The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Page Three
The Hawg Series
General Poetry Six
General Poetry Seven
General Poetry Eight
General Poetry Nine
General Poetry Ten
General Poetry Eleven
General Poetry Twelve
General Poetry Thirteen
General Poetry Fourteen
General Poetry Fifteen
General Poetry Sixteen
General Poetry Seventeen
General Poetry Eighteen
General Poetry Nineteen
General Poetry Twenty
General Poetry Twenty One
General Poetry Twenty Two
General Poetry Twenty Three

Poetry of an eclectic nature on anything and everything.

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).


Robert spoke….


Robert spoke in a soft voice,
forced people to bend their ear
to his poetic flow.

He sailed close to the wind
with words that challenged society,
his history a drip drip of essence.

Sadly Robert had no face,
bent over double played that way,
but today he stood up.

Stood up as a man, no longer rhyming for life,
stood as a cactus, in a desert green with envy,
stood as a rock ready to be rent asunder.

Now folks just stand and stare
amazed by the light shining from his mouth
(some say it was always there).

How Robert sang now,
causing little red posies to open
in adjoining listeners.

Sadly, like a desert cacti flower,
his bloom was short-lived,
but the glistening dew of after-taste splashed all

and all praised - "glory hallelujah"
Robert spoke........


The Taste of Lasagna ….


.... and tsetse fly bites in an African jungle,
so it is said (is very viable), the hunger of both
leaving scars where scars go, save the itch.

Rudimentary windows of scarlet and grey
mirror a mood as dark as it is outside,
a hammer sends rainbows flying hither.

The Ice box was empty last night,
I awoke to see if the food genie had come,
staunch icicles hung stalactite - as in shame.

Darren on the 7.30am TV news sneezed uncontrollably
you could see his co host, the pretty Leticia,
having a full blown orgasm onscreen, poor knickers.

I married my pet rat once, was a moving episode,
poor thing was scared shitless as I stuck the ring
around it's scrawny neck and half strangled it
(marriage is like that)

My life is a mess, much like last nights Lasagna
sprawled all over the settee where me and the rat had laugh-orgasmed,
thanks to a 1932 King Kong movie, we both hated.
(always good for a giggle)

Sadly I have to go, the timer on this internet cafe computer
slowly but surely rocking around to Fuck Off Dude (the heads up display),
oh the Tsetse fly - squashed the blighter with steel mesh covered fist.


Physical Injuries


Damned thing - getting old,
every bone tells a different story
of life - and accident

tells a tale of misadventure
and the deliberate nuances to say you're alive.

Take a bent thumb
squashed to a pulp once
and now the scar and off-handedness of it
remind you sometimes foolhardiness is inescapable.

Or that long scar on the skull,
yes the one on the right side - above the ear
an accident in a full contact rugby game
when a misplaced sprig drew blood

(and pools of it too)

Why does failing teeth mean you check your gums daily
two missing so far
not bad for forty eight
and a negative cleaning policy.

But of course you know all this
you have your own stories,
maybe this could be a serial type thing
you know - till I die!


Body Parts


I never did biology at school
it shows, believe me,
when I pee I think it's my brain exploding
and washing yellow blood from a wounded liver.

I walk kinda funny, like one ear
on the end of one distended arm
my knee where my elbow should be
and the other's not much better.

There's a thyroid gland where my toes should be
and fingers on the right kidney to tickle me fancy.

But sadly I have trouble kissing
lips resembling eyeballs
and a small intestine for a tongue
(not to mention fingers for teeth)

My heart I think pumps faeces
every time I have a heart attack
I fart volumous quantities of chromosomes;
a penis for a nose is no fun.

Ladies, ain't it quaint
having a thousand toes to suck on
on top of a head resembling a vagrant pelvis
yes, you can pick your nose, you have choice.

Yeah, I totally failed geography too
yet I know my body like an atlas
and know full well how to breed
and have two lovely puppies.


Whakaari or in the Maw of an active Volcano


The Maori named it Whakaari
the volcanic island the sits lazily
in the vast expanse of the Bay of Plenty,
New Zealand East Coast, in the sun.

It's very active, steaming away all day
and night, though no lava for years,
more like a steam vent in an ocean
devoid of sightseeing icons.

Was tasked one day to go there,
and build a replacement trig beacon
since lost to one of the eruptions
as these things tend to do in volcanoes.

Well, arrived and it was steaming softly
a certain lure to exercise curiousness
to venture onto it's mass, sulphuric at that
then to let curiosity take charge

and wander into the crater, in plastic sandshoes
that melted with the combination of heat
and chemicals meant to destroy
still, walking right up to the rim was awesome.

Think of the power of such a vagrant wanderer,
think of the danger of our journey
think of the headlines "Volcano swallows prey"
think why you didn't wear rubber soled work boots.

Well, we are still here, a tale to tell
Whakaari still intact and steaming,
and visitors aplenty now helicopters exist,
a volcano left in peace, sort of.


Sweet for my sweet


Yeah, old time rock and roll,
when innocence and fun
made for good times by all.

Ladies in twirling colourful frocks,
guys with greased back hair
and winklepickers to tap out the beat.

The Wolfman was the flavour of the DJ day,
belting out sweet tunes and love songs
for everyone to swoon by in their Bel Air's.

I was too young to take full advantage,
but American Graffiti and Happy Days
let us all into their passive secret.

"Sweet for my sweet
sugar for my heartache....."




Curious raindrop
wanders down window pane
splash of new puddle


The Landing


Palms held bare, up
as in supplication,
butterfly touches down.


Missed opportunities


I still love her
even after
six years apart
a lady for eons
me a scurrilous ruse
with bipolar
and all the baggage
that carries -
me now a
mind possessed with her kiss
two maybe
the way she entered my mind
blew me one
over I went
to her undermine.

There's a piano
sits detuned
playing my life
to her well sounding
bass drum
her heartbeat still rings
loud and clear
in a heart still leaden
I wish I was
she has that
I swoon
and in love
see my heart skips
when I mention
it! Love

My mind drives me
as she did
with her womanly
away the time till
the cash register
of time
like the one on my
time away
each day stronger
for the
Taste the decor of
her passing
miss the twirls
the swirls
the curls
my girls,
my ladies of love
each a glove
on a hand devoid
of fingers caressing
tears from their eyes
For me?
With me
to me
I can't lap away
the tears salted
with absence.

How much
to cure
a broken heart?


Albert Einstein meets Stanley Kubrick for dinner


The dog under the table growled,
a kind of guttural wolf whistle
that echoed boisterously
amongst the gathered throng.

Albert scratched his scrotum
always did when guests came.

The carpet was stained red
from copious tinkling of champagne glasses
full to the brim with Pinot Noir.

The movie on the background TV
was a rerun - A Clockwork Orange,
I wanna be a Lighthouse Keeper
tinkles across the masses gathered
at another preeminent dinner group.

There were two empty chairs,
in 1997 there always was two missing
seemed to be the order of the day.

After dinner, Monty Python in all it's regalia
played lampoon games
just to see the resultant quizzical looks
and there were always many, right?

Albert's corpse sat stone still
while Kubrick thought up another massive blockbuster
about dead patrons and barking dogs;
Beethoven’s Ninth played on.


Rusty Car bodies Operetta in K Minor


Ok, so I wander junk yards,
looking at the majesty of what has been,
wondering at the past lives
each rotting hulk has to offer.

The colours are much the same
red's, browns, blues and greens
and the white of vans still unseen.

There’s a tale or two I assure you
but most hark back to my days of driving,
the behaviour of each vehicle mapped
in eternity, just so I can replay it, like now.

Maybe it's God's piano, the scrapheap
playing things over in K Minor
just so he can say OK,
and another life passes by on a dead highway.

I feel privileged if that's the case
to have heard his tune
seen his moon
under which all those heaps lose colour
and become a symphony of grey.


The Whistler

I whistle a tune
"Food glorious food"
from Oliver.

Causes a hunger nodule to fire
in a body devoid for 24 hours now.

I change the song
out of necessity
I hate hunger
as hunger hates me,

The dahlia out the window
wafts in a gentle zephyr
reminds me to change my clocks
to ones that are devoid of darkness.

Maybeliene screeches out
on a radio tuned to negativity,
one foot now tapping to a rock and roll classic,
the other to my whistling;
such is life in this world.

Sadly father passed
and now misses the music I love
maybe he planned it that way?

The whistling stops on that thought
that radio suddenly dies
and the parting thought of my father
fills me with dread -
when's it my turn.


The Hat Stand at No 59  Rawene Place


There it is,

in the hallway as usual,

trumpeting life

as it mingles for another dinner party.


The lifeless blue bonnet

with attached Rhododendron

belonging to Mrs Parker

the street’s busy body.


Pale Mr Sutton’s dapper cheese cutter,

signaling a life on the tracks,

he does gamble a bit

on the horses

and his selection of attire.


A simple black bowler,

Old Mr Townsend

the retired council worker

who still keeps his well drilled thumb

in the affairs of the street.


And lastly Mum’s wig

the red one

gets trotted out for parties

to give the guests a fright

to liven the party up.

Purpose Lighthouse

The picture that inspired this poem can be found at

Dark against a gold light aura,

her light obscured by orange hues,

not yet activated for dancing sailors

to steer and guide through the night.


Rushes blow wistfully incoherent,

seabirds squat on a rusty railing,

a keeper of the light turns the switch

and brave men go softly by.


All to soon, night

and a swinging beam rotates itself,

sends sparks of encouragement

to navigators within eyeshot.


There's a purpose to all of this,

a life, maybe even a rhythm,

the heartbeat every 15 seconds

races out and pumps hope into strong veins.


Dead Ship

She's a living beast,

steel hulled and thrumming from wave lap,

humming to pulsating engines,

tinkering to pots and pans in a busy galley,

the whirr of air conditioning,

heat of miles of wiring,

sounds of boots on linoleum-covered steel deck plates.


A beast that lives to the sounds of sailors,

sleeping off watch all hours of the day,

a busy bridge navigating safe and troubled waters,

of a sudden, the engines cease,

generators fail,

galley stops cooking,

and the pulse of mechanical life dies.


Sailors stand where they are,

in darkness, hearing nothing but the lap lap

of waves on a hull slowing,

the silence deafening, a roar of black,

the darkness a shout on the consciousness

of sailors used to busy busy life,

silenced to submission.


A grave, steel encrusted and murderous,

awaiting a fate none can bear,

anchors unable to be actioned, no hydraulics,

at the mercy of the sea, and wind

and a nuisance to other shipping,

still sailors feel dumbly around their prison,

searching for a sound, a familiarity.


Ashore, when the power dies,

you still hear the flight of planes overhead,

cars passing, day or night,

people passing in starlight or sun,

but at sea, cocooned in that steel compound,

just the nothingness of fear and trepidation,

awaiting a fate none can predict.


By torchlight, engineers work hard,

for pride, for their reputation, for mates,

to get food cooking again, and a means to travel,

for the sounds of life in a shell that thrives,

and when it happens, when that thrum returns,

and air flows, tv's flicker on, and navigation happens,

the sound of sailors roar approval, and happiness reforms.


You see, the life of a sailor is a tenuous one,

and a dead ship wakes sleeping sailors,

such is the roar of silence,

hope returns,

when a ship is once again a ship,

a living entity, a stell microcosm,

and the simple life of a sailor returns

with the flick of a switch or the flow of deisel again.


The Romance of Dandelions and the Rhine River

'Tis a warm German afternoon,
lil' Franz Hoeffer sits astride a log
dipping his toes in the river Rhine,
pulls dandelion wings and floats them
into an air that swims with Beethoven
eminating from a hofbrauhaus
on a white glistening escarp overhead.

He dreams as he watches them,
little aelerons lifting skyward
on a breeze washing the Lufthansa valley,
dreams of Jumbo jets and fighters
twisting and turning through clouds above,
and his toes dip deeper, feeling that flow
warms the moment into memory.

Twenty years later, Franz stares upward
remembering the dream, of flight and fancy,
as the sea bucks the steamer awry again,
he alters course to meet the flow around his toes,
wonders at the events conspiring
to make his feet feel the Rhine
flowing through his Teutonic veins.

And Beethoven plays ever onwards,
succour to dreams and romances,
to dandelions floating to C minor,
to winds creating fantasy and dreams,
to the flow of notes dancing on trickling water
carrying edelweiss from snow capped peaks,
to the Sea Major that became his life.


Phare de Slyne

The picture that inspired this poem can be found at

See before you,
A French perspective
on an Irish tableau.

Rough-hewn Atlantic rock
awash with centuries
of wave action, swirling white.

Dark grey pedestal
of light emitting fantasy,
for sailors tramping south.

On a rough rough night,
waves fling high and try
to extinguish golden delight.

Grey and imposing,
on its castle of ancient time,
sailors glee stands its ground.


Wishbone on the Windowsill

Been there since christmas,

when the turkey was carved

and a feast to be had,

dried out now,

awaiting it's tenuous fate.


Sit's on the windowsill

drying in the morning sun,

the smells of cooking

and steamy boil ups wafting,

still it waits.


Little Susie keeps climbing

the bench to see it,

she wants first go, needs luck,

at her age?

still it's fine, she's patient.


Then one day, had a party

many guests, woke in the morning,

cleaned up the place up,

and shards of broken luck

littered the sill.


You know that feeling,

when you have to tell everyone,

to let Susie know she won't

have a chance to be lucky

this year.


You cook chicken, roast,

size 10 beauty, and it goes,

all in one sitting,

you place the new wishbone

in pride of place.


Next time you have parties,

you rig security, a cam here,

bit of tape there,

and barbed wire across the windowsill,

just in case.


Ouch, that thought hurt.

Don't write poetry with a hangover,
toxic bubbles invade the primary
transmitter for passing information,
from the synapses to the fingertips.

Blink harder, the words seem to work better,
oops, poetry not pastry,
can't find the damned mind eraser,
to clear the crusty particles away.

Then I took a pencil and etched
a thin streaky mark through my ear,
lead poisoning on a frontal lobe
devoid of cognitive response.

I sat and read what I just wrote,
you know, editting process kinda thing,
and realised everything I just scribbled
was supposed to about apple trees mating.


Driftwood Series


Mighty tree,
hewn by nature,
flows to the sea
on flooded river.

Washes ashore,
an art form,
a seat for travellers.

Scrimshaw sculpture
in natural state,
lounge ornament.

In the Lounge

Stands guard now,
sentinel alongside
hutch dresser and entertainment cabinet,
peering out into an orgy
of furniture and momentos.

Visitors gawk,
try to see what I see,
a bole shaped like a goblin,
peering round the side,
two legs with over large penis,

Then surprise,
I have a change of heart,
see nothing in it,
demote it to residency in the garden,
an ornament for dogs to pee against,
cats to scratch waiting paws.

I see it in passing, and wonder,
what did I see?
it stares back in mute silence
offering a wan smile,
in a natural place again,
rotting away.

Garden Rot

Rotting place,
garden humus burns
driftwood remnants,
worms crawl and aeragate,
slaters scamper
shards rot off,
weta and slug share home.


Weta and slug carry post humus
remains of driftwood sculpture,
each to their own place,
Weta to more rotting trees,
slug to virile compost.

I dig both over, in the garden
grow vegetables and plants
eat the products
meant to make me feel good,
an empty stomach hurts.

As an empty space in my lounge now,
but sitting in the easy chair,
stomach full and replete,
the gap in the lounge is filled with memory,
I don't rue my decision, never have.

Bad for the Soul

I rue the ache in a gut,
rotting with indecision,
and the stale ochre of
old driftwood and lettuce,
slater dung hanging in pain.

Made a decision, stole an asprin
from a medicine cabinet short
on tangible items of aid,
swallowed my pride and drank
water to speed the process.

Later that night, the edge came off
as urine flowed bright brown
and down the bowl it flowed,
flushed clockwise on a journey
under streets and alleys.

Streets and Alleyways

Le Francais call it La Rue, le avenue,
a thoroughfare by any other description,
beneath them flow the mechanisms of life,
waste water, fresh water, cables for power.

Through the streets of my town,
sewage flows to a holding tank,
set out of town, for the smell,
filtration by bacteria ensues.

Remnants of meals eaten,
mix with the rich and famous,
the social security folks,
waste from passing travellers.

And a portion of driftwood waste turns,
mingles and bunches, solid waste,
is picked up by a nursery,
strewn on saplings of soon to be mighty trees.

Saplings swaying in the breeze

Nourished with water,
and caste off waste,
small trees flourish and prosper.

Owners dog runs up and down,
choosing a stem at will
to unleash a quick stream, scented.

A breeze blows cool through leaves
bark strengthens despite water,
the attention of Bo weevils and Cicadas.

One tree grows quicker,
a legacy of some far off nutrient
carried through a fist of poems.

Chosen, it goes on a winding journey,
to a new land, and new setting,
in an area once remembered in genes.

Small beginnings

It once knew this area,
the soil rich in familiarity,
a time before death,
and removal from steep hills.

Planted where it once stood,
on a slope overlooking
a winding river vista,
the birds an echo from the past.

And a gene runs through the taproot,
deep into terra firma,
eaten nutrients once tasted,
then upward to spreading leaves.

Strength comes in growth,
in survivability, time,
strength is knowing the past,
and building for a new future.

The New House.

Twenty years on, it flourishes,
tall and strong in a southerly gale,
sounds of birds and bees flying
through tendrils of green.

The sounds of chainsaws break the calm,
and soon the genes of old driftwood
are cut down at the knees, bleeding
on a landscape used to dereliction.

On a truck down highways busy,
and over a river whence it once flowed
to a sea and beach far away,
to a mill to become four by twos.

A timber yard sells neat sawn lumber
to busy builders and handymen alike,
a new house is built next to familiarity,
the air similar in a genes journey.

I won the lotto, bought the land next door,
built a solid timber house I call Driftwood,
walked indoors before completion,
found something in the lounge, a memory.


A Bridge no more

Ever wonder what five inches
of deluge does in eighteen hours?

Wrecks lives,
changes landscapes,
minds sent reeling from stock loss
and the ruination of a society,
makes memories die.

It stood there as long as I was around,
Dad drove over it,
threw stones from it
into a slow moving river,
fished for trout under it.

In the right months, as a kid,
jumped into a deep pool from it's span,
splashed glee written on everyones face
on it's mighty ramparts,
crawled along the gas pipes.

Now I sit on my PC, staring in memory,
a photo of a gaping hole
in the Pohingina Road,
no sign of black top
or green painted sides.

Just a gaping hole in a memory,
gone in a few hours of mayhem,
I sit way downriver trying to imagine
it's shard remains passing
as crumbled silt past my house.

And fail.

Man failed, nature won,
for now, one day I'll take my grandsons
and they will have memories,
on a new bridge, new fish,
and pray they don't have to lose
a memory.


The Wind Blows Chocolate

Rumble in the jungle.

The sound of captured air travelling
the highways and biways
of a tract of pipes bent for food.

Emit a sound quite rude.

Party poopers stand whiffing
aromatic herbs control fragrance,
nostrils volatile from anal assault.

Blame the chef, not my fault.

In a bar, drinks consumed apace,
one patron crashes on his front, splat,
his baked bean diet unfolds in his comatoseness.

Pinch your nez, no danger, god bless.

A womans trick is to diffuse expertly,
no sound, no smell, no residual embarrassment,
men wide open and ripping yarns.

Send them packing ladies, put 'em in barns.


Suspended above hungry mouths,
supine figures dart tongues
in playful erotic joy,
bite pleasure and juices flow.

A mannequin stands erect,
Michaelangelo's David,
or a Venus de Milo,
marbled love plied from stone.

Grape juice litters sanguine shoulders,
remnants of a bird orgy
the smell assails the erotica,
and turns blind lust rampant.

Too bad Caesar failed his people,
too many grapes and sluts,
not enough time for the pleasures
of power and governance.

Yet now, we have the Grapes of Wrath
what pleasures ensue from within?
The minds set on the crushing
into a fine wine, palatable for now.


Lucretia's Week

Lucretia Chowmonderly
lay by the pool,
always on Mondays
she played the damn fool,
made love to the poolman
in her big king size bed,
turn the picture of hubby down
as if he were dead.

Picked up by the chauffeur,
every Tuesday morn,
would be out shopping
and partying to dawn,
lays with a hangover
till late the next day,
all forgotten now,
her previous lay.

Thursday is girls time,
out on the rantan,
sometimes the beauty parlour
enhancing her tan,
sometime the hairdressers
to style her blonde locks
so that she can lure in
some more male jocks.

Friday and Saturday,
at home with her man,
pretending the marriage,
isn't a scam,
then on Sunday
to church she does go,
to confess all her sins
like she had any, you know?


The Undertaker

Buried trees today,
blown to a horizontal death,
across driveways
and near a house.

No priest on hand
to read the last rights,
just the buzz of a chainsaw
and sawdust to sawdust.

Once mighty wattles
and towering blue gums,
now consigned to the woodpile,
for a winter burn.

The sun now shines
where once there was darkness,
yet a space is a space,
and empty from what was.


Geek Speak

There be a mathematical chance,
hyperbole will dance,
Geometric shapes will fly.

Cross the pages of grids,
arithmeticians flip their lids,
astronauts streak through the sky.

Philosophers daily engage,
in thinking that's all the rage,
their hypotheses set on to cry.

Monotheists gainfully pray,
an entity will come their way,
no bacon for them at all to fry.

A Biologist in a college,
stumbles upon newfound knowledge,
a rat on a table suddenly dies.

Politicians do pontificate,
about the things we really hate,
and the last word across their lips was a lie.

May the PC that you are on,
be your truth device, no con,
may the words come to light ere you die.


A Childs View of Quaint Vegetables

No Mummy,
not Brussel Sprouts,
but sweetheart,
they're baby cabbages.

Oooh Yuck Mum,
Yams make me puke,
Oh come on honey
they build strong muscles.

Daaaaaaad, there are slugs
on my silverbeet, wah
Silver beet makes you strong, son
and so do slugs, hahaha.


Leprachauns Lament

Skeediddly daddly
scumpitidy doo,
fracksal palima
hufftitippy poo.

Drachnasia whirmonga
shriektra kaibosh
mantira, byhungy
efrumpty gopripitoss.

Jaschitra lubmingo
scrippity trumbay
ahhh to be shure, lass
have a nice day.


Tha Vingnyet on a wark

Doggie doos

Walked along,
path bare, but for a pile
of flies sniffing
a feast.

Lolly Paper

Wafts along on a breeze of chance,
dances merry tangos
in an effort to refuse

The child on the bike.

I waltz left, slowly
a BMX with deranged nine year old
tries to run me down
in uncontrolled madness,
happy smiles.

A Car Backs out of a driveway.

Nissan 300ZX, all power,
purrs backwards
poking backwards out from home
to block my reverie,
hits accelerator
and vanishes, smokey.


Rain, Flood, Misery

It rained.....
very heavily.

A little river flowed...........
a flooded torrent.

People, once happy.............
sighed in misery.

The land can't breath
The People are choking
The stock are no more
The Flood strangles


Fastnet Light

The picture that inspired this poem can be found at


Pushing beneath a baleful glare,

once silent sail in full voice,

listens for mermaids siren

a fog horn in a misty seaway.


A Pennant tells a long story.

Fastnet Light stands guardian

o'er rocks washed with wind whipped spray,

an empty beacon in days glow,

two elements touched by the sea.


Twin foresals point her into the wind.

And a great obelisk of white points her to seaward,

safety in a storm tossed pleasure,

great hands pull sheets tight to swing

large sails to their rightful place, in the scheme.


And it stares on, blindly blinking nothing.


Rue de Joulet

In gay Paris,
I see the Seine
reflect francais sunshine.

Artistes at their easel,
daubing french maids
dressed in haut coiture.

Saunter down Rue de Joulet,
beret cantered Pyranees-style,
lick a popsicle ere it melts.

Julienne St Bromerge sings Edith,
birds flitter from oak to oak,
life passes gaily on.


I Almost Forgot

I almost forgot to write
my poem for today,
to be honest, I haven't
had much to say,
I sit and wonder how long
I'll be this way.

So here I am trying
to write something new,
but for the life of me
can't think of anything to do,
looked at my shirt,
and finally my shoe.

Then it came to me,
something for sure,
inspired by me knocking
my head on the door,
saw it written in the
carpet on the floor.


When I talk

Why is it
when I talk to you,
my mind wanders?
And how is it,
when you talk to me
my mind strays too,
in fact why is it
when folks talk to me
my mind takes a holiday?

Perhaps early onset Alzheimers,
or a hint of Parkinsons.

Now, what were we talking about?


A stick on the ground and the minds eye

It lies on the ground,
too broken to move any further,
as low as it can get,
maimed from a severe dismemberment.

You reach with your hand,
cold to touch, yet alive
with green leaf and sap oozing,
look to it's host,
see the carnage enacted.

Observe the end, torn
imagine the exact damage
whence it came, think repair.

Your climbing skills are rusty,
the taste of bark on tongue,

In your eye, your minds eye,
you see rebirth, sense success,
in your mouth you taste death.

Back on the ground, the stick
firmly placed where you found it,
a sudden realisation you're not God
nor a tree counsellor, walk on by.


Lay Down my Sword and Shield

Scrambled over heather
fighting the Celts
north of Hadrians Wall,
slain Saxon renegades
on the plains of Salisbury.

Marshalled resistance
in the vineyards of Bordeaux,
clashed metal with metal
with Teutonic hordes
on the colossal Steppes.

Walked the streets of Rome,
a beaten hero,
forgotten but for the armour
the shield, a blood red sword,
the look of a tireless campaign.

Found an empty house,
laid down shield and sword,
cooked pasta with a ravenous dog,
hailed Caesar, spat into dirt
died where I slept, alone.


Cadillac Jukebox

Sat in a milk bar,
swapping cokes with girls
in pigtails and short pants,
sounds round the room,
high laughter and joy
and the sounds of Elvis
from the musicbox in the corner.

A waitress in a miniskirt
rollerblades between aisles
and people are happy,
plenty of smiles, then
with a flick of a switch,
a cadillac roars in
and parks in the bar.

Big negro with an afro do,
pumping Stevie Wonder
from his radio set,
the crowd, mostly white
a little upset, close in
threatening, smiles gone,
when out of the Caddy

comes a change of tunes,
a mixture of surfing sounds
some blues and some jazz,
the mood reignites,
a Cadillac Jukebox
everyone sways.

From the club across the road
come a curious crowd,
listening to white folks sounds
reaching out to them loud,
temperature rises again,
as women see women
men see men, smiles.

The crowd in the bar
push the Caddy outside,
black meets white
and the music decides,
youth dances with youth
no matter the colour
and the cops arrive.

Yet the Caddy Jukebox
plays long and loud,
the children of indifference
dance the same songs,
happiness is replaced
by the intent of the old
'hey children, hear us'

"white will be white
and black will be black."


Illusionary affect of silence

It gives you a sense of suspension,
moves people to look over shoulders,
that whisper of soundlessness
as a stare into space fills a void.

People will tell you it is golden,
yet when you see it,
there is nothing,
just a timelessness waiting
to unfold.

Monks practice it with ease,
little children take time,
A minute here and there
for someone once living.

Yet to some, the illusionary affect of silence
is a scream on the consciousness.


Home Invasion

"How old are you?"
in his rough Russian-Hungarian
guttural, as he fondled her breasts
through threadbare serving maid
clothes, rotting away.

"Sixteen" she mumbled apologetically,
felt his hand rip her torn knickers from
her hips, the rip a yell in the dark.

The townsfolk hid, heard her cries,
heard the soldiers laugh, and grunts,
the sound of bare-skinned hand hitting,
cracking cheekbones, on golden hay.

They would have cried for her,
but why do something they never have,
she, the village dolt, dumb, wracked,
unable to be good stock for a gentleman,

little alone a farmhand on heat. She was
the village mat, walked over and used,
yes even for pleasure, but never like this.

A dog yelps at a retreating conqueror,
pisses on the tree he leant his rifle against
to do up a worsted fly, now damp from sex.

The village heard her whimperings, her wailing,
her hunger, to be loved, to be cared for,
yet noone hugged her, gave her comfort,
just scuffled their toes in the dirt, in passing.

They found her one day, naked,
making some kind of statement none could fathom,
dangled from the Oak tree, her life silent,
bar the blood dribbling from torn breasts,
and a stick devouring her sex, bleeding the pain out.

They cut her down, gave her a burial,
buried their shame, and someone cried,
maybe her mother, or an abusive brother,
too later though, the soldier her saviour,
like her town, all gone now.


Self electrocution.

Mum always told me,
'Never make a call in a thunderstorm'
like I listen to her,
talked to Sandra
as the storm circled above.

Could hear the click click
of the static
as her sweet voice
swooned me in my reverie,
a crash of lightning
and clap of thunder above.

Reached over for a cigarette
burning in a stainless ashtray,
saw blue sparks eminate from
fingertips melting black,
and the shock of heat crossing shoulders
hunched in pain.

Woke in hopsital,
my girlfriend was worried,
rang 111, ambo's came
picked my sorry arse off the floor
and gave me burn cream
an ECG to be sure.

Mum was right, dang her!


The Lounge Room Pavarotti

Ordinarily I wouldn't do it,
though sometimes,
for some reason,
a Pavarotti-like animal inside me
screams his joy.

There are times,
with windows open for a summers breeze,
I walk through the lounge
and the animal roars,
startled curb crawlers turn
not to listen, but in fear.

Ave Maria is the usual suspect,
or an Italian version of Danny Boy,
but lately, a startling change,
rapping in bass baritone
to In the Ghetto, by the King,
these times I try not to laugh.

Old Rose next house over,
the eighty year wonder lady,
knocks on my door,
asks me to turn the stereo down,
I burst into a tenor rendition,
"Dont bother knockin', the house is a rockin' "
she runs in a demented hobble.

Last night I woke myself up,
seems I was snoring in A Minor,
in tune to White Wedding,
don't know what was worse,
the key of A Minor,
or the nuptual premonition.


Magna Crematus

Magna crematus,
the large burn,
ashes spread on dampening gardens.

Posies sprout,
new growth thrives,
life returns for cherry pickers.

Lionel Ritchie croons,
plants live for music,
tulips dance in a warming summer breeze.

Nuclear weapons
threaten natural order,
Magna crematus awaits a new start.


Russian Prostitutes

Oh Olga,
take my twenty ruples,
may the black ice
of a Moscow alley,
melt into the Volga,
and flow to Lubyunka.

Vodka flows through lips
long used to fire and ice,
births in the homeland,
A hungry mouth grows
fuelled by the need to live.

The Kremlin issues a Red Flag
to wrap around heads of state,
only woollen rags or a copy
of the Moscow Times covers
the ice bound decay
of a babushka on heat.

Tavoritsch comrade,
they suck you for ten ruples
or a bottle of Smirnov;
the cold is hard this year,
'icicles hang from my nether parts,
warm them for me,' she says.

Often in mid winter,
street whores are seen
floating dead on that river of ice,
thrown to a watery grave
for the spring thaw.

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