Sculptural, Graphical artworks & Poems

Author Archive

Cave Curse Chant

Cave Curse Chant

For thousands of years,

on gloomy days

we painted and caressed

the wall of the cave

to rearrange our rage.

*

*

Our fingertips tap to paint on rock,

with furry ochre lines to mock and

stamp anger into that hairy mask.

To evict the scary vision,

forever it must vanish.

*

We caught the mystic

with a few stick lines.

We wordless, grunted

to acclaim the sight,

Its’ magic spell haunted.

*

Decoyed in our net

the sworn enemy.

Our hearts throbbed,

fists clenched as if

locked in fury.

*

Have no more words just

hiss the same curse.

Press our thumbs against

the virtual wall of

our mental cave.

*

2018. Friewald Gyula


Zephyr

Love whiff

Autumn utters with
bee’s bumble songs,
photogenic iris recycles,
hungry gravity glides on
embroidered gender leaves,
follows meander of desires.

Inside horn blows
old songs. It’s breeze
lifts your hair to dance,
embraces your bow.
Chance prodigal boy
for romance.

Bail out nights
from arrest of days,
change frosted hours
with jingling coins of minutes.
Then organic words
coagulate on your lips.

Moon inverts to the Sun.
Amoebic joy of fun
curls and billows.
Like a sudden surge of rainbow.
To discover scented
flower petals of lovers.

Gyula Friewald © 02/11/2011


Viva Mexico

Viva Mexico,… Viva !!!

Diego Rivera: Dream of Sunday Afternoon in Almeda

Diego Rivera

Hairy legged dancer of the Latin circus,

on this honey dream  Sunday, idle.

Enough brush skating on the canvas.

Power, vanity game

empty skeleton´s fame.

myth guards their shame.

Fiesta wrapped in legends,

virgins, dwarfs, clowns salute them

with constipated ciudanos face.

Feudal bureaucrats germinate

in Mayan´s garden. The voodoo

rattle snake couldn’t escape the plate.

Power, vanity game

empty skeleton´s fame.

Myth guards their shame.

Mujeres dress like walking bells

topped with the jealousy hats

inside Diego´s puppets legs clang.

Power, vanity game

empty skeleton´s fame.

myth guards their shame.

Rocketing petards, mariachi

balloons of sensation sway,

Frida´s heart yin-yang.

The banker, the gendarme and

the wood winded veteran

Embroidered parade.

Power, vanity game

empty skeleton´s fame.

myth guards their shame.

The music box winded

Wooden winged vagabonds

limbs clap, clap….clap.

2. 9. 2013 Gyula Friewald©


Village walk in Spain

Village walk in Spain

 

I climb up from the valleys

follow the  path of donkeys.

My presence pursues the moments

as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog

in the mind’s stronghold.

 

The floating minute whistles casually,

weaves wreaths from wild flowers

and gently strokes my neck.

Vast, bright air flooding from the above,

the scented breeze ignores me.

 

I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces

of these elegantly  resting female mountains.

Herds and swarms of cultures gathered

in these cupped hands like valleys and

disappeared in the drain hole of time.

 

Nobody wants to wake up from

the oozing garlic ornate dream.

They just repeat what is safe,

as the old told how to survive,

indeed,  good for their godly goats.

 

Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.

 

 

Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013


Perceptions

Prime Perceptions

 

I see it, I hear it, I sense it.

If I remember – it’s memory.

If I understand – it’s mine.

If I hate it – it’s me.

If I dream it – I’m hooked.

If I forget it – I’m free.

If I’m free – I love.

If I love – I can’t see.

Gyula Friewald 20/3/13


Spring

Spring

Burst in with newborn’s cry
sweeps with wind of life,
wipes pastel blue sky.

March is on midwife sentry.
Annual tabula rasa for the baby,
green, buzzing plenty.

Sun kisses peachy buds.
Winter days thaws and floods,
frozen past sinks in muds.

Weather carnival shuffles,
through cycles of cuddles.
Night trickles in fat puddles.

Thoughts become pliant
under the cracks
of this fragile giant.

Gyula Friewald 13/02/13/2013


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Walking with Gyula Friewald

Village walk in Spain

I climb up from the valleys

follow the  path of donkeys.

My presence pursues the moments

as it croaks like a floundering bullfrog

in the mind’s stronghold.

The floating minute whistles casually,

weaves wreaths from wild flowers

and gently strokes my neck.

Vast, bright air flooding from the above,

the scented breeze ignores me.

I wobble on the ever winding lines of terraces

of these elegantly  resting female mountains.

Herds and swarms of cultures gathered

in these cupped hands like valleys and

disappeared in the drain hole of time.

Nobody wants to wake up from

the oozing garlic ornate dream.

They just repeat what is safe,

as the old told how to survive,

indeed,  good for their godly goats.

Their trance splits willow wood in my heart.

Gyula Friewald © 19/05/2013


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Tuned

Maestro de la Música (1)


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Kóma / Coma

Coma

You stand daily outpace

above your packed suitcase,

iron wasps drunk on your tears.

The bite of the winter’s

tattoo refrozen puddles

drift and stuck on you.

Mum’s fallen fingers

On the strings of your

facial lines,hesitantly old

melodies swell.

The clerk’s ancient epilepsy is

in the law’s cacophony.

The unwrapped memorabilia’s

brick piles, lapses into pyramids.

Wandering friends trance on the passes of years.

The mind croaks, the scientist cries.

The right half, destructively rise new temples

the left, replace priests,

geld healingly

for stealing faith.

The insignias of your worn moral suitcase:

survived odours of slaughterhouses,

sexually in smuggled tricks,

the empty skulls and in their eye sockets

the peeping violets,

The long forgotten trips,

The secret panties, bras and their

creased vapour,

The walnut tree’s love letters.

Excitements, carved in school benches,

the thick drip of candles,

the pit of the first glass of alcohol,

a dilated pupil gazes into your mirror,

the emotional ram of your rebellious child,

the capsize of the porcelain potty.

All turn sepia brown, in musty albums,

atrophy to the tapestry of a museum.

You, who know how to crawl across borders;

time to cut some corners!

Turn over the stinky moral baggage!

Push aside the lunatic blockage!

2010-12-21 Friewald Gyula


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Between Bridges of Budapest

                 

(Story of my parents)

 

I search the big trees above  me,

follow the path of my mother’s force.

 

Replacement: Daci, my mothers’ first lover, gone,

my father back from Stalin’s gulag.

Massive dripping of ideology,

the worse outnumber the bad,

Decisions and instinct of a 19 year old,

new ideas of working class demagogue optimism,

while her sewing machine rattles.

Hot summer excursion, forest walk.

Betting time, the die has been cast.

 

New bridge

 

I’m there, the whole rollercoaster,

runaway train cut into the blue sky.

Genes, DNI, amino acid gambling,

next few months and

as a little, rechargeable frog finish my first cycle.

Week long struggle to get on the stage

Mother bleeds and never stops.

Frog life reality, Mum’s learning

voices, to understand, croaks, sounds to etch in the heart.

 

New bridge

 

Father gives me his funny name, all right!

And leaves,… was a quick job,

he’s his own bureaucrat.

She is sobs, bleeds,

Starts to forget, but she has her frog life to live,

just about out of water.

Young mother, young child, young country.

Behind eyelids,

old wolves haul everywhere,

 

Another new bridge

 

Crystallized mind, crystallized muscles.

Derelict homes, unknown draws full of sweaty, worn masks.

Replacement again: Gyula ( my father) spins out

Another man comes, enters with emptiness of the desert,

Stubborn taste of the  sand,

At the age of six,

I smell of grape and leather in the wind.

 

Mádi = the nickname of young Mother                                      Gyula Friewald © 12/08/2011

 

 

 


The Green Shaman whispers…

The Green Shaman whispers…

Look into the deep purple abyss of my heart.
To feel into my fish eyes
the wondering hyenas of pain
the smile hatching
patience of moments.

To see all in my heart,
where screaming desire rise
in the arterial crater.
Where the instinct bleats
child’s belief blinks.

To feel into my eyes,
touch fluffy clouds
on my tribal horizon,
like smoke messages
in the eternal genetic space.

To look into my dark
womb of intuition and
the cradle of love,
echo beat of drum where
membranes of fear hung.

To see all in my heart
the seed’s faith
patiently wait
for the rain
to grow from tiny grain.

There my ego
holds onto the rope
and anchor of life
in the boat of hope
steadfast.

Gyula Friewald © 05/01/2012


The Blind’s Greeting

The Blind’s Greeting

On the slope of age
Man walk in the blinds cave
Inside the ground waves, sways
Wise old drops of water cools down
thin cracked skin of brains.

Oxygen is dissolves noise
of dripping time,
Noticed by his fading
alabaster fingers
under the summer dress of life.

On the wall of mind, parrot-mirror
turns to cool pond of experience
with crystal’s depth.
Desire melts to sensuous giggles
and streams down on our spine.

Silent scream electrifies
idling eyes, left-right, left-right
follow sniff’s guide.
Memory world is seek and hide,
send faded postcard of blinds.

Gyula Friewald © 22/08/2012


PHOTOS OF ARTISTIC METALWORKS 1982 -2001

Click here for PowerPoint presentation ( appr. 5-10 min.)


Butterfly-farm

 

 

 

All dressed as witches.

Hovering above my senses,

loitering in corners of their jail,

gliding to Reggae shapes.

 

Soft wing’s silent, blue smile

flashes during the chase.

Steamed windows

limit their space.

 

Pixie birds chattering

behind sight,

bushes close up to cover

of gracious feather’s delight.

 

Anna shuffles and flutters

chiffchaffs away,

her young laugh

causes déjà vu sway.

 

Precious moments stamped

images into my retina

to see again in my call

of the arms of a new era.

 

Gyula Friewald © 15/07/2012

 


Emilia Romagna

(Bologna)

Terracotta handstroke

stuck  bricks to bricks

formed streets, towers and gates

like reverse earthquakes.

 

Arches of days and nights

dark green and blue

named after saints or criminals.

Years turn to bricks of sancturies.

 

Smile turns grim and perches

on the brim of senses.

As violin plays on memory,

smoky winter’s melody.

 

Now, the angel makes love

to fallen, gray and fat dove

in plenty of melted butter,

in mouldy friary’s kitchen.

 

Meanwhile the monk stutters

lovers profile quickly turn to

intricate calligraphic patterns

on venous bricklayer’s hand.

 

Gyula Friewald © 28/06/2012

 


At Charon’s pier

I see my mother’s urn

 

The sunny lake

of morning is full

of empty, tilted events.

 

I stand at the open crypt,

the cool muddy darkness

struggles to stay in it’s cave.

 

Last memories like

kites strings,

cut my aching hand.

 

Nostalgic doves coo.

Chaos of feelings

causes insect pain.

 

Crows steal long threads,

from the eternal

healing cobwebs.

 

Priest mumbles,

laurel leaf on his eye,

his pocket  jingles.

 

My sigh pushes

the urn into the

murky underworld river of Styx.

 

Three apes in white shirt

jump on the stage,

with  the strength and skill of ants,

 

to slide the huge slab of silence

back to it’s  place,

with a soft slam to anchor the  end.

Gyula Friewald © 10/10/2011


Army of Dangerous Spiritual Dwarfs

 

Hundred and fifty million smile

creased and crashed

under the bulldozer of

every second man, yearly.

 

If someone loses a child,

forever hears the child’s sighs

in the rising wind, and

her face trembles in distant waters.

 

Desperate poverty opens the doors for

rich sexual scavengers,

disguised and masked as

patriots, parents, priests,

politicians, doctors, teachers,

 

kings, presidents, admirals,

train drivers, sailors, directors,

boxers, footballers, smugglers, actors,

terrorists, peacemakers, policemen,

 

All are proud citizens,

generals, lawyers, judges.

 

‘Brave’ get away with it adults,

failed their women, their universe.

Their crippled sneaky smile turns up

in all corners of our world.

 

Every second neighbors,

pedestrians, travelers tagged with it.

Slugs sliding on their body fluid,

butchering trust, abusing future.

 

If you are one of them, I’m watching you!

If not, keep your eye on them,

Not in silence but with loud full vigor,

identify their dirty corners.

 

To unveil secrets

of big daddies

stunted humanity,

burped up from psychic swamps.

 

Some simply barter

with their treasured photo collections

evidence of

their heart and mind slaughtering funs.

 

Don’t be fooled by their

sorry decorated

sentimental wailing or

lamentations about love.

Gyula Friewald © 23/10/2011


Shadow of the Fist

 

Mysterious smile of the Moon
shimmers on the silent sea.
Deep among silver shiny Shiva arms
twitches tumor of life.

Flickering song of candle light
glints up in eyes.
Gliding noble angel mantle
casts giant shadow into
abyss of oceans.

Now, radiation hums up,
trapped in the net of harmony.
Equation light beam turns around
while behind of curtain God’s love
pummels mothers, batters sons, into the ground.

To survive big flood, select seeds,
place in the bottom of your boat.
Evening, return to family needs.
Morning, quietly milk the goat
and sow those amazing beans.

Old porcelain bush jungle,
once ruled landscape.
No hiding place in rubble.
Return or escape?
Anywhere he rambles,
the ruined winners are, everywhere.

Gyula Friewald © 09/11/2011


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TATTOED


Image

ANGER


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LOVE

Horns