The Writing of Thane Zander
Philosophical 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 a philosophical nature

Zao Buddhist Retrieval 101


What am I?
He who suddenly places objects
in midair
for some martial arts practise.

Who am I?
He who lies on a sparse bed,
allows Geronimo
and Quinn the Eskimo
to pass through
and talk in tongues.

Who am I?
He who obeys the chinese masters
Wu Tung and Wu Chang
follows the mantra of scarcity, power
the sanguine grace of Madame Butterfly.

Who am I?
When in the next instant
I am Jack the Rippers gloved hand,
Doyle's IRA clenched fist
Mayan Inchachyuanana's teaching mind.

Who am I?
That walks the street aged,
yet dresses and acts like a 19 year old rapper,
that stops and bows to strangers knowingly.

Who am I?
That now delves into the supernatural
not as a writer, nor reader
but as a participating entity
passing ghosts on from their resting place
to who knows where.

Who am I?
That used to be me
is now more,
and less
the outer shell says Thane
the inner says "channeller".

Who I am,
is down to you,
not me
and whoever gives the gifts
to allow my new existence to flourish.

Ka uta omganuana te anughana te purie.


Obituary Oblongata


Slab of rusty cement
etched in hieroglyphics
of ancient modernisations.

Dog pee stains a corner
near the deceased's parting day;
'neath the picture of a frail man-

"He died as he lived
a sock full of pennies
and a head full of ideas"

One looks closely,
sees an egg shaped head,
which came first?



The critical effect of Dither on Oddfellows



They're a strange creature,
"Oddfellows" a sort of round mint sweet,
or often refered to as strange men.

One day, in a lonely hospital stay,
I sat and played a game,
mind chess,
with this old wise fellow
who sat and talked to me,

I played the game,
and he listened,
as first one shape,
then another, took effect.

Eventually a Circle of Seven
stood proud on the table,
and every time a piece moved
and replaced another piece,
the Circle of Seven pervaded.

Drawn to this circle like a magnet,
was the Line of Three,
tangental telepathy drew them together
and no matter the moves made,
the tangental
and the circle
numbered ten,
whence the moves began again.

Then for no reason,
the three became two,
and no matter how many times I tried to regurgitate
the line remained two,
and then I saw it,

Life is the Circle of Seven
tied to the Tangent of Three
and by a mere fact of swallowing,
a human had introduced the Dither,
the imbalance of astronomic proportions,
the scattering of the paraphysical,

accidents happen they say,
it's not a perfect world,
The Lives of Nine
rule the Dither sublime.

I sit and look at my partner, silenced
as if audacity of movement
and my part in this play was destined,
a saddened look, but one of understanding,
the dawn of new comprehension;

will he tell?

I now see life as an Oddfellow,
a sort of bittersweet memory,
see people walking with injuries,
see imperfection in everything,
and know, just know

a game perhaps?
maybe the knowledge to understand the universe
and perhaps even God
(yes, he does err it seems).


Moving on


Scrawled upon a parched pavement,
an arrow to a new adventure,
Socrates rings mathematically
in a brain turning new horizons.

Step out, a highway that wends westward,
the mesquite of deserts past,
replaced with pulsing pegonias in bloom,
a tiger walked this way, says the dust.

"Simon says" was a game children loved,
now dogs scrap for bones aplenty,
the Third Reich marched past once
now eye sockets from brittle skulls glare.

Oak trees stripped of life stand sentinel
to a life moving onward, a new hiatus,
the scant disregard for futures passed
a heritage to those that walk alone.

By nightfall, the last crows scatter mortality,
ghosts of the seven stages crawl the hardtop,
you are not alone, nor have you ever been,
yet after months of meeting noone, you wonder.

Stephen King's The Stand rattles ever present
in a skull that understands The Gunslinger,
ripe strawberries in a dry canyon scarily gleam,
the taste enough to secure hope, yearning.

You feel like the Tick Tock Man, a pendulum,
coast to forelorn coast, and degeneration,
you look for a God that's since moved on,
yet you know, you are now God, and parishioner.

'Til that day you too move on, departee
a ghost on the footprints of your own passing,
the lonely wind that was your whistle,
the lonely rains, your tears.



Baking Insolence


Take a cup of salty flour,
a teaspoon of youthful vinegar,
stir in an adolescent bowl,
add hormonal herbs,
bake to breaking point.

Take a knife of indifference,
cut through the crumbs
of leftover teenage thoughts,
ripen a sour lemon
and squeeze liberally
on the gift of innocence.

Walk from a recipe of change,
hold your iced interpretations high,
welcome adulthood with spatula arms,
the stench of not knowing,
brewing boldly on the path
of newness, and fresh ideas.

Taking life for granted,
miss the kitchen for what it was,
a place where the goal was success,
too often the mixture is ruined,
yet armed with the ingredients,
a cake of knowledge stands tall.



Dogs, Cats and Dead Spirits in Waiting.



This room is dark grey,
lost in tendrils of gloom
the life colours of despair,
a matted carpet of green
shines where the hopeful walk.

Disintegration is the mood of collapse,
dogs chew bones of dying men
and women suck in their spirits,
Nirvana play on the stereo,
a place above carpeted rooms.

Indignant wastrels cut sofas apart
seated on the scraps of conscience,
bloody foam floats into whirling arias,
the voice of nymphettes rooting loudly,
the TV in the corner blinks blue screen.

A cat claws thin air, attempting to kill the sound.


Faceless morons stare dumbfounded
into cracked mirrors peering back,
deceit in the dark grey eyes blinking,
take razors to the blank cheeks
and comes away with short stubble of nothing.

There is another song that sings,
wails really, the song of the damned,
the green carpet turns black with congealed blood,
from dogs shot for their discretions;
animal welfare doesn't extend to humans.


Men in white coats march endlessly through,
picking up pieces of broken minds
and bodies once whole, now fretting
in the resource of misdirection,
Grey Suits with notebooks shudder.

The youth of our culture drown in the drugs of our making,
and we read the newspapers and tut tut,
who is responsible, who gave them hopelessness?

A man framed in an oil painting
on a grey/blue wall,
peers out with a furrowed brow,
winks in knowing belief,
is moved with other items of decay
to a place, another nirvana,
and watches it all again.

And smiles.



When you build Bridges

When you find a gap needs bridging,
do you stand idly by?
play dandelion hopscotch in indecision?
or make a move to construct,

To build an edifice of foot traffic
that reaches your goal
that open lines of communication.

Make a decision
to be in solitude,
alone with your persona,
or build a bridge and welcome
the obstructs of the outside world
into your passing zone for procession.

Suck the dynamics of companionship
from the science magazine of your soul
and turn pages to read the span
between you and them,
those yet to be,

See the gap is too wide,
believe in your ability-
the bridge will be wider still.


The Colour Nexus or extraterrestrial wanderings

In a moment in ones short life,
there comes a time when the mind plays,
plays a game of colour,
a mood, matched by reality,
or in the mind of the reader,
a fantasy.

In this moment,
one wakes up and picks a colour,
a colour that will set the day,
like one day, I pick white,
and everything white that day
is enhanced and very visible.

You become disturbed though,
when driving down the highway,
all white vehicles have their lights on,
and only white vehicles.

Is it a trick of the mind?
Or perhaps coincidence,
so you awaken the next day,
and pick blue,
the sky blinds your vision,
and lo and behold!
All blue vehicles light your eyes!

So to test your theory,
the very next day you awaken in a red mood,
flowers in the garden scream at you,
Red Setter dogs bark louder,
the obligatory headlights of red cars
scar your vision with harsh reality.

You change your mood at midday,
by choice, and by happenstance,
now you are grey,
and the grey automobiles riding the hardtop
blink recognition,
you're stunned!

So the next day, you close the curtains,
shut out all light,
a black day,
you bask in the inanity of dark reality,
and even darker fantasy,
'til a passing UFO beams down a black light,
and whisks you off to other worlds.

In your mind.


Navigational pioneer

You set the motion,
etch the pace in the minds
of followers and sheep,

dig deep into your ethos
your vision finding new pathways
into a future unknown,

sow seeds of asphalt
guiding signposts and lights
that point the hopeful

spy in your rear vision mirror,
the headlights of those behind
glued to your tailights,

hear the wheels of wagons old,
clunking in unison, forward,
ever forward to a new promise,

always that vision, to etch ahead
scratch compendium from nought
the roads in your eyes shining,

you know not where you wend
just aware the journey is never in vain
aware dogs bark at your heels in hope,

they call you pioneer, navigator,
provider of roadways and kerbs,
you call yourself nothing, just are.

Past mountains, streams, woodlands,
through vast savannah and desert,
wending ever onward to destinations

yet to be fulfilled, cherished,
drop off zone for those that see
possibilities in a landscape, a home,

and onward you travel, dropping hints
with white and yellow dotted lines
given pause for thought, two way movement,

there is a back, always a back,
yet you are designed to propel ahead,
into the wind, the flow, the presence

of strangeness and unfamiliarity,
the darkness of closed lids,
the lightness of all-seeing vision,

in years to come, you will be called Map,
the guider of populations and families,
of commerce and industrial infrastructure,

yet still you go on, never erring
in your chance to build new futures
to allow people to follow always.


Roadmap into Psychobabble

Saw my quack today,
see I am certified,
a mystery of medical science,
not that's the impression
one garners from the psyche.

Played mental chess with his persona,
moved my king when he moved pawns.

Broached some subjects,
suicide and the likes,
laughed in his face,
postulating arrogant dickhead,
what does he know?

Walked out feeling the champion again,
I bet he thought he'd achieved something,
though I guess he's still guessing.


God called

God called,
answered the phone,
"Yes, God, how can I help?"

Deep baritone dirge:
"Sharpen your act up boy!"

Said 'Alright, God',
went to the tool shed,
found my honing stone,
spent the next three weeks
looking for my act.

Rang God back,
"You have reached God,
can't take your call right now,
leave a message
and someone will be right with you."

"Fuck God!"
Only bloody teasing me.

Went to the kitchen,
sharpened all my knives,
I know, not my act,

maybe an Act of God?


Time is a plan in the making.

Wondered how you ever
get things done?

How the plants grow at the same
period each year?

Why buses arrive and leave

A little mechanism in nature,
keeps ticking away.

We call it Time, though I prefer
to just equate it to the cosmos.

The inner heartbeat of natural things,
rolling in unison.


Apartheid - A barrier

Ratio measures two to one,
white over black,
standing in bus queues
in neighbourhoods seperated
by silly human indifference.

Two storey buildings
toast one up, one down,
the rich white folks
and the blacks from across town,

sun glows in a radiant vista
of seperation and togetherness,

postulate humanities
need to segregate,
palings and railings
blot an otherwise easy picture,

sharpish white folks, pointed
like the hats of the Klan,
square topped black folks,
blunted by years of ignorance,

winter's harsh call
strips leaves from a tree of change
maybe new growth
will settle all problems?

The bars on the windows,
trap both colours in a black and white portal.


I'm not a Born Again Christian, am I?

Every Sunday morning,
sit there with the TV tuned
watching the reverend this
and the evangelist that,
trying to make sense of their money talk.

Look closely at all five Bibles around me,
shiver uncontrollably,
I go have a shit,
read the words of wisdom
on the rolled paper,
makes the same sense.

I'd read the Koran,
but I am dyslexic,
and Arabic is hopeless for dyslexia,
Hebrew phobia means the Talmud
is out of reach,
so is the remote
as Benny Hinn assails my ears.

I light a few candles around my Bhuddist shrine,
cook marshmellows
humming to myself,
not meditation,
am I a born again Christian?

Doubt it, too much my own man,
to believe another mans bullshit interpretation,
but God help anyone that tells me
there is no God,
we play chess.


Days of Innocence

He'd sneak in at nights,
pull cotton sheets back,
place a hand on her mouth,
breath fumes down her nostrils,
she'd flare.

In horror, disgust,
ashamed of herself,
always hide it,
but the fear,
the resentment,
beat at her skull.

As he beat at her innocence,
she'd cry to herself,
'why me Daddy?'
never an answer,
just that continual feeling
of lowered self worth.

Even in the courtroom
many years later,
his breath, his stench,
her fear,
he stood there,
shaven for once, older,

and her last sight of him,
being led away to a cold dank cell,
too late for her though,
the cement around her soul
long built,
lasting, eternal.


Ra ra Rasputin

From a picture by Don Schaeffer at

I saw signs of Revelations,
neath the sturdy bulward
of a monolith to movement,
the flight of the eagle
on construction towers,
to deconstruct.

Cracks appear around the tryptic,
indicate foundations about to crumble,
life about to end under the banner of war,
Napoleon, Saddam, the Russian Federation,
but a few of the many who waged terror
in the name of a mighty hunter.

Then you see the dross of civilisation,
realise this is someones home,
and the paintings a decoration
of a difficult lounge life in sordidness,
wonder what some scum smelling swine
would know of Hitler, and Bush, others
who carry the tryptic into turmoil.

Rasputin screwed Catherine to protect Russia,
the government of civilisation screws it's people,
to protect them. Fear not the cracks,
but those that fall through relentlessly.


Life in Extinction Heaven

Hey fuck man,
I'm damn well extinct!

Oh, you just realised that?
What the hell are you?

Me, just a Dinornus Robustus,
once mighty flightless Moa
of the New Zealand woodlands.

Lucky you mate, I was a fucking Dodo,
biggest, fattest, ugliest bird
ever to walk Madigascar.
Now look at me, consigned to fucking textbooks
and pictures on some human kids wall.

Biggest, bullshit man, I stood 10 foot tall,
had more meat than any other bird
since God fucked the dinosaurs over.

Hi guys, hmmm two ugly boids,
know any more due to fill these
pens of animal detritus?
Oh by the way, I'm a screwed up White Rhino,
advanced party you see.

Ach so, ze party goes on in Extinction Heaven,
no booking fees as such,
just a propensity to be in Man's Road
wherever that fucking leads.

If you want to see any of these marvellous creatures,
flick a leaf in an Encyclopeadia Britannica,
or look in on some geeky kids wall,
or best yet, join them through self annihilation.

They won't mind!


The Soldiers of the Future

Ever sat and watched
a playground full of eight year olds,
observed their byplay,
their role play;

and wondered!

Wondered if the girl in green scarf
sliding down the slide in pink tights
will be an astronaut, or an olympian,
maybe some poor husband-less wife and mother?

Mused about the three girls
running around the spinning wheel,
if they will grow up friends for life,
go to the same university,
or the same nursing school?

Probably not!

A poor kid; scruffy shorts, dirty T-shirt,
picks his nose by the swings, watching others,
one hand deep in his pocket playing with god knows what,
will he be something, a millionaire perhaps?

You think of your own background and think 'no!'

See mothers of little or no substance
fuss over their younguns with mothers of the well-to-do,
all children and women the same on the playground,
not thinking of the future so much, but the Now.

Then you see them, the gang of three,
no colour, race, nor creed,
same on any playground,
the three that cruise the borders, preying,
you know their future is now,
soldiers of happenstance,
will one grow to wear khaki or camo?
one a blue uniform of the law?
the other, the black of street garb?

Doesn't matter really, they're all the same,
three kids destined to be societies soldiers,
warriors in their own mind, protectors,
fighters, drug runners, special men.

In their own minds........

In the mind of a mother is a poet,
or maybe a lecturer.



Is it possible?

Of course it is?

Old and ancient,

Young and free,

He who lives

Forever immortal

Knows he's outside life's portal.


Today, tomorrow,

All the same,

Living for yesterday,

For ever, forever days,

A poached egg on toast,

Same old roast,

Stretching way back

And into beyond.


Immortality, sadly,

Impossible reality,

Juxtaposition in transition

Breathe for one day,

Or breathe for many,

Death doesn't matter,

Immortality, Life's eternal platter.


To die or to live,

Forget or forgive,

Sand through a sieve,

Able to contrive,

Existing to survive,

Let die or live,

Immortality, we'll strive.


Danny Mason wonders....

...if the earth is really round,
he also starts to wonder that
if it were flat, how profound,
Daniel Mason thinks a lot
about the infinity of time
and how the mountaineers
always enjoy a very steep climb.

But Daniel Mason is perturbed
by the reality of his life
how he hasn't caught a buxom woman
he can legally call his wife,
Poor Danny Mason puzzles so much
when he checks out his bank accounts
and he wonders all damn day long
on the dwindling monetary amounts.

Though Daniel Mason ponders often
about the rising of the sun,
He also remains cognisant of
the time when day is done,
Yes Danny Mason remonstrates
with himself most all the time.
And especially in the morning after
to check that he's committed no crime.

Oh, Daniel Mason wonders alright,
It's practically all he can do,
If I was Daniel Mason's mind
It'd probably be all I'd do, too!


Two Brains

There's a miasma
of glass, plastic and chipboards,
Standing scant inches
from our faces.

We cohabit space
in close proximity to each,
Mushy Grey mass
and PC.

What does all the thinking?
Who is controlling whom, I ask?
Where doest inspiration derive?
Which drive?

Did my plastic brain
write this again, or was it mine,
Don't really matter,
this moment was sublime.

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