The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Page Four
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.

Maniacal Misinterpretations


I never see my doctor, my psychiatrist,

he (or she) sees me,


the ink blots had no meaning

yet the psych thinks I should see


see the shapes that just don’t do it for me

as if art was an ink blot, try Dali folks


they probe your senses with psychobabble

and wonder why you answer with a ceiling stare


as well as twiddling of thumbs to show

the time they are using is yours to waste,


last patient was no where near as tough as this one

yet time flies by in a room bare of love


I walk out, the psyche hurriedly writing notes

to justify their existence and the job they don’t do,


suddenly it comes to you, understanding that five

second look in the mirror, your psyche visit,


I wonder about life, I have to, so much time,

but most I wonder why psychiatrists get it all wrong.


In Mary’s Room


In Mary’s room,

is a sign of 80 years of existence,

her clothes scattered

her scent diminishing

her passing notched


in the carpet

where cigarette burns are

a pattern in a carpet awaiting replacement

like her coffin

etched with time,


In Mary’s room

is an indication she lived;

lived her own life

psychiatrically entrenched

after 61 years



In Mary’s room

is the memory of her scant attire

the dresser filled more with dust

than clothing,

she was like that.


In my life

Mary notched another memory

hobbling around on a four-toed foot,

forever dousing her hair with cod-liver oil,

a smoke invariably dangling

from gnarled fingers or curled lips


her smile the thing that catches,

speaks a survivor-

bemoans a four-walled life-

engenders patience-

(she was always going on about God)


I hope he’s looking after her

when she goes,

because in Mary’s room

death stalks




Cecil’s crypt


I talk to Cecil, not many do

he’s seventy four, a few screws missing

been a miner, dad, husband

robbed by mental illness

confined to life asking for smokes

yeah, nicotine addict

but you can’t blame him.


Lives in a world that centres around

the next smoke every hour or two,

his vocabulary resigned to asking if you have a smoke,

or perhaps “can I have ya butt mate”


I sometimes pander to his desire

and flick him a smoke

but that only leads to him asking you

every time you see him

“gotta smoke mate”


Cecil’s socks are as old as he is

the holes getting bigger with each passing year,

his clothes tidy, but all the wrong size

as tends to happen in these places,

I bet Cecil doesn’t even know what he wears

(or cares)


He’s a banter though, get him right

and the stories flow,

more to this old man than a puff of a cigarette

and the abuse he gets from other residents,

he gets that in spades and

he has that effect on folks.


I guess I know one day I’ll write his eulogy poem

like I did for Kiril last year (he was 79)

to laud his positive side

albeit miniscule

but done just the same.

I live in Cecil’s crypt too

wondering who is going to write mine

or I have to do it myself, as usual.


Rudy's Rancid Rainbow.

Red - the colour of war
death knocking at the door.

Yellow - the colour of the sun
and battles never won.

Orange - the colour of fruit
peeled away to divulge the brute.

Green - the colour of grass
and rotten bones now past.

Blue - the colour of sky
the millions that have died.

Indigo - the colour of medals
soldiers with guns and pedals.

Purple - the colour of mourning,
and of poems with dire warnings.

Black - the colour of ink
and another battleship we sink.

White the colour of purity
a reason to fight with surety.

Rainbow - the colour of rain
the war will start over again.


Behind Brian's door.

Behind Brian's door lurks a man of God,
everything he does (we think)
is with that in mind.

I say that because Brian mumbles
as he is morbidly obese
and has trouble moving his lips.

Behind Brian's door is a bunch of sayings
he trots out every which way
and can be understood by the few (not I)

Brian's age is indeterminate, possibly late fifties
or sixties, or even possibly seventy
such is the mystery of his appearance.

And appears and disappears, tricky wee fella,
walks like a camel on steroids, and a propensity
to unzip and let rip with a stream anywhere (beware)

Behind Brian's door is probably a man of vast experience
if only he'd let the door open ( just a small bit)
so we can get a glimpse of the poor man.


Garden pests

The swirl of the spiral, signifies it's home
over the land it is want to roam,

daily it wanders, hither and yon
the sticky trail signifies where it has gone,

A pace that is measured by slow and sure
over plants it goes, eating galore,

the French love them, call them escargot,
all I see is something elegant and slow.


Ten Tripping Toes


They stand as far from my brain as you can get,
no wonder they trip me up, dry or wet,
they stand there counting out a tripping beat,
those ten appendages at the end of me feet.

They find doorways and furniture true
after each hit, they colourise blue,
The pain is short-lived glory be to God
after 48 years each one of them is odd.

They pass the time tucked away in shoes
singing away the bent toed blues,
sight unseen and thank heaven for that,
so numb are they when they kick my poor cat.

So there is the eulogy to my ten bent toes
if you don't wash em often, they assail the nose,
the closest they get to that part called head,
it's always the doorways that me ten digits dread.


Opus in G, O, and E.


Stage centre

the spot illuminates

a figure - supine

drops rose petals to a stage azure


In the dress circle

a man gropes his girlfriend

in asylum darkness

moves her G major

to the pulse of the orchestral pit


The movement on the podium

switches to E

male swan floats into view

dogs howl in an alley nearby

drowned by violins

and a ladies moan


Pastel pink dashes


across a woodlands scene

the stage fills

with dancers swaying

to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake

the air is orgasm


behind a spotlight

a stage hand sees

the minuet of O Major

in the circle

sends a shard of white hot light

into the closed eyes

thine lovers -


the noise is horrendous now

viola scratching innuendo

the Cello strumming

the Kettle drum pounding out

the movement of a hand

between two parted thighs


dancers swirl white chiffon

cremation of love

burnt offerings of taffeta

to smooth

the passage

of lust.


Was that a dog barking?

or the gasp of an orgasm

cheated from the lead dancer


was it the audience applauding

the stage movement

or the circle climax -

was that a night of the opera

or Swan Lake

garnered with Purple fissures.


Love poetry is written

with a spotlight centered

stage left dress circle

stage right

dying swan


and in the curtain fall


for another night

where entertainment


is garnered.


Last breath


I smoke,

no the cigarette smokes

I'm the sucker

on the end


until the end


I drink

not alcohol anymore

no boozy old snore

was my friend


until the end.


I eat

fattening food before

good food for sure now

I can bend and how


until the end.


I can't see the end

neither can my friend

this message I send

to see if you see your end


until the end.




Entry to the show is as free as a dime in a cup;

startled birds twitter and flitter meaninglessly

as Geronimo’s vision is blurred by casino culture


the penny pinching and rumours of corruption

stifle a freedom for those with more cash than me;

you seek a long mile paved with gold and sapphires


a place where Dorothy tiptoed in youthful exuberance

then the plan falls into place, the dollar drops

on stock markets geared for keeping the rich – rich!


I ate salad on a plate in the Ritz that stinks of dosh

turned the diamond encrusted fork – picked steak

tonight, a fat Cuban smoking Texan recommended it.


turning back to the diamonds, trying to count carats

and wonder at the depth (and death) of those mines

far off in deepest Africa and Russia, small countries


set to engender wealth for the small fry, broken shoes

broken promises, broken lives, pure lascivious jewels

garnishing the petty wealth of Hollywood, or castles


across Europe and the East – the sum total of tusks

too rent from wild animals that only ask for peace

and to be left alone on the African savannah.


Today I divest myself of all my other possessions

the ones that screamed conscience and death

the ones that have me thinking about movie stars


devoid of any vestige that decries capitulation

of Kings and Queens flashing star-like

in a world bent on mediocrity, oneness, same


Today I planted a tree to repair the damage,

today I called the Queen and gave her what for,

today I went to Africa to fill in the mines


and put a barbed wire prison fence around

the homeland of the Rhino and Elephant,

fuck the rich, screw the sex starved Chinese


bugger anyone that gets in my way

I am a minority, but I fear a part of a silenced

majority, so we can watch it all lavishly on TV.



Adam culture


Is it really that easy?



from forbidden fruit trees?


How hard is it?

to bite


into delicious sin.


Was it hard?


a rib

to make sense and sensibility.


How hard was it to ask?

A God


it is really all about?


Why do you limp?


as how

both legs are perfect.


Why do most write?

right handed

left guide

in a book about ambidextrous.


Is love easy to cherish?

a man crucified

for his sins

the sins of all who follow.


Well so it is written!

by unknown


disciples to the core.


Why is the future clear?

not the past


by wrong interpretations.


Blue – the finishing note

as blue

as all the oceans

bigger than all Men’s posturing.


Deeper than any church or book!


I stop here

it’s hard being a hypocrite.



Davy Jones Locker


He keeps his work-clothes in it,

like most at Mills Mine do,

but there’s something terrifying

about Davy Jones’ locker

the stickers on the front

suggest imbecilic moron

the door opened suggests mummies boy.


In the dark of a locker room,

men sweaty from exertion

and the toils of working

thousands of feet under,

beneath dark green jungle

searching for the gold

on your wedding band.


But Davy’s a bit different,

sucks little licquorice sweeties

at the mine face


with a diffidence

to a situation possibly



And his locker reflects it,

death masks collected

from each miner passed by,

a remembrance to his longevity

his own possibility

the possibilities of all;

the miners leave him to it.


Each keeps a talisman

suspended from muscular necks

beneath blackened beards

and charcoal exteriors

above blue coveralls

crimpled from the last wash

when women last saw them.


One exception in Davy’s locker

that all carry in theirs

a picture of his mother

holding a fresh lunchbox

from when he was still at school,

days to cherish for one so young;

his few months on the face have hardened.


The Jesus conspiracy.


Regulations stated no questions please

about Jesus and a possible conspiracy,

stated that Moses couldn’t be challenged

even though he parted a huge sea!


Statutes state Man must follow the One God

and his Prophets – yes two - Jesus and Mohammed,

must never question the written accounts

of the lives these men begat upon society.


I know Love, of woman in my arms

not the love of fellow man, it’s sad really

but I treat my fellows as equals

no superior or subordinate as the case may be.


I’ve read the Bible, three times now yet still

the meaning of hidden messages don’t jump

and hit me square in the face, yet I follow God,

but neither of the prophets, too many wars.


Hannah’s Happy Handbag


She swings it high and lo

damned if she don’t know

what a pathetic show

her happy handbag is.


She opens it up everywhere,

she has a spare pair of underwear,

she makes a fuss anywhere

such her handbag’s whizzes.


Within there are a hundred things,

a lipstick tube that sings,

some wayward goldy blings,

her happy handbag fizzes.


Why she has Tampons new?

why she had a spare left shoe?

why she always wanted screws?

her happy handbag fizzes.


No money - all just cards,

swings it in circular yards,

sends the glass inside to shards

Visa card for business.


Stolen one day by a youth,

she thought so uncouth,

her anger went through the roof,

handbag now just hissy-fit.

White Water Rafting

Driving through a mountainous gorge,
a river splashing white and blue below,
see little specks on rubber tubes,
negotiating rough rapids; and themselves.

Drive further on, see the signs,
Mountain Pass White Water Rafting,
black lettering on a yellow background,
sort of like a bumble bee waiting to sting.

Pull into the layby, see the road leading down
to a point, a chalet and a few sheds,
looked at Patrick, flip the gold coin,
heads we deal with what the road has for us,

or tails, we venture into the unknown,
associate with water and oars,
sore arses from numerous rock assaults;
tails it is, we smile, nervously, but with glee.

I write this from heaven, cool kinda place,
Pat sitting next to me with a grin bigger
than the Big Banana on the Gold Coast,
watching the authorities drag the river,

searching for a rafting mishap, just one of those days,
see the car being picked up by Pat's brother,
some cop places a tarpaulin on a body,
not mine, nor his, that Swedish blonde maybe;

flip of a coin eh?




called Veo
designed by some geekboy

to send my image
as a megabyte

to you.

Sits atop
a monitor,
'til I hit Webcam
in Yahoo or MSN.

Then it shines blue
to say I am there
whereever there may be,
a few seconds away
you smile
at me
Megabyte Me.

Is it a coincidence
I use Windows ME?


He he.


The Great Procrastinator

Made some mince on the stove,
heard the phone ring,
answered the phone,
it was my brother,

the doorbell rang,
was the neighbour,
asking for sugar,
walked to the pantry,

the cat demanded food,
made for the fridge, KittyBites!
needed a drink,
went to get a glass,

found a two week old bill
sitting on the bench,
ran to the office for my pen
saw my chequebook

picked it up for some reason,
trotted to the bathroom
looked in the mirror,
saw a hungry man,

with an irate brother,
an unsettled neighbour,
an estranged cat,
a drink needing to be drunk,

a bill waiting to be paid,
a pen trying to be found,
a chequebook that needed using,
and now an image needing fulfillment.

A mower on the verge of extinction

It's just a piece of shit
hunk of rusty damn metal,
a motor that clunks through
the phases of cough and splutter.

Spews smelly fumes into pristine air,
makes enough noise to keep the neighbour
deaf for a good week or more,
'til the next time at least.

Costs a packet to run,
can't see the point in keeping it,
'cept makes my house look neat and tidy,
first impressions don't you know?

I was 15 dreaming of being 45 looking back

Was just this minute in a reverie,
chewing over ideas for another poem,
when I had this vision,
me 45 going on 46,
sitting in a 2 room house off the main road,
juxtaposed alongside a skinny kid,
30 years younger, in fact 30 years ago.

One and the same person?
Nuh, not really, things happen,
change, get altered by life,
see that blow up kid waiting to be fulfilled,
waiting for his first girl,
hand in his pocket nervously scratching.

What's changed, apart from the dimensional things?
A beard, greyish now, not the bright red
of an 18 year old brash young guy,
more pork around the ribs and stomach;
then he could run a mile in 4.30,
now he'd be lucky to ride it in 5,
then there was those rolls in the hay,
few and far between then, at first,
but a reputation soon builds,
what was once all night,
is now all right if it's 15 minutes,

if that, he thinks.......

Masquerading now as a learned poet,
hell 25 years ago, be acting the bloody fool,
speeding down highways like Jackie Stewart,
in a single seater F1 car,
or making vodka punches for weddings
and watching the guests leave worse for wear,
smoked a bit of weed too, and did some trips,
things you try when you're young,
the only trips you manage now are over the stoep,
and the only weed, the stuff that mocks your garden,

and your lazy greenfingers.

Reminesce about the runs with the boys in the Navy,
to far off ports, and clubs,
sightseeing in dark alleys and neon nights,
or play sport all hours of the day,
to kill time, and maybe the opposition,
local of course.

Now your sport is on the TV and the PC,
your accident last year took care of that,
lucky though, all those years, actively sporting
and not one serious injury,
except after five years of marriage, vasectomy
(that wounded pride for sure).

So what's different with life now,
everything really, and in another 20 years
I'll write another poem bemoaning the life I have now,
we men tend to be bitchy that way, you know!
Will write about how 50 years ago I was a kid
with different memories and recollections,
and joke with my nurse at the foolishness of a man
who wrote this poem to prove a point,
that simply didn't exist then.


The Journey (Gurney)

(Think phonetics)


rules our life.


makes no sense to me.

The day dawns where words

into a force of their own.

The past three days
my poetry leg

Oh how I limped through.

TLC maketh a good recovery
now the cavalry
the rescue

carries me to this page.


How not to feel first thing in the morning

Like a walrus,
all whiskers
and elongated teeth.

Like an elephant,
too heavy
and ponderous.

Like a mouse,
a little grey,
and minute in the world.

Like every morning,
disgustingly human,
exceedingly frail.


Crawl Space

A little under there,
bit over there,
claustraphobic challenge.

Pain shoots star bullets,
into nether recesses
in hiding.

Some say Scwarzenegger,
I say
De Vito.


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.........

Written when I had just viewed a current affairs article on the Holmes Show about a truck driver who was a tetraplegic being kept alive by machines and who was pleading for his right to have the switch pulled to end it all. His theory was that he died before being revived and since machines had saved his life, and machines were keeping his life going, he had the choice to have them switched off because being a very active person before the crash, his mind was in total torment because he now had no quality of life. Fair call and I agree.


Light of Hope Holds True

As you sit there in your wheelchair,
Staring out upon the sea,
Can you see the flash of lightning,
A striking memory,
And do you look and see the Rainbow
Shimmering it's many hues,
Does it remind you of your sorrow,
Is the rainbow totally blue,
And can you shake the wooden stake,
from your pounding heart,
Is it too late to change your life,
And make a brand new start,
Does reality really scare you son,
When you remember what you've done,
Turn away from the sea then boy,
And reach out for your gun,
Place the barrel between your twisted lips,
and count from one to three,
And when you pull that trigger, man
You know that you'll be finally free,
And escape from the madness
Is the relief that you do seek,
No one you know really cares,
Of the insanity you do reek,
Will they ever forget you now?
Your thoughts upon their walls,
Can they ever doubt you freedom
Do they know that it took balls,

To shatter the frank inanity,
Of your pathetic little life,
No reasons only actions,
Insanity! It is rife.
Insanity! I love my wife.
Insanity! Cuts me......
Like a knife!

No I cant release the shakiness,
Can't seem to free my distress,
Am I saddened by the loneliness,
Of my terror I hold in,
Can I reach for the stars once more,
And go through the nearest door,
Shuffle limply 'cross the moving floor,
and see I that can win,
Against all the well stacked odds
And against advice from knowing Gods,
And in favour of the well shaped bods,
I struggle against the tide,
When I look at myself with the gun,
Do I make a difference to everyone?
Can I shine once more like the sun?
And bare my restored pride.
Will I ever be down again,
Can I ever forget all my friends,
Will the road take me round the bends,
Will I ever slip off the edge,
Not if I am to face myself,
Put all the shit upon the shelf,
Release my tension, get my health,
And make that solemn pledge,

Insanity escapes me now,
Lunatic, I'm not one now,
Free of spirit, like the owl,
The rainbow in all its hues,
No longer feeling blue,
I'm the stronger now for you,
Can you love me now I'm through,
The light of hope holds true.

A statement on the despair someone goes through dealing with depression and the need to end it all. But then being able to focus logically on the outcome of that act and working out how to come to grips with their own problems and map a possible future.


The Friend Ship Sails Through Life

Hear the deep siren blow,

the sound of the Friend Ship,

ready to sail,

all aboard

grab what you can

Make a step forward

take a strange hand,

look at the faces of those yet to meet

look at your glee

wonder their strife

Welcome aboard the participants one and all,

To the Friend Ship of Life, you'll have a ball.


Feel the new waters flowing

Beneath the new Friend Ship,

pasts unfolding

new horizons ahead

touch a new life thread

pass a new smile

read a new lesson

stop for awhile,

reach for the souls of your shipmate tonight

feel for their pain,

meek and insane

Take a stroll with your heart in your hand

along the boardwalks of the Friend Ship.


Scurrilous banter, happy tirades

wonderful thing the Friend Ship

burgeoning blades

smothered and hidden

annals rewritten,

together for a moment but

together forever

moments to cherish

times we do sever

as the Friend Ship swells with its myriad burdens

some are happy,

some are hurting,

Blood is spilt

feelings left skirting

As the Friend Ships boilers burst with the weight

of fractious uncertainty of a path taken late.


Walk to the stern, touch the breeze

As the times blow past our Friend Ship

ills to be buried

mistakes forgiven

pity the sad ones

who have fallen to Miscreant Ship,

leave them abandoned

drop them off

or offer your hand

back to the Friend Ship again

smooth the dark waters

cherish their frailties

lambs be not slaughtered

and left in the freezer

even one geezer on the Friend Ship tonight

is rolling in remorse for his perilous plight.


Keep the unfurled flags flying

at the bow and the stern of Friend Ship

watch as the breeze

removes the disease

of disassociation

and offering that, your soul

to an arsehole

can be, I see

an uncoiled rope

and salt laden hope

Light some more candles on the Friend Ship tonight

so all who have faltered can follow the light.


And what are we if not only human

storms will toss the Friend Ship about

moments spuming

waves crash about

stomachs churned

and times when the gunnels sag

with the weight

of the sickened

but the seas will calm

and repair to the harmed

will be offered and accepted to keep the Friend Ships afloat

for the sake of humanity, don't build a moat.


See past the mistakes

let go the brakes

love all the snakes

sincerity grates

but try to relate

and not slip apart

keep hold of the ropes

from the Friend Ship, your heart!


I Magic Nations

Imagine if you will,

The bold black sun rising in the morning,

The colour of the sea, red,

instead of blue,

Imagine the colours all different,

What would you do?


Imagine the grass

blowing in the wind purple beyond belief,

And all the trees are yellow

and leaves falling are white,

Imagine that the sky burns green

in the middle of the night.


Imagine the sound of silence

Louder than loud, like two million people talking

The colour of their faces,

indigo in many places

Imagine what they all must think

how pink could have been replaced.


Imagine the names of artists

If the colours have been changed around,

Deep Green, The Moody Yellows,

and of course those Indigo Floyd fellows,

Imagine if Cilla Black

was Cilla Purple for the rest of her years.


Imagination is what we perceive

and how we see this world of ours around us,

I magic nations out of nothingness

Make things seem what they aren't

I imagine that everything

is different, to what I see and what I can't.


Silence Reawakened

Bathe in the beauty of the sound of nature,

feel it's warm glow,

it's cooling snow

and marvel in the afterglow

of the touch of a creature.


Wash in the glory of the rustling of trees,

hear their mystery,

smell them clearly,

and love them forever dearly

as you answer their ancient pleas.


Bask in the water of absolute purity,

sense the clarity

offer your charity,

and catch the chortling hilarity

of the expression in natures surety.


Bathe away your ills

wash away your pills

bask in Natures will

Silence Reawakened!


A Literal Pyramid Tree of Life


after ageing

life in the slow lane

fingers turning green again

Grandchildren a plenty and thence

still fit to build that new boundary fence

The children now married and settling down

The drive to the lock up across the far side of town

The long grind of daily ritual to house feed and care for

your new baby children, the house, dogs cats and ever so more

And your newfound spouse is clinging to your love as you to theirs

after burning of timelessness, money, egotistical desires, and living without fear,

and the knowledge you've gained is so fresh in your mind as you seek your freedom

from the years that you spent shackled to the drudgery of compassion in your parent's kingdom

snuggled safely in the arms of your adoring folks, who instil their desires, education, intellect and hope

that the effort for you in your infancy will not be wasted one day when you're set free, and no longer crawling

from the baby you were, and the time that the milk of your mum was so pure and the life started with your first bawling

the hopes and the loves of your parents enthralling in the love of each other, to be father and mother, is certainly the foundation of heaven.


Acts or Accidents of History

My thoughts soar to the sea,
the realm of the spirits
ere they go to be free,
The Russians and now Americans
stride arm in arm,
Sailors now free from this planets many harms.

Whether down below,
or up above,
those who serve their country or the deep blue sea,
do it for love.

Poem written during the loss of sailors from an american ship and a russian submarine, one to terrorism, one to an accident.


Children of Peace

The young, beautiful and innocent

are now bravely dead,

while the old, the wise, and ancients,

are screwed in the head,

The war is fought on a level playing field,

bullets versus stones,

The bravest on both sides never yield

fighting each other 'til it's just bones,

fighting each other for enduring peace

for the land they claim,

fighting with children

leaving them lame.

Winners, there are none,

losers aplenty,

goodbye, my son.

Tell me the result,

tell me who won?


About Israel and Palestine, a thought of relectanct assignation.


Going spastic over plastic

Yo, behold, the material that never ages,
the smoothness of a baby's bum,
why is plastic so wonderful, chum?
What makes it's various forms so enticing?
The bow of the phone handle, the shape of the keys,
Who invented the stuff?
Those rascally Easternees?

Play with it lovingly to your life's contentment,
How can you break it, Oh Plastic
Why try, when you feel resentment?
Clean it vigorously so it's lustre remains,
don't forget the glass inserts
and those fingerless stains?

What are your chances? of surviving the crash,
betwixt the steel, or the polymer mash.
Probably none, if your day was done!
The transfer of forces from forty thousand horses,
steel or plastic,
your death will be fantastic! OOOrraaaahhhh, die cast or dead car?

But in the end plastic remains pliant and stable,
the cells non-rustic, the colour faded,
unlike your hard steel, all rusty and brown.
And it's immortality continues
life immemorial, no human spoils,
and the bones and your ashes, contained within its lingering grasp.

Your last breath, entombed by your folly,
snuggled down close to your plastic dolly.


Mind Slip.

Oh, the torture,

What have I done

To my family?

What agony, break of trust

And faith?

Broad brush, Minds rush,

Clear to me now,

So stark against the loved ones.

Time flies by

As my mind raced

Out of control,

Not a part nor a whole,

Just the complete

Breaking of trust and love,

Completely bizarre

And strange, my mind rearranged.

Ten days of

Manic treatment to my head


Bit by bit, thread by thread,

Today, realisation!

Of what family ills

Were inflicted by Bi-Polar skills,

And sadness at what I had done.

A poem I wrote to express to myself the terrible price my family had to pay for my disorder. Understanding this helped me understand and start the healing process.


Sunflower Captured

I had a picture in my mind,





I bought that picture,

Sunflower certainty,





I painted that picture,

Committed to paper,





Now sunflower beauty

Is caught three ways,





A picture,

A flower,

A memory,

Oh, yeah!


A Sailors Moon

Twenty six years, where's it all gone,

starting alone, finishing alone,

but many memories along the way,

happiness found, swinging hip sway,

many occasions and none too soon,

none more wise than a Sailor Moon.


Sunny career, full of light,

sunrise to brighten up the drear night,

many friends and faces true,

so many I can't remember who,

and if any had been mixed up by the spoon

they'd all be wiser in my Sailors Moon.


Many ships on many seas,

too many times, drunk on my knees,

too much forgotten from the night before,

waking in the morning on someone's floor,

totally smitten with women who swoon,

totally belittled like a Sailors Moon.


Very tough those seas so rough,

nary seasick while others had had enough,

working hard, time while's away,

every ship working strong, all the day,

making life's travesty a happy croon,

singing a song to a Sailors Moon.


Candy Striped Sentinel

Stand eternal watch at harbours gate,

Guiding light in dark of night,

Sentinel of oceans path,

Rangitoto Beacon, candy striped tower,

Day by long day, hour by lonely hour.


Rotating beam of safety sure,

Lighting dangers for all to see,

Making sailors hearts feel safe,

And daylight sees the sentinel strong,

Fisherman's guidance, ship pathfinder.


Making the most of natures glory,

Masking mad moments, boats too close,

Risk her warning, heed her peril,

Marvel her architectural majesty,

Her phallic certainty of shape.


Lighthouse aglow, candy apple red,

Smooth cement strong as teak,

Safe in the strong beam of light,

All pass by day and night,

Candy striped sentinel of the port.


Verdant Green

When you are at sea
there is something often unseen,
A colour those on land
take too much for granted,
No trees standing proud,
No grass wafting on the plain,
Yet you see it,
again and again,
But we at sea
see it sight unseen
That wonderful colour
Verdant green.
Oh sure we see it from time to time
When the sea turns nasty
the wind gets high,
and icicles of cold
attack our vision,
Then and only then
do we see the colour
you all take for granted
Verdant green,
And for most of us,
when it is sighted,
It is time
For lunch to be blighted.
Verdant green.


The Big Red and White.

There is my baby, shiny red and white,
Parked in the driveway
Waiting for the moment,
When we head out on the highway,
And valiantly skite,
V8 roaring, benzine smells great,
See the world shine in her chromium plate.

Shes lacquered all over from bonnet to boot,
And gleaming in splendour,
Front and rear fender,
The object of my life long lust and love,
My Chevy Bel Air,
Stick shift with four on the floor,
Me and my darling take off in a roar.

Cruising down backstreets and the main road,
Arm out the window,
Wind in my hair,
Just cruising and moving without a care,
And chicks they see her,
And wonder in awe,
If they can get in her and feel that roar.

Luxury leather so red and replete,
White rolled piping,
Adorning the seat,
Smells of the old days so great and so straight,
AM radio playing rock and roll,
Etching that sound
Deep into my soul and driving the pedal on down.

I wonder why we call our cars she,
When this one I feel
Is an extension of me.
Its power and its might totally mine,
So why is the stigma,
Of a she car so strong,
When I am a boy car that has lasted so long.

Heads turn in wonder at the blast from the past,
Their eyes hotly blinded,
By the chrome plated babe,
And their memories reminded of simpler times too,
When the crime rate was low,
And cars went so slow,
And everyone smiled because times were so good.

Songs oft written then that feature few words,
Penned for dancing,
And late night romancing,
And a snuggle in a Bel Air overlooking the beach,
But those days have passed,
And the innocent be blasted,
By the advent of communications and the populist way.

The sixties saw my Bel Air become a junk heap,
All painted in slogans
About love, hate, and peace,
And the dope that was smoked in her ruined seats,
She was built strong and tough,
And could handle the rough,
And rode out the storm of uncertainty then.

Some kid in the seventies found her broken and beat,
And moved to his backyard,
The Bel Air off the street,
And restoration started that would take ages to end,
Money so tight
Cause the disco was so right,
And the car become a love shack at the end of the night.

Decay was so eminent when it moved to the beat,
Of rappers and scrappers,
Vying to compete,
A Rapper called Bel Air MC was on the prowl,
For a prop for a video,
To rap with his crew, y'all know
And the car was repainted and dented beyond hope.

In a junk yard a dog pissed against a white wall,
Of a Chevy Bel Air
Left in disrepair,
But the smell of the leather and a gleam of some red,
Forced a middle aged man,
To resurrect a dream,
And for ten long years laboured to restore the gleam.

So when you see my baby driving down the street,
Dont look at the car man,
Dont look at me,
But look at the past glory of another bygone time,
Imagine the lives
And the struggles survived,
And look at the Bel Air as a window to your past.

And on a final note, one not to be repeated,
I joyfully confess, mate,
On the sounds she makes,
I have placed a CD audio rack beneath the seat,
And I cruise the streets,
Tapping fingers and feet,
Blissfully happy to my favourite Roger Waters tracks.


Alphabet Coupe

The C in Coupe is pronounced S as in circumspect

They tersely turned, twined, then twisted,
my mortal mantel meanderingly,
over outward opiates openly honest,
said Sandy Suffrogette singing sanguinely.

He harboured harbingers homeward ho,
caught ketchup cabbages cringing cowardly,
bought baseballs burnt by brownie buns,
whistled wayward warbles, went whisperingly.

Jumped junipers jauntily during January,
ran roughshod 'round Russia randomly,
grabbed garbage gambits going green,
erred exhaustive eastward, ebbing eerily.

I should explain during, in some english dialects, it's pronounced with a very soft d, hard J infliction.


A Technophobe builds a webpage

He sat there one day,
another friend,
another webpage to view,
got the idea
he was missing something.

Dived into Google
"Free Webpages"
got a thousand hits,
hit Tripod and the journey began.

Register it said,
'heck' he thought,
what do I call myself?
Morgastraben sounded unusual,
entered the obligatory password,
twice, to be sure, to be sure.

Found the welcome message,
and a pointing to "Build Webpage"
three weeks later
he'd mastered 'Add Page'
patient this guy, very,
managed to upload a picture.

Seven weeks later, five pages
many nights scratching head,
paid lips service to instructions
that would have lead somewhere,
made a break, had more pages
in viewable format.

Sent emails to his friends,
"look at me, see what I did"
no one answered,
too busy he figured,
rebuilding their own,
sent a link to a daughter.

She said, "gee Dad,
didn't know you had it in ya"
he smiled, knew it was worth it,
hit the edit button,
added some poetry,
and a few more photos.

Sat down, been nine weeks now,
admired his handywork,
others had replied,
to complain mostly
about their pictures in there,
'shit' he thought, no pleasing some.


The rip off

Bought into a dodgy insurance company,
sold semi-legit policies
to old and young alike.

Made a million before I was forty five,
spent it on nothing really,
such is life.

Got the news from my family doctor,
terminal, no policy
guarantees quality of life

or quantity.


One Tooth

One molar, munching
one canine, ripping
one incisor, tearing
one wisdom tooth

where was I?

One tongue, feeling
one hole, gaping
one tooth, missing
one thought, posing

when the hell did that happen?

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