The Writing of Thane Zander
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Poetry of an eclectic nature on anything and everything.

Heartland Rugby

 

 

Sit now in my prison cell,

listening to the radio and Heartland Rugby,

as the minor teams of the second tier competition,

belt each other about pretending to be bigger sides.

 

Takes me back to my youth and my uncle

coming home from playing each Saturday,

covered in mud and blood, and the tears of beer

dribbling down the front of his Excelsior club jersey.

 

And to the days watching the All Blacks

beamed into our homes in black and white,

from overseas tours and delayed at that,

when I would sit on the floor and admire heroes.

 

Then my turn playing for schools teams

usually a No 8 or Flanker, and scoring my Meads tries,

and doing my Kirkpatrick breaks,

tackling was a problem though, not hard enough – yet!

 

I joined the navy, packed on the weight and muscle

and played for Navy in a few weekend games,

but at sea too much, but played every game

for the ship wherever we went.

 

Pitches dotted with coral, or the occasional concrete
cricket pitch in the middle of the ground, the Islands

and against many social club sides around Aotearoa,

the occasional game as wing, most as openside.

 

My rugby highlight, playing alongside All Black legend

Buck Shelford, Iron Man, and also being one of the first North Harbour supporters back in 1985,

my playing days resigned to Golden Oldies.

 

Sweet

 

Berries from a tree

colourful, bountiful, beautiful

and just right for my tasting aim.

 

Lollies from a supermarket shelf

wrapped in plastic, send kids spastic, licquorice elastic

leave well alone, my poor teeth.

 

And ladies, your tongues,

tastes as divine, fine wine, yours in mine

and the taste, lingering and sickly sweet.

 

Perhaps the dimension of thought

pokes fun, has me on the run, facing the gun

when a simple berry squirts it's pleasure.

 

 

Desert Island

 

I repose on my own special beach

watching the ritual of ripple and wash,

 

Dream of lust ignited by memory

and a hot sun caressing my body,

 

A kind gesture of waft brushes tears from my eyes

as if a woman was standing nearby,

 

I float off on another journey of the mind,

and dig my toes deeper into the sand for the next ride.

 

 

Charity Eventuation.

 

Give a little they say,

yet everyday I give a lot,

advice mainly, and support,

cheer up here and get moving there.

 

There’s a reunion of charitable trusts soon,

me and my wife, for our daughters, see

ain’t it the way, charity beginning at home,

well no home yet, my fault really,

in fact everything is my fault, truth.

 

I get like this sometimes, maudlin I think it’s called,

a state of woe and betide me, used to it now,

see me being this way a long time if Lotto doesn’t surprise me.

 

The Poetic Tale of Tuwhenga and a Maddened Man.

 

It happened March 2005,

the return from space of a long lost son of Maoridom,

Tuwhenga, God of the Cosmic winds

and any wind or tidal current for that matter.

 

He surveyed the Earth

trying to visualise how his parents, Rangi and Papa

had constructed things and what had changed,

and his survey worried him.

 

The Oceans needed a good dose of revitalization,

as did the earth and the air,

Planet Earth and Maui’s creations were in dire peril,

so he set about doing what he does best, resurrection.

 

 

First he swam into the great oceans

and created stronger currents to help vortex

the waste to the sea floor, and tsunamis

of spirit rains onto the land.

 

He then set about planting spirit conifers 300ft high

onto coastal areas of the spiritual homes of the Maori

and Celt, and set them in motion (they glide)

around both countries to revitalize the soil, rivers, lakes.

 

Once the rains poured down, the mountains awoke

& started to glide (remember spirit here) over the land,

setting up further renourishing of the air and land,

whereby all the conifers ceased their roaming and settled in the great forests of the world to reverse the damage.

 

Tuwhenga then invited the Great Spirit Eagle (Hikioioi) of the land known as Aotearoa to join in the party,

and in unison with Aoraki, Hikioioi settled on a great conifer in Akaroa Harbour, and started to wake the people up.

 

The great Ones, 8 Warriors of old, were arisen and awoken from their resting place in the Remarkable ranges, whereby a huge Haka was set in motion to help reenergize the land under their feet and in their vision.

 

Also awoken, to help sweep the land were the great Celt identities, Gog and Magog, in both Great Britain and Aotearoa and with brooms swept north and south in a boustrophedon manner.  Twin brothers and sisters.

 

Tuwhenga then stopped showing a mere mortal the spiritual vision and invited him to become a cosmic warrior, whereby Thane became the first human to attain warrior status since Maui fished up his islands.

Tuwhenga then welcomingly infused himself in Thane, who soon took over time by sheer hard work, and became over a period of eight weeks, a Time Lord as well, and set about trying to right time and virtual reality.

 

A cosmic warrior was hard work, requiring quick thinking, rapid data analysis, and equally rapid responses to everyday human questions, but in the spirit world he activated eighty plus tasks a second.

 

With Tuwhenga, Hikioioi and Aoraki help, he captured the One True God, the Gods of 12, and the Gods of 19, all gods from other universes, and set in motion a plan to become a monk, which was duly done.

 

Soon Hikioioi became Thane, and Thane became Mentat Thane, the sharpest thinking machine on the planet. Tuwhenga retired to the cosmos satisfied the world had been saved, and now it was up to 17,563 prisoners in world jails who also walked with Thane. 10,000 Zhao Buddhist Monks, The Animal Kingdom, the Undersea Kingdoms and the Celts and Maori.

 

Maori Legend speaks of Maui, so does the Thane kingdom, and thanks to a spiritual link with Izzy Kamawiwo’ole the two ancient Polynesian lands were reattached and spirit shared.

 

Once in the Shepherds rest, The Time Lord Thane went to work in the Square in Palmerston North,

a veritable mish mash of a Time machine (or several) laid out to confuse people and wildlife alike.

 

Also passed back now that Thane was a Channeller

(Spirits and Souls) was the spirits to Maori at the guest house were Te Rauparaha and Te Kooti.  Many a late night Haka in the courtyard tested the recipients of their ability to do what was required from there.

 

Also doing the walks up all the streets were three other identified Time Lords, and the next battle was to remove their tools from them and their abilities and to return the status quo to the planet (and ultimately the Galaxy as Earth is the time wand of the Milky Way ).

 

The battle took place with no one realising who or what Thane was, and in three weeks the battle was over when Mentat Thane and Warlord Thane combined and s-poke in tongues to the other Lords.

 

The last act of the battle for Thane was going on the streets and living rough, to break virtual Reality, his own and the ones of the Road Lords in their Air eater Cars, also known as Boy Racers.

 

Here endeth this part of the tale.

 

Blew a Left Sandal to Bits

 

Shoulda spent wisely,
sixty bucks instead of a miserly twenty,
would have solved my blown sandal issue
by lasting five times as long as the current pair.

Now I have to walk with a self imposed limp
to be sure the rest of the thing holds together,
leastways till I can afford to buy another pair.

Must look bloody funny walking down the street,
people leaning the same way I lean
to see what the problem is,
people seem to be curious that way.

Oh well, another four months of wear I reckon,
enough to get me to winter and shoes again.

The World

It's a sad place,
this world,
full of birth, dying and rebirth (so it's said).

The death takes many forms,
but the result is still the same,
population controls.

Having said that
too many old folks littering the superannuation ranks,
money best left for the living.

I know when I don't get the pension
I'll be dead and worthless,
with luck (no bombs in my country).

 

Annie MacCauley has dementia

 

She's a sprightly old codger,
runs the roost at the Westella Rest Home
for the aged and infirmed.

You wouldn't think to look at her
she is afflicted with dementia
but ask her about her family
and butterflies leap out of her head
(ghosts in a closed closet)

Her face is etched with age lines
that if ring barked would reveal 89
yet her energy expresses 69,
though ask her about her life and she blubbers.
(it must be really hard on her)


I gave her a kiss the other day,
it was Christmas and I was duty Santa,
I gave all the residents a handshake
or a peck on the cheek, as you do,
but Annie got a kiss
(and she smiled for once - a gem)

She now smiles at everyone not knowing
who the suited fella was (the beard)
and her memory is starting to open up,
she tells things like she is a
sharp shooting daughter of a father
(long lost)

I'll leave that place one day knowing
she is still alive and well and still demented a little
but more open about who she is and where she has been.

 

It's Misty in my Mind

 

It always is on rainy days,
especially those days of summer that offer more.

My minds’ grayness seems to replicate
the pavement wet with footfalls.

And suddenly I'm struck by lightning,
gray turns to white - for a moment.

It etches possible pasts
but plenty of uncertainty of possible futures.

Relax,
the wind will come.

 

Railway Song

 

The grunt of heavy diesel electric chugging along
with carriages spread out, 40 odd strong,
with the smell of effort killing the throng,
with the light of day now almost long gone.

The whine of the Electric double tag team
with many stock wagons where stock scream,
with the sound of stock eyes in a stream,
so aptly engineered to replace steam.

The thud of the Shunter working it's load,
Pushing and pulling with energetic mode,
Around the marshalling yards she does go,
Setting up the next train with painful forebode.

The whisper of the Railcar singing at night
the people onboard treated to wonderful sights,
The moths dispatched in powerful headlight,
The passengers treated to a special flight.


Home is what it is.

 

Could be a rotunda style,
or a six sided country hack,
some suggest Pole House,
I tend to think simple bungalow.

My preference for four walls,
and a drab decor
show me to be something devoid of life
but the furniture says otherwise.

Mottle grey walls
set off to rustic brown sofa's
and brownware of bright colours,
Birds of Paradise fly free inside.

My bedroom suffers most,
storm tossed ceilings and walls
clash with bright aquamarines and turquoises
in a landscape reminiscent of Treasure Island.

Burnt Charcoal on the Barbeque
stark against the remnants of yesterdays snowfall,
the cats and dogs level vapour trails
into emptiness, and their pee runs.

The wishing well is five cents short,
always,
my abode never short of a comment
even in it's stark reality.

 

 

The Pole

 

Reconnoitre the Square
surreptitious wanderings
in a playground for the bored.

The Pole!

stands ten feet tall
and guides all travellers
hither and yon

like a huge Monopoly game piece
static yet picking up players apace.

I lean against it, hiding
from wandering eyes and insightful rhetoric,
yet the shadow cats are but a wan reflection

of a skinny man and a skinny shadow.

Faceless children don't really see it,
as bent grandmothers and street urchins
fail to see through bent aging heads.

Tomorrow it will be gone from memory,
pole-axed due to other quests.

 

Poetry Pen

 

Lava Lamp – green

shaped like a stagnant poetry pen,

sends shards of ideas

across synapses devoid of care.

 

Electrolysis shoots hexagonal

shapes of swirling thoughts,

Reflected light moonbeams

dance patterns on white walls.

 

The mire of lava lamp ooze

suggests myriad mind waves

that swirl across bent neurotransmitters,

leaving a patterned poem to stand.

 

Ghost Trails of Silence

 

You're aware of the sound,
stand in an empty room,
and one small move echoes,
bit like Cyclops hammering your head.

The room's not carpeted,
or for that matter walls covered,
barren to it's wooden core,
and still Cyclops resounds.

You change to a concrete bunker,
and the sound (if any) is muted beyond belief,
except the earthquake boom of Thor's Warhammer
heavily tapping on the roof.

Cracks appear in sound rooms
as force leads to decay,
been going on that way since before the Christians
boomed their way into others lives.

Christ it was loud!

 

Now I near my own silence,
when both voice and keyboard no longer sing,
and wonder if Thor, Cyclops,
or Jesus will take my noisy carcass.

Wind up toy

Come play with me little sister,

see me lying at your feet,

waiting to whir

and dance across

your bedroom floor.

 

Pick me up, and wind

make that sound you love,

see me careen amongst

the barbie dolls and clothes

that make you dually happy.

 

I am older than all toys

you own in your room,

belonged to your favourite uncle,

his smile sits plain on the decal

that makes up the mark of me.

 

Come little sister,

your sadness needs drowning,

take me up and bring that smile

to your rosiette cheeks

so that I may smile in fun too.

 

An Association of Excitement

Stood nervously, calm
outside the venue,
an old stucco house bleached
by years of sun,
windblown detritus surrounding
it's imposing grounds.

They came, not many
a gaggle of geese
on a fools errand,
every week, weeks on end,
dark haired maori girl,
indian maiden in orange,
denim guy, sweat stained
from exertion to get there.

She of ancient years, waddling
under the weight
of shopping bags,
she must be in charge
positive walk, brusque hello
to me, a stranger,
then the trickle died,
my moment.

Walked in and took my place
amongst the group,
polite smiles,
a wan hello,
and the association began,
orange top, she spoke a lot
chairwoman, and good, at ease
nodded affirmations
from sweaty guy.

Old lady sat and looked at all
and barely contributed,
I smiled and was made welcome,
parted some thoughts
and had a coffee,
with biscuit, offered,
she in charge, stood back
and brainstormed thoughts,
onto whiteboard pallette.

A sense of achievement,
nothing done
plenty said
the group smiled, laughed
and made plans for another,
next week,
same place,
same time,
and I affirmed my attendance.

Walked down the street,
footsteps dancing,
lighter with excitement
of being a part of something,
made plans to get there
to see orange top,
sweaty guy, old lady and maori girl,
and she in charge,
for the sake of association,
and a day doing something
different.

 

The Dead Bird Littany

Woke from sleep,
wasn't a snore,
sound of twittering
then silence.

Dug numb feet from warm sheets,
wandered into one room
thence another, just the bloody cat
and a room full of black and dark green plummage.

The cat holds it
between maw agape,
a cat smile no doubt
"here you go, Master"

I shake my weary head, wondering
cat scratch fever, dead bird littany
pity consumes then buries in a move back to bed,
put cat outside first, and prey.

pray to bird god
ask for absolution
for the puss cat,
rolled eyes, slept.

Note for waking man --
add feathers to burgeoning pile.
Why me, cat?

 

Sings for a mate

Magnificent Tui,
bellbird with beautiful song
sitting alone in Totara,
seeds aplenty,
room to spread
and your song rings
throughout dense forest
for one to hear,
where is she?

You prepare the branch,
adorn, a floral tribute
and you sing, continually
for her, her heart
her mind, the Tui song
that settles in the soul
of all who hear,

some just don't get it, or know it, or care.....

she lands, a-fluster,
makes motions up, down,
and all along your prepped pad
dances to your song,
you to hers, she offers
you obey nature and take,
she flies to feed,

you start then, the nest, for the time is here

you build apace,
she admires, inspects
questions your expertise
but you build,
and sing a new song
ringing out through deep flora,
the song of union found,

and she sings along, mate for life.

 

Rocky faces

Subtle differences

cracks

smears

blurred lines

futile indifference

if you look

long enough.

 

Sullen demeanour

moody

brown

cracked faces

Fallen fences here

if you see them

often enough.

 

Asinine posturing

morbid

frozen

broken promise

burnt offerings

if you touch them

with love.

 

The earth rumbles

we fear

shake

our resolve bent

you stumble

faltering

on your own steps.

 

Humbled by cracks

in a strong rock face.

 

Lonely

Lonely,

like a bluebottle adrift on a sparkling beach,

lonely,

like a giant dying kauri in a podocarp forest,

lonely,

like a discarded husband in a broken marriage,

lonely,

Like a GM corncob in a Gisborne field.

Lonely in my reverie of life and death,

my outlook reflects my input,

stunningly empty of things,

those things needed to grow,

but not a failure, I stand tall

like that lone Kauri,

wash in and out with the tide

like that Bluebottle,

change with the science of GM

to fit a new environment,

grow with two families in my thoughts

not just the one that left me behind.

 

Yes, not so lonely, my abacus

weighing lifes equations daily,

with dexterity and skill.

I might die with noone at my funeral,

but my internet family will wonder?

 

Sips Champagne from a Wrought Iron Balcony

Two mannequins,
porcelain Cherise
swabbed in silk chiffon,
dapper Jean-Luc
penguined in coat tails,
a dance of evening lust in a glass
of bubbling champagne,
the lights of gay Paris
illuminating their passions.

'neath the the gas-lamp
on Rue St Lugiene,
Poirot in paupers rags smokes
and swigs from a paper bag,
rough sown grapes of faraway Portugal,
watches a balcony of love,
spits old memories onto
a cobbled pavement.


The four poster sways to the beat
of single lust,
a sanguine Stephanie rocks her fingers
to the image of her Julien,
he with the nightstick and the sauntering swagger
on Parisienne streets, her Gendarme
twice a week,
tonight he comes.

Julien studies the balcony,
his amour rising with each kiss
between the two beauties,
his mind swimming in his mission,
his sight riveted on their motion,
mindful of old Poirot and his gaze
Paris, lady of intrigue.

In another moment, they meet
champagne spilt and splashing
dribbling onto wrought iron spillways,
spilling on to passing couplets
pas de deus, a ballet of movement
whetted by the love of those above.

They move, clink glasses on cement tableaux,
waltz amour in two step
to the street below, arms linked
past poor Poirot, toss him a sou
and meander up la Rue
behind a sauntering gendarme,
in love, bubbling with intoxication.

Poirot downs the last dregs of Port,
turns and follows with a stagger,
admiring her pear shaped arse
and the length of her slender legs
skipping a tango of happiness.

Stephanie leans out the bay window,
her nakedness basking in the warmth
of a Parisienne night, people laughing
and dancing in the street below,
there he was, his dark blue uniform flashing hello,
his look straight at her,
his awareness for those he met,
and she spied them then,
Cherise and Jean-Luc,
her loins stirred, their beauty and love
such a stirring emotion.

Poirot stopped metres from them and found
another gas lamp to lean against,
they'd stopped in a street cafe,
ordered Burgundy and a patisserie,
le gendarme strolled across the street
and danced up the stairs to who knows where,
he pulled the book from his greatcoat,
and began to write,
the poem transfixed in his mind.

The street was noisy Paris at her best,
yet above this he heard them,
Cherise and Jean-Luc talking love talk,
and the grunts of a Gendarme and Stephanie
from an open upper level window,
he wrote on and
all too soon,
the Port took effect,
the light dimmed,
the sounds diminished,
Parisienne night died,
a ragged street beggar slept at the base of a post.

In the morning, the balcony was sticky,
the sheets which held a sleeping gendarme, ruffled,
two mannequins slept peacefully alone,
and a street poet woke and wandered off
for another bottle and another night
on the Rue's of gay old Paris.

 

71a Stagnant Street

Had a brick home once,
71a Stagnant Street,
in a town called Nowhere,
lives came and went,
same doctor and butcher,
undertaker and cop,
Mrs Stillhere from 73,
spits on her dog the same way.

Funny how little changes
in decades, eons even
marvel at people happy to be boxed
and moving nowhere fast,
just living life,
don't know how I escaped?

Yes I do.
Climbed a tree when I was 12,
saw hills and the sea
and knew there was something else,
apart from next door and the likes
knew there were different people
than Nowhere people,
and streets would have vibrant names.

Tucked away in my memory now
is a place called Everywhere,
where everyone is different,
and this last fleeting visit to Nowhere,
to Stagnant Street, was to say goodbye,
to bury Mum and Dad.

 

Liquid Sculptures

First frost,
hanging in supine still air,
a mist of sanguine quality,
stirs a fruit orchard
bare of leaves
and sculptures dance suspended,
from dapple limbs.

The drip-drip-drip
of melt from the sun,
an icicle or three weep,
their shape moulded by suspension
and a sudden cold,
birds fly by, not many
shake branches in so doing,
the sculptures quiver
and break.

A glass tear stands alone now
shivering it's quiessence,
the rays filter and shatter
through it's gentle shape,
water song in icy throng,
for those who stand and admire.

An early frost, creator
if you want to see?
An early frost,
dream maker,
as it should be.

 

A few words from the Creator

Eerie
sitting on a porch
snow wafting down
gently falling to ground
and I watch, frozen
as it hits the table
melts to water
flows away
gone.

Yet under a microscope,
it's shape suggests more?

 

Willow Talk

Three of them,

stand guard on my fence,

mostly sullen and quiet,

yet give them a bit of wind,

and party time in Willow Alley,

see them wave about,

gesticulate all over,

throw discarded leavings

to passersby, curious.

 

If they could walk, they'd walk the talk,

willow talk on a silken grass verge,

verdant green leaves and blades seen

to be blending in a clash of sameness,

and the higher the wind activates,

the more determined the conversation.

 

Guess what?

Can you hear them whispering?

Or perhaps the chatter of laughter

as they bend and chortle loudly quiet.

Maybe one day, when you bend your ear,

you'll hear their latent Willow Talk too.

Sigh!

Ah! but I see it, the sign language is clear.

 

The Monument

Included in the ten foot slab,

of granite and marble,

those stark words-

"They died for their country"

every year, once a year

people are reminded.

 

Why only once?

 

Etched on the faces of those who parade,

a sense of loss, of wounded pride

and a memory of those that died,

carried in their hearts

and souls and minds

the ones who went,

became left behind.

 

Old ladies at the RSA,

tend the kitchen and the bar,

measure plates of salad,

pints of liquor,

to hide the scars, of those they serve

and their own, the ones passed on,

like the letters in the marble,

all going, going, gone.

 

Why only once a year?

 

The scarifice was too large

for a once a year thought,

as if their efforts were for nought,

and those that died,

living a desolate lie,

every Anzac Day they live for half a day,

then quietly forgotten.

 

Lest we forget.

Maybe a plaque in every school,

"Kia Kaha, they died for you"

serve their spirit, their memory

for the betterment of a new world,

walk proud, be kind,

walk the walk of peace for all mankind,

take honour in their blood

and wash yourself of their cleansing lotion,

Arohanui, fallen warriors,

you are missed, and never forgotten.

 

Ice Cutter

Leaning into it,
fierce death storm
no breath,
cut short on a wave of snow flurry
and 50 knot winds,
stupefying senses
sensory deprivation
as the ice cutter, severs.

Blizzard, snow storm supreme
blasts flesh of dead bones,
unprotected devoured
in a blur of slurry,
makes for hard times,
to open eyes and see,
see nothing but snowblindness,
take a picture,
might be your last.

 

Tide washes dross from the floors of pity

Moron,
stagnant refuse growing
detritus floss on once solid food,
the fridge looks like a bacterial worm
and I eat from within,
my anger lost in mourning.

She died,
left me to look after myself,
irons cold these long years
a washing machine standing lonely,
my rags tatters,
lay about, strewn in disrespect.

Scour the living room,
long since dead of her memory
see dust mountains building
mosques in worthless prayer,
a dog I don't recognise, wanders by
as the tide roles in.

Mirrors all broken shards
of nothing staring back,
a long face once recognisable
now a chagrin fur-covered feint,
tide roles out and takes me with it
yet all it touched follows

and haunts me.
I drown in the misery of existence
subservience, abandonment,
suck water deep into the lungs
coughing up dust mites,
and surviving.

She stares back at me
"come husband, I await"
yet the tide turns again
plonks me in my holy chair,
I pray for resolve, restitution,
duck into memories

and swim long strokes
of fantasy to assuage the beast,
play back the video of my mind
and make love to her once again,
then sink in the realisation
the fridge is bare.

 

Broken Hearted

Today I read, the
words of the dead and dying
left in trenches trying to
remember the loved ones
waiting while their life
is abating, and I cried for their
misery, the Broken Hearted.

They swallowed their pride
and drank the foamy blood
oozing from the punctured lungs
because they could do no other
but cry for sister or mother, the Broken Hearted.

I then read of the generals
in bed laughing and drunk
shacked up in their bunks with nubile
young maidens, nary guilt laden,
nor thinking of the Broken Hearted.

I put down my book and had
another quick look in the mirror
spewed my guts out for the
tragic young warriors left on the battlefield
and cursed humanity, feeling broken hearted.

Today, I swear, to those distant
and near, that my will is to forge
a peace everlasting but its harder now
to do the casting for anyone that's
able to forget being broken hearted.

Wake up you fool, look what you write
in spite of the vitriol and mans
solemn plight, we rush headlong in
to eternity to be what we are and be what
we've been, forever great and equally broken hearted.

I have personal freedom, I have escape
and responsibility and children, a wife
and I have the Net, Roger, and other lives
that bring my being to completeness only
occasionally broken hearted.

But I digress, back to the story, the
soldiers die and the generals get the glory,
and some bastard of a president or
prime minister glorifies the deeds, as only
the remaining families' bleed for the Broken Hearted.

Obviously a commentary on the despair of the dying soldier and to those who remember, and those who forget, and the ease with which those who decide the fates of their charges, take the glory.

 

The Bus Stop Analysis

Do you know what I am thinking when I see you drive by,

Am I looking at you but can't catch your eye,

Locked in your world, doing your thing,

My Bus Stop analyses, what will it bring?

 

Yuppie in the Beamer, smoothing his hair,

Chatting away to no one thats there,

Fixing his tie, it still looks quite funny,

Off to a meeting, making more money.

 

Old guy in a Landrover, hair balding, grey,

Looking all over for a memory to play,

Shaking his impatience, to those too fast,

Cursing his age, but remembering his past.

 

Two young girls, cramped up in their Mini,

One too fat and the other too skinny,

Chatting of their conquests, before and to come,

One of them turns, and pats her sore bum.

 

A bus full of those who need to be learned,

All kids full of mischief, a match to be burned,

A driver whose headphones dont quite sit right,

My thoughts race to their future plight.

 

But the Caddy cruises past, coffin onboard,

Sign of the fish, sign of the lord,

A memory lying dead in its final journey,

Not two days ago, alive on a gurney.

 

A Ferrari speeds by, with a wistful lady,

Intent on her race with the silver Mercedes,

She eyes me standing at my stop of study,

But cruises on by her mind on my body.

 

My reverie is shaken, by the sound of confusion,

As my study is rent by a mighty intrusion,

A hippie walks by with a spring in his gait,

Turns to me, stops, and says "Peace to you Mate".

 

My conclusion to the analysis, firm but sure,

Is that man is quite ignorant when hes locked up secure,

But if he is roaming the land, out on his own,

He is friendly and open, and not given to moans.

 

Will the Kids ever know....

Theres one lying on the ground,

In the middle of the day,

With a coke bottle in his hand so proudly on display

And see the spreading stain

Across his chest again,

Will he ever know why he lays this way?

 

Theres fifteen more spread across the screen

Where two insane

Vented their spleen

With a mission of revenge upon their mind

Where will it end

Will they ever know why they lay this way.

 

Theres the image of this waste,

Sent across the narrow space,

And daily beamed into my own living room,

Can I sit here and view

The madness of the few,

Do I question why the kids all lay that way?

 

Do you take your own kid off to school,

Knowing someone there will kill,

Or do you leave her locked up in your sheltered home?

Do you banish her away

Or accept that judgement day

May cause her to be the kid lying that way?

 

How do you make a difference?

How can you make a change?

What is the easiest solution for your growing pain,

Do you seek some re-education?

Or are just happy with retribution,

Or do you accept that some kids will always lay this way.

 

As you wrestle with the dilemma,

Of the bullies and the winners

And the losers and the victims on the screen,

Do you finally turn off the box,

That transmits the ratings vox?

And glorifies the killers who make us pay.

 

Its nothing to do with guns,

Or knives or how its done,

Its really about the way we drift apart,

A gun is just a tool,

Used by some of lifes fools,

To make the ones that hurt them lay that way.

 

Can your conscience comprehend,

How life will really end,

When its finished by one who you may befriend,

Does it hurt to extend your hand

Or your heart to fellow man,

Can you stop all the kids laying that way?

 

Take some personal responsibility,

Give you kids ability.

And show them how to treat their fellow man,

Love the one with acne,

Play with the one with a lisp,

And show the kids how to stand and how not to lay.

 

Seven Degrees of Sea

1 Beauty

Look around, nary a sound,
Twinkling sparkling millpond,
Light dancing, no breath of wind,
Paradise before you,
Deep blue mirrors sky's hue,
Clarity supreme!
See bullet-like fish
dart and dash
for metres and leagues down.

2 Paradise mottled.

Wind breaks the calm of seas balm,
yet still no harm,
little ripples do break the serenity,
still paradise
not quite as nice but panorama
is churned, greyish tint
The blue is less clear,
Fish not there.

3 Paradise broken.

Grey clouds whipped by strongish gusts,
waves rolling
Whitecaps strolling incessantly,
Blue turns to dark green
picture once serene
now crazy with churning spume
clarity lost, murky water
Thoughts darkened by the haze
Cloudy wind-filled days.

4 Crestfallen

Swells building, waves breaking, CRASH,
wind whips water
mad dashes across the surface
Black roiling cloudbanks, close the gloom,
leaves no room
for the fainthearted, motion started
sea boiling green and white
as stomach fights the crests and troughs
Battle soon lost.

5 Gut wrenching.

Death is near, no ocean clear,
Lunch is sent spewing
misery ensuing
As clouds now speed across your vision,
Gales, high wind precision
Swells stand up and confront
the fear of your dread,
White anger, grey green broth
Merciless ocean whipped to froth.

6 Passion Play

For as far as the maddening eye sees,
unrelenting danger
assails the stranger to the power of the sea,
Clouds one big procession,
wind obsession, your life at the mercy
of powers far greater,
and sooner or later the boat will sway
and rock and toss, and moronically ride
out the oceans passion play.

7 Natural Forces

You ride the Dancing Horses, on forces
not meant to be,
no one conquers the Sea,
but feel it's power and it's serenity,
be it Paradise, or majestic Glory,
take from it what you must
Revile it, revel in it's touch,
It will treat you, natures power
as it wishes, by Seven Degrees,
The Seas.

 

Ruptured Soul, Tortured Whole

Is it too much to ask yourself
what sort of life you'll lead?
is the bodiless mind that you have
ever gonna bleed?
and are the memories that come swelling up
torturing your lonely mind
A really happy existence or
a life you leave behind?

Is the machine what you really want
to keep your mind alive?
or the pulling of the power switch
your only chance to survive?
and why if you've been dead before,
can't you choose to be again?
What is this stupid folly of
the ones that we call Men?

Can you make it through the endless days?
Will the loved ones clear away the haze?
Is your life lost in the mirror maze?
Can they feel your heartfelt pleading ways?
and if the jury answers your earnest prayer
can they play the game, truth or dare?
and is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

When you see the far off sun-baked hills
a-gleaming in the morning light,
will you try to move your once strong legs
and seek to scale their might,
and if the running river of your mind
stretches out for a midnight swim
can you move your arms and torso,
will they answer to your whim?

and if the blackened memory of your strength
fails to move your body on?
Do they understand the reason why, then
that you'd sooner be gone.

Will the doctors then concede your wish?
Are you out of water, floundering fish?
Can you move your will to topple the dish?
Is your philosophy a load of trash?

and if the jury answers your earnest prayer
can they play the game, truth or dare?
and is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

And the tube that settles in your throat
that pumps your useless lungs,
and the tube that pushes useless food
into your fucken useless gut
and the bloody useless head
that holds your stinking useless brain
and the useless flipping body
that tries to ride the train
is the hopelessness of your life
going to be your sad refrain?

Will the loved ones who care for you?
Reach out and do what you can't do!
can they answer Gods fate for you?
and If they don't what will you pursue?
and if God answers your earnest prayer
Does he play the game, truth or dare?
or is the reality of the endzone
yours, and yours alone?

Hey there Vegetable Man,
don't let them scramble the salad,
cause if they do, you'll surely go mad,
hey there once strong guy,
take your right to die!
Only God' can ask why.........

 

Flight of Humanity

Seven thousand feet above the ground,
humanity, States bound,
flies under the heaven,
silver bird, seven four seven.
All tucked in
very long flight,
humanity soars on an endless night.

The preacher stirs in his seat up front,
drunken git, pulls a stunt,
in the toilet,
did they feel it,
smoke roils out, alarms go off,
Hostess looks in, breathes his hacking cough.

Cholera spreads it's deathly wings,
Celine Dion starts to sing,
Death reaches out
kids start to shout,
Preacher offers Gods hand,
two hundred'll be dead ere they land.

The couple down the back, under blanket,
continue to go at it,
death all around,
she continues, up and down,
Old lady going to see her son,
shoots both heathen, with her gun.

Who's pulling the strings, making the plight,
of the passengers in endless flight,
a deathly trip,
no ones hip,
to the plague that rages,
even the bright and now dead sages.

If a dog wandered the lonely aisles,
and saw the deadly smiles,
would he take a piece to chew,
with nothing else to do,
the plane continues unabated,
God's will is terminally sated.

Is humanity trapped on its mindless mission?
can the change be moderated derision,
some mad smoker,
starting the choker,
killing the innocent
just as God wanted it, will he relent?


The fighters pull up alongside, peer inside,
yellow eyes of the Peoples Army deride,
the unwanted intrusion,
standby, nuclear fusion,
Flight one oh three
goes down in unrecorded history.

United American held to ultimate blame
for torching the flame,
setting the missiles on course,
no fate worse,
than a smoker with a hacking cough,
killing the world, wiping humanity off.

No Words

Can't speak,

mind tied in barbed wire,

can't type,

hands handicapped by numbness,

can't reach the paper,

thoughts too far away,

can't die,

the knife is empty and pale.

 

No words,

can prepare you for indifference,

no words,

can chop through the mire,

no words,

issue forth from my finger tips,

I am empty,

like a well sucked dry.

 

Yet I got this out,

been struggling for days

nay, a damn week

and the discourse of loneliness

is the only language I speak,

take a course in discourse

WINZ'll pay,

but I got to speak, another day.

 

No words,

a scary damn feeling,

seeing others talking

your lips move but you say nothing

whisper monologue to the wind

no words to bring you back in

 

For Him

Right before bed,
she made it,
his favourite orange muffin,
moist and warm,
on the bench cooling
ready for his morning tea tomorrow.

She did this,
for him,
every night, every day,
and he never acknowledged,
just grunted a gruff ' morning
and shucked it in his bag
out the door and gone.

For forty years,
then one day she did it,
she baked a banana one,
for him
and his placid ways
he walked out the door
as usual, gone.

She was on the stoop,
waiting,
as his hunched coalminers body
trudged up the path,
"alright" he grunted passing without looking
she turned, the groan and sorrow
etched on her furrowed brow.

She stood by his coffin,
his mates surrounded it,
tossed crumbs from muffins
on his casket, and she wept,
not understanding the significance,
later, at the wake, she asked
and she cried.

For forty years,
George would take his orange muffin
to the coal face,
and feed it to the canaries,
the life savers of the miners,
for forty years he never tasted one,
never knew her orange.

Worse still, never knew she had tricked him,
and she cried,
and to the end of her days,
she baked a muffin at night as usual,
took the fresh one in the morning
and spread crumbs on his grave,
so the birds could feed on his kindness still.

 

Return of the King

Yes, I sat through it,
Three hours eighteen minutes
of pure cinematic bliss,
the third in a trilogy,
that leapt words
onto a wonderful landscape
of screen action.

I watched all three
sat transfixed in awe,
at the mastery of a New Zealander
bringing the second biggest tale
of all time to reality,
wondered at the plethora
of his skills and depth.

Wonder no more,
the brush stroke finished,
complete in it's magnitude,
and hope we of Middle Earth reality
have turned fantasy
into a playground of the mind,
for days, nay eons to come.

 

Water in Three States of Being

I wrestle with the liquid fusion

of water in motion,

lack dimension in my thoughts

as shapes transgress aquatic form.

 

Battle cold lands and snow flurries

hands swiping aside frozen fluff,

throw demented headlocks on icebergs

as they floe, escaping the ring of water prison.

 

On a steamy day, I breathe escapism,

form floating clouds in clear blue skies,

my mind reaches up and ruffles serenity,

causes disruption as I catch solid steam.

All material this page Copyright of Thane Zander.  Any requests for reproduction to be emailed to me at zappydodah@hotmail.com