven"
to cross a defining sea and new life,
I found that the quest for beauty
was ever a part of me.
Copyright © Hilde Bird | Year Posted 2007
No Butter? (when a country practice monopoly)
“Butter, the chef said, I can’t fry a snitzel without butter? If I use margarine
it gets too salty and tastes like whale, if I use olive oil, it gets a Portuguese
flavour, a snitzel is Austrian. How can you fry an egg without using butter,
one loses the taste of clover and rural idyll, farm yards and chickens looking
for worms?” ” Sorry the restaurant manager said, but we have no butter,
you gotta use margarine and anyway the guests are not chefs they will not
notice the difference.”The chef looked aghast, put down his ladle and said:
“You can’t mean that, has all my work comes to nothing?” Took off his apron,
had tears in his eyes, ready to walk out into the cold night and not return.
“Hang on the manager said, without you I can’t run this place, it is the caring
way you prepare food that our guests like you they know there is a butter
shortage, but they don’t mind as long as they now you are the chef.”
Mollified the cook took his apron back on lifted his ladle and said, “Ok, but
see if you can get some butter even if you have to buy it from the Danes.
Copyright © jan oskar hansen | Year Posted 2012
when she met the homely older man with the big nose,
shoulders hunched about his ears as if to ward off further blows,
she married him and moved far away
and at first it was okay
grateful for every day
admiring herself in the looking glass
every day that he expressed his adoration
in every way except penetration
and his impotence drove him to drink
as she stood staring at the sink
and wonderered how it all went so wrong
her dream had been so strong
that she would lead a perfect life
be a perfect wife
though she tried, she tried,
her facade so flawless she was able to hide
kept it all inside
until the anguish brought pain
crippling and insane
every day, every day
only the strongest drugs held it at bay
making her almost catatonic stumbling through the day
and maybe if she ignores these kids of hers they will go away
three thousand miles from home
and all she'd ever known
how she'd tried to fit in
every day the pain would win
and bring her to her knees
oh, please, oh, please,
and the only friend she'd ever made
she eventually betrayed
their friendship was shallow
the only reason she kept up the sallow
farce was minimal
a common language
she overlooked the fact that she was Austrian
(despied by the Swiss)
her father a Nazi war criminal
but, hell, at least she was someone to have over for tea
and speak her native tongue
social climbing rung by rung
the real shame of this fake
was that her only friend's husband was a handsome rake
and stirred feelings deep inside her that she had never felt before
and she craved more
and the drugs, homesickness, loneliness, self centeredness,
impotense and desire
burned out of control like a fire
and warped into perversion
her son became her diversion
innocense lost in the worst way
and even when he ran away at sixteen
nothing was ever addressed
but she could no longer molest
and her will was finally broken down
by this Austrian clown
his charm, so suave, his charm
that caused so much harm
her only friend betrayed
Copyright © Danielle White | Year Posted 2008
Thunder clouds roll back, rain does succomb
shepheards emerge their flock
sunrays, brightens the horizon
mountain range, as far as the eye can see
The far distance , a sand block castle
the fore ground a humble village
goats lapping the bulging lake
sparrows emerging with song thrush
As children run playfully from their home
pointing to the sky, rainbow a picture
two lovers take to the lake,she seated
he stood, poll rowing.
Copyright © Paul Beadnall | Year Posted 2011
I dream of Austria and the beauty of the country,
God's perfect winter postcard.
The town of Igls, the rooftops and tall spruces, touched with snow,
The Latin church that stood tall.
A visit with God at Christmas,
Beautiful memories and walks through the village.
Where the mountain stood majestic in the background,
Skiis on my back, dressed in a warm nordic red sweater and cap and black ski pants and boots.
I belonged with the village,
Ski lessons of the finest.
Learning to ski, like a gentle bird on the slopes,
My instructor handsome and tall, teaching excellence in skiing guested.
The top of the mountain where my second ski instructor also good-looking,
Empowered us to ascend to the highest mountain in Austria.
The Patscherkophfle, majesty among mountains,
After two weeks of instruction I chose to ski to the ski lift.
And return to the mountain base, my vacation complete,
My warm chalet welcomed me.
Author: Gwen Schutz
Copyright © Gwen von Erlach Schutz | Year Posted 2010
An Austrian sachertorte
A Canadian date cake
Russian rhubard cakes
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
© 2011 (Jim Sularz)
Deep in a Black Forest,
lost along a mystic stream.
Where the winds still whisper,
a thousand untold dreams.
kicking frosted leaves.
Sleep at night’s darkness,
wake upon a moonlit breeze.
Castled ruins in disbelief,
sap blistered lips unseen.
Singing Austrian pines in chorus,
beneath an idyllic scene.
Dancing high betwixt the hills,
hide an’ seek, and make-believe.
Pine cones popping tear-dropped treasures,
wave a kiss goodbye, “Auf Wiedersehen! ”
Copyright © Jim Sularz | Year Posted 2016
The rugged mountains strong and welcoming,
The singer embraces them with a love of God,
His friendliness caresses the forests and flowers,
A voice that sings to the reindeer and the wild life,
His loyal companion, a beautiful and friendly dog,
A picnic on the mountain, table cloth and picnic basket,
His handsome figured dressed in the austrian costume,
He commands the greatest respect,
A village that adores him and his charming ways,
A paradise that you could only imagine,
I wish to be his sleeping beauty dressed in an austrian dirndl
To be kissed and awakened by the handsome prince,
Who said storytales come true, only with God.
Author: Gwen von Erlach Schutz
Copyright © Gwen von Erlach Schutz | Year Posted 2015
I love listening to Bach on late evenings, especially his flowing ‘Ave Maria’,
just as I like tuning in to Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, far too many Ave Marias!
Nothing compares to Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata', it’s simply beautiful;
George Handel had he lived would have found Ludwig’s piece rather cool.
Amadeus Mozart, truly he was a musical genius, that Austrian son-of-a gun,
it’s high there among the classics, the elegant ‘Theme from Elvira Madigan’.
Give me Antonin Dvorak’s ‘New World Symphony’, so serenely majestic,
that, like Tchaikovsky’s ‘Concerto in 1st Movement’, creates instant magic.
Let me tell you a little secret: my days in the cradle had long ago passed by
yet, till this day I drift off to dreamland with a few strains of Brahms’ ‘Lullaby’.
Chopin he tinkers with his piano dreamily, that young romantic Polish chap -
etudes, nocturnes, mazurkas, you name it, though he could not do hip-hop.
I adore the songs of Bobby Dylan, though not necessarily his croaky voice;
honestly, I prefer listening to other minstrels sing his tunes, if given a choice.
Joan Baez, Joni Mitchell and Judy Collins, those gals sounded to me so fine;
I once volunteered to produce them but they said “Are you out of your mind?”
Could not do nothing with the three J’s, so I turn to Lennon & McCartney
who once rocked my childhood with their irresistible “yeah, yeah, yeah”.
Leonard Cohen, does that man ever smile? so moody and stark his music
but I love him anyway, though figuring out his lyrics often makes me sick.
Denver and Donovan’s stuff are sugary for my taste at times I would say
and there are occasions when I crave for songs that sound kinda lonely.
So I often give way to my old buddy from country land, Kristofferson man,
and let his somber ‘Sunday Morning Coming Down’ get me all undone.
Sad songs, joyful songs, all styles, will they ever come in just one package?
so I won’t have to spend much on CDs that is straining my minimum wage.
Given those great musical influences I have painstakingly mentioned above,
it is a sure bet I am off to greatness if I just behave and do what I truly love.
Copyright © Wilfredo Derequito | Year Posted 2007