The Writing of Thane Zander

General Poetry Eight

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.

An Errant Poet Paints an Andy Warhol piece.


It started with a painting at auction

reaching ninety five million dollars


The artist passed away in 1988

the same year another artist, my mother

passed away, though her works command

a striking free fee, such a giving lady she was.


Warhol on the other hand, Green Cars Crashing

sucks a load of cash out of some suspecting buyer,

generally a mish mash of paint and papier mache

the likes of school aged kids splattering with love.


The times when he held a can of Campbell’s Soup

up as art, cracked my funny bone, I have a gift then

as I dabble freehand with pastels and watercolours,

One senses his pop culture versus my kiwi culture


far outweigh the latter.  I search my room

for a masterpiece, something worthy of millions

and spy a decrepit translation of the Maori in me,

I had displayed and received reverence and accord.


What would a dead artist do with ninety five million?

What would you do with that amount? Swing from

the rafters and do bally hoop with chickens

in the foul house of life, cluck cluck, what the fuck?


I measure my next attempt at Art, raise the hands

above the keyboard, and………The End, signed me.


The Shawshank Redemption


The real story is a good read

the movie a tribute to King

but this is a story far deeper

deeper than anything I know.


He's a sporting type, built like a rhino on heat,

plays lacrosse with his buddies down Wessex-way,

the fact he runs an ice-cream parlour is pointless

the fact he runs it well, necessary, illuminate.


Bob, (yes Bob or Robert according to his mother)

drives an F100 with an old time radio installed

picking up channels of old time rock and roll,

and the commentaries of Jocks on sport and sex,


the lady on his left last nights lust on her way home

his redemption for not using a condom, itchiness,

maybe a dose of the crabs or silenced gonorrhea,

the need to fulfill animal lusts when the shop closes.


Shawshanks Ice Cream parlour dotted on the store

and emblazoned in White/Blue on the side of the truck

his redemption now, get well, get better, get clean

before opening the shop on the corner of 12th and 9th.


The sundial in the square (more round really -plaza)

shines in his eyes as he contemplates his life, no love

then born without love tends to have that effect on you,

the time squarely (or roundly) defecates late afternoon.


He cruises to the corner of 12th and 12th, one gross

police cruiser standing alone checking empty meters,

the town not ostensibly busy this late in the day,

Bob throws Bill (strange in England they're call the old Bill)


a salute from past war passages, when both were Marines,

fighting for an Ice-cream Parlour and empty parking lots,

fighting for the lusty ladies that create itches in society

create problems for wayward loners and their mates,


they shake hands (eeeewwwww) and walk into Ray's Electrical,

he doubles as the voodoo doctor as well, evil spirits

and unwanted ruminations, unwanted love bombs and

sexual innuendoes, the time closing when he passed


a scarred hand to Ray and was offered a shake in return,

all now facing Loretta’s Redemption, passed Shawshanks,

the time when stories find themselves getting uncontrolled,

the time disease eats into all stories and shocks aplenty.


Space – the fiscal frontier


Sitting in my rocking chair

on a veranda swathed in scrimshaw

the lights of Hacienda Thane

darkened to save energy

to not blot out the view from the horizon

through to just above my head, obscurity.


Space, the final evolution

the revolution of stars and planets

around my own personal planetarium

the delicacy of shapes astrologically speaking

scattering of Angeplanus this and plasmacoated that


I reach for my formations folder

photographs of night sky

taken with my trusty Nikon

and amplified through my Ziess spyglass,

colourful plays of dots and polkas

the sound on the stereo that of featured Star Trek

backing tracks, Klingon’s vs. The Borg

Captain James T and Bones

Scotty (now passed God bless his soul)

Lieutenant Ahuru and Sulu


out there somewhere in a our imaginations

in our own personal Heaven Sent maps

in our minds that travel fantasy and fact-

one day we’ll be flying those realms

in little baby suits and gaga tunes

with the salt of tears the only water

to be shared amongst star travellers.


I wipe away a tear trying to map Sagittarius,

instead settle on the familiar Southern Cross

and Andromeda, Alpha Centauri, and Jupiter

low in the night sky on it’s way to other places

where the likes of me replicate to view ours

always ours, unless you have a visitor over


but alas none too many share your hope,

your scope, your vision, your reality, yours

and only yours, each pass across the sky

as different from any that have scanned before

sadly I close the book and go place it away

for another night perhaps when time isn’t a burden.


The Free Man


You could be anyone

sitting in a summery field

feet bare and tickled by barley grasses


you could be Alexander the Great

planning to take over the known world

planning to make yourself God of all you purvey


no, you sit and feel Mother Earth

thrum her heartbeat of life, surety

through your arse bared to defecate


on the minions that don’t understand your stature

the size of your brevity the loneliness of timelessness

the right to be king of the field, queen of nothing,


such is life as a court jester that unfolds mischief

and pranksterism upon the masses, to fool not berate

the lifelessness of knees folded for too long


under that bare-arsed attempt to dream of realms

and possibilities, the thoughts juxtaposed

with sexual kingdoms and how size rules

you play the Ace and nature cries Snap –

a branch topples to the ground behind you

worn out from years of dangling, swaying


in breezes that blow at such a rate to kill and maim

if anyone unsuspecting wanders below.

That’s beside the point, royalty is never assassinated


just always in the wrong place at the wrong time

much like a hedgehog on a road busy with

hedgehog flattening tyres driving by, none though


in your field of Dreams and Hopes after all

at forty eight you should know better, should know

that family should amount to the sum of your daily


life, stripped off you by wild circumstance

now free to live dreams, live reality, write stories

that enthrall people, from when you started


seven years ago, until now, several short stories and hundreds of poems, nay thousands, whatever

now removed from that field and placed in a secure


chamber of computer, bed, wall hangings

a date with destiny fast approaching

no more Alexander the Great, little alone Thane


The Free Man.


Love Orchids




put them high

high for the eye

higher for buyers

pictures a fresh outlook

their beauty to behold now

the swirls of colours pervade air

the care to grow, plant them cautious

then place them in a canister for sale.




To use teeth voraciously

in a motion up and down


to sever with vigour

chew with relish


to gnaw with grinding health

to swallow with a gulp of pleasure.




The light downy vapour trail

in an azure baked sky-

the feathers of planes passing at altitude,


crisscrossing the sky

in patterns of quills-

set to writing poems patterns.


the feathers of a dancing Fantail

to warn me of a dying spirit-

the family will be losing someone soon.



The bend on the Avon River where the Body was found.


It’s a picturesque spot,

laid out like an English Country garden

a meandering brook, with high sloping banks

willow trees dangling their tickle branches

a punt, and steersman (in Vaudeville topper),

a young couple sipping champagne aboard

taking in the sights as they love-

maybe not.


Walking along between Haskell and Tuem streets

follow the weave of the bank

a body



blue gray



I pass it by, the police well in control

measure my pace

between Tuem Street and MacDonald’s Pass,

pull a hipflask of whiskey from my pocket,

take a sip and wish the body’s family well,

see the young lovers a wee bit down stream

see the look of horror, no time for love

they must have seen, I assume

forgive me, my footsteps turn

a quick gallop across Mayfair’s Bridge

to an Ice Cream stand,

so much better after a nip of the hard stuff.


Pop Culture – Warning - Cars going fast


Dunno about you folks dere,

the V8’s roaring down drag strips

souped up Jappa cars

loud stereos pumping the vibe

the Doctor on the corner

attends a birth for free.


There’s the roar of Jet Cars

on the salt tarmac of Bonneville

ripped apart by an Indian motorbike

that broke 200 miles per hour

with a 60 year old pilot onboard,

the local diary owner isn’t Indian.

The purr of a NASCAR as it rounds

the Brickyard at two twenty six miles per hour

rubber shredding at millimeters per revolution

just to hold another speed demon on track,

the babies in Ward twenty three were mixed

mothers in a quandary as what to do.


I see a mint condition Nineteen Eighty Five

Ford Laser cruise by underpowered

at ninety eight kilometres per hour,

the tasty two occupants more than a mouthful,

they dream of being naughty nurses

in magazines meant to entice and hold men.


The seventh car crashed on the home turn

the driver burnt but safe, holds hand high

the acknowledgement to the fans, they enjoy

a good burn up and close racing,

The track doctor passes fit all the drivers

but is dubious about No. 7’s pit crew, hung-over.





The shapes enthrall

tall and kingly, thunderheads

low and wispy, queen reigns,

fast and daunting

like there is no tomorrow


Then at night – red

turn in with the thought

things will be ok.


Morning pink

the day ahead a beauty

if only for the morning hue.


Lead me to water and I will drink

lead me to a cloud filled sky

and I will think.



Beyond the known path


A journey starts with one foot moving

eyes attuned to what’s ahead

ears ready to inwardly digest

the sweet taste of Newness

the feeling of blood through veins and arteries.


the sideways looks at visions of green

the sea of grasses blowing

the staunch mountains of trees

the rock solidness of grey asphalt

the morbid signposts hailing destinations.


The luminescence of Sun shining

a sign that day moves on

the longer the shadow stands

the taller the journeyman’s stature

guns on a jet overhead hot from combat.


Day’s end, rest neath the moon and stars

delectable fare for a wanderer

susceptible to motion sickness

incorrigible to the scant core,

the moss of the Oak roots a bed for a weary head.


In the morn, birds chirrup the morning call,

the journey once again one foot after another,

a gentleman’s gait, a woman’s vision

a goats chewing motion across and down

the voice of a child’s delight at a new toy,


Babies in the maternity ward take his name,

he has that affect on people, President,

a man of honour and fortitude

to do the right thing, to lead by example

to rub shoulders with the rich and infamous.


One step back reverses the process innately

but doubles the journey, experiences

maybe all for the good, never a bad scene.


The Ballet of Ducks Swimming


You’ve seen it before

the weed covered pond

with little duckie poo trails


tail feathers pointed skyward

eating – weeds of course

the wheels of someone’s bike – floating


The tossed salad of Mum’s Barbecue

the talking point amongst mourners

how she managed to provide in death.


a quickie I hear you say, ok fine!


Ice Aged


The ice freezes time

captures eons of matter

holds onto it ‘til Global Warming comes



Professor Tubowitz studies under rimmed glasses, the finer details of carbon emission from fifteen millennia ago, pastes another slide in a petrie dish….


The slowness of time

the inherent death of things telling

a story ring barked in trees too

the growth measured by the fires

by the heat waves

by the shrinking water passages


The team at University of Cambridge study the sudden onset of Man.  The trees seem to tell a tale and there’s a three thousand year old giant redwood that says an axe fell here


The slime in the pond oozes oil

the time of man, diesel

the time of trains, planes and dirty old cars

the time when people walked

to save the planet from itself,


Norsewood Grove unearths a skeleton

neither man nor beast,

but Meast - Man Beast,

The slides under electron microscope


species relevant

to survival

but where be they now?


A cub Reporter sees the article in the dumpster, seventy nine pages on why Nuclear fission is dangerous to the planet, the lasting inequality of life, the very much repressive news of non existence, as if an asteroid had hit the mark.


The dinosaurs didn’t die

they were killed in large numbers

man was too small for that to happen

so maybe it was an asteroid, strongest of the fittest,

John MacDiarmid studied nuclear fission

tried to understand how megatons

was required to dust the Earth enough to blot light.


A saddened poet writes about the intervention that can and can’t be stopped.







aka Rain






Dropping like a wet cloak

squishy toes

damp nose

sings a song on a bicycle spoke






fills a drain very deep

slippery fingers

wet that lingers

the slip on the bank steep






Children dance barefoot fancy

hair soaking

no smoking

the fingers massage a pansy.


Timeless Classics


The Bentley with the lady flaring

the caress of an F15 on landing

the heads of states disagreeing

the minds of children daring

the milk of goats disappearing

the bristle of a brush fluffing

the mouths of babes staring

the times for age concern nearing

the beast in the backyard blaring

the truck through the fence searing

the days when gayism foreboding

the nights awake illuminating

the sigh of sun, sharing

the death of moon fearing

the time on the alarm clock alarming

the barn doors ajar, swinging

the songs of the choirs singing

the salt of long tears stinging

the children on the path skipping

the ships on the ocean shipping

the sounds of footfall stepping

the money in the wrong account debiting

the wings of the cargo jet sidestepping

the fines in court, distending

the poem you write, never-ending

the play of words franking

the words of plays clapping

the claps of plays wording

the plays of claps changing

the days when night roars, snoozing

the night when man roars, snoring

the night without noise, boring

the fire in the hearth roaring

the flick of a switch, ending.





The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part I - The Eibe


Dragons fire

breaths death – life – rebirth

the small knight

in a fight

his plight


his domain weakened


a princess in a tower

hair flowing silver blonde

sends a love spell dove mail

to her brave warrior.


Dayna the freelance jester

steps on the dragons tail

for effect,

quick reflexes

tail lashes

a cart smashes

the donkey honks goose calls

calls The Gamechnoid

the slayer of dragons

the wizard of Etheron

the wise man of Sagerious.


An eagle, Fradickon

swoops to the call

changes shape to giant man

strides south

noose in mouth

where else

the River Eibe shallows

where a huge foot leaps

the shadow cast on little animals

running helter skelter.


The death of a dragon ensured

when man and giant battle

side by side, the hiss of steam

the drowning of smoke in a frigid River Eibe


a Princess sings, dove mail returned.


The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part II – Pansture Castle



A lady in red

lays in bed

as if she was wed


the Prince of Ewermore saddles Actuute,

ready for the long ride home

Sathmore the Peregrine Falcon swoops

another small rodent for cat food


a brittle ice covers the Glade of Hericles

women wash clothes through holes

hacked with sturdy Whippet Poles

the lace of masters and mistresses

laid in a drying winter sun,

the passing of an entourage noticed


A giant eagle floats above the group

it’s wise eyes and knowing head

searching ahead for vagabonds and thieves

anything that can interrupt love.


The castle flexes it’s bulk,

ramparts strengthened and garnished

dust and dirt thrown off

the ladies and gentlemen warned

Death stalks every second.



The Gamechnoid Trilogy – Part III  Harmenquast Union


The horns of invisible trumpeters ring out

the billowing blossom of fluffy white clouds

the majestic wave of long green grasses

the raising of Hell’s Gate at the south end

the direction from which the travellers come.


Gate Post seven on the edge of Glockmere

the old petrified forest of Etheron, now the great

raise the banner proclaiming the passing

of the retinue, The Prince of Ewermore

a jester, and falcon, eagle wizard overhead

a princess now looks from her seventh tower window.


The fanfare grows louder the closer they approach

then an Eagle swoops and becomes a man

the prince disappears into a jester

an eagle leaps around as a frog

and the whole menagerie turn away from the castle

and find a place in a passing circus.


Femme Desert


She bespoke she

a dry kiss

neath yellow daubed sky,


a snake from the Bible

tut tuts near no trees,

the living carcass

on bended Knees.


The salad bowl of desert brown

the dark of cloud

about to hit the ground

the shapes of essence

perhaps a dream in obscurity.


The Finite difference between Green and Red


Orange of traffic lights

the separation between stop and go

a caress between cheeks - meant to tickle


Society Ladies titillate

male opera singers ululate

the little boys in dad’s room – ventilate.


Yellow suns, Red suns, lost sons

a war rumoured to offer hope

a gun shot wound away from a wheelchair.


Sarah at 59 Rawene Road

plays piano Dixie Style

the postman nods and smiles.


The fart in the observation room

loud and practiced, no owner hands up

the smell forcing humanity to cower.


Roger in the corner chemist

vends peoples gaiety, photo’s for pleasure

the shop assistant captures each image in hope.


The Foxglove Conspiracy.


So you brought me Foxglove for my birthday

I gave you a kiss of supplication, sweet

to remember the passage of time we shared,


you sang me a song from Grace Slick’s album

your favourite, eaten by moth ears and dust

your voice gravelly, the kiss a flowing disguise,


I gave you a song of doubt, doubt sown with dread

the last days of my life not spent in your bed, here

in a hospice for the yellow skins, the cancerites


my voice devoid of it’s resonant bass, baritone

when I tweak my balls down a touch, and squeeze

the upper range garbled with gravel too, we sing


a moon relieves itself on my window pain, spooky

the glass shatters the light into a million possibilities,

mine are all chewed up, spat out, regurgitated, dying


We sit nervously, you fondle your silver blonde hair,

with one hand, with the other you brush my beard

still grey and red after all these years, a tribute to you,


a nurse knocks - enters, administers adjustment meds,

the stuff that keeps me alive from the pain, what pain?

the pain is in your song, your longing look, your slouch


Touch me my darling, touch the heart that beats for you

the heart that carried your cross-beat, your love, kudos

you smile and the pain dies, I smile ready to die.


Respite Moon


Spanish Moon, quiet yet filled with Latin love

French Moon – succulent and daring

English Moon – staunch and true

American Moon – the ladies full of swoon

African moon – the sound of lions roaring

Russian Moon – Vodka and Tavorivich comrade

Asian Moon – dainty Geisha Girls paint lust

Pacific Moon – on  a ship beneath, like no other

Indian Moon – Krishna dances and Mumbai mass

Middle East Moon – the moon of Islamic faithful,

Atlantic Moon – the sage green/grey of Sargasso Sea.

Kiwi Moon – The maniacs roar


The Ultra Man


Bigger than ten giants,

stouter than the Empire State Building

faster than the TRV in France

more thoughtful than Rodin’s Thinker,

louder than the Scream

childlike like little Robbie in grade school.


Blue the colour of his flowing hair,

red the colour of his nails

green the stretch of leg and arm exposed

the boots Purple – the flier

Yellow – eyes of the wolf

black, the soot that footfalls make in passing

Lemon – the squeezer on a balding head

carries more weight than Santa Claus

on a busy day.


No women in this world for him,

lonely as if love killed,

hopeless as a backless man,

shapeless when falling in sobs,

relentless his appetite to run,

to chase a way off the planet,

to find an Amazon for life.


Then I awake from my nightly soiree,

sweat beading down, check the arms and legs

no green, no blue hair, no yellow eyes,

just a dream about what could have been.





You could bend and piccalilli

not that pickle’s that nice,

OH! Pick a Lilly

that lovely blue flower in the pond out back,

why ruin it’s beauty by removing it?


You could stand and eyeball the moon,

not that a moon is a healthy action,

OH! the Moon on high,

that roving maker of poems and stories,

kids nursery rhymes about spoons and cows.


You could write a poem about love

meant to make women swoon

OH! Love, the lady down aisle three serving,

she’s packaging moonbeams

placing piccalilli on shelves for many to share.


The Castle of Timelessness


There is a grace in a four year old digging sandcastles

the preciseness of innocence, the calm of an adult,

the need to finish the task no matter how much water,


The action of placing shells for windows, scallops

a precision of placement - twigs for bridges or fences,

day draws on as the tide rises, hurriedly builds a moat,


Little girls run and giggle, try to capture his gaze,

but he’s riveted on his domain, king of his castle,

no dragons going to breath fire over this mammoth,


His mum wanders over, slips him a drink, Coca Cola,

reward for a man working hard - without interference,

without knowledge, just a desire to be an engineer.


Little Billy, his two year old brother, on unsteady feet

staggers to the left, then right, his aim to see his brother,

his unintended toddlerish target the castle, oops


“Mummy, Mummy, Jared ruined my castle, wah wah

the beach goes quiet, all enthralled at the boys feat,

al now watching how a little man handles disaster.




There’s this doss house

downtown anywhere

that panders for the wants and needs

of men and women life failed to smile on,


there’s ten years of poison

in a drinking vial in this house

the patrons dying as life passes them by

the relics of antiquity don’t sign their name,


porous metal reeks of cash

the gold leeching society

making for penniless merchants and loves

the doctor singing the forms accused, malpractice


salient ladies wipe dead spots

of carpets where fights mark

the stench of faeces, the daily urine in the corner

the sick from reactions to illegal drugs consuming.


There’s a house in the middle

stands testament to societies success

attained the upper ladder, crossed no boundaries

recognised the death in a doss house continuum,


She epitomizes greatness

rewarded by life, status

working daily in food stamp’s and soup kitchens

the prize for onerous yet rewarding duties to life,

Place a dish on a roof,

beam in life, sky news

the vagabond on the street outside, bent double

searching for a stray cigarette, or can of drink.


They burnt the house down

12 Edward Street, thirty rooms

the law stated the rooms weren’t fit for humans

the residents relocated to other towns, displaced.


The law arrests them for being vagrant

why aren’t families charged for not caring.




I’m driving around Allentown,

dusty summers day

where winds are wafting,

children stick figures

on a pavement sweating.


Broomsticks walk behind the kids

carrying shopping bags

the pedestrian crossing

wheelbarrows carrying

the days produce.


I see the black sandbox

of a Police Cruiser keeping the peace,

the vagabonds disguised as trees

in the park resounding to a stereo

supplanted in a clock tower.


The Tonka toy of my Mercedes Benz

cruises middle Lifelessness Avenue

skirting sideshows

clowns on stilts laughing

the dinner sets on the post boxes, glowing.


Arthur the Butcher, shop open

stands like an overgrown Sausage

selling his wares, and his ways

dreaming of surfboard days

the tarseal melting under summer sun.


Moody Ladies of the Seventh Day Adventist

pass out words of wisdom

pass out in the heat

pamper each other with Lovey Dovey cloths,

Reverend Greengauge passes, discerning.


Stick figures of humanity, walking

wandering, stagnant

the day set to the tune of the clock rock

the chime of the Eleventh Hour

as old soldiers bow their heads in remembrance.



Time Journey II – The Slave Traders


I sniff history,

dabble into Wikipedia,

read the history of the time

the good, the bad, the indifferent,


The Greeks under Alexander the Great took slaves, Persians, Egyptians, and others,  for the betterment of Greek Society, to make the likes of Homer and Aristotle have easier lives,


An African American behind me

points out the African scene

when Muslim invaders captured

those that couldn’t defend themselves,

took them back to the Arab states,

to works as slaves of the wealthy,


I read somewhere the slave trade

(out of Africa by ship)

started with the British needing manual labour

for the Industrial revolution

to stop using children in mines and mills


the Islands of the Caribbean were the first slave traders port of call for American slaves in the seventeen hundreds, the likes of Uncle Sam’s royalty picking cotton with a humanity beaten down by sea journeys and whips,


the streets of Brixton in London

spilt blood of years of repression

dates etched on the freed’ calendars

the time when racial intolerance boiled over


much like Birmingham, Alabama when a brave lady sat with impunity, to challenge eons of inaction, to stand up for her brothers and sisters, to sing about the day in church for years to come,


Midas was a God of the Old Age,

everything he touched

turned to gold

the white man and Arabs

turned everything to shit

for a lot of Africans.


Is the balance restored, parity, unity

all for the good of the world

some say though there are countries

in the Asian world that pay slave rates,

keep certain populaces underprivileged,

even in America you hear the likes

of Hispanics and Asians used for slave labour,

sweat shops and the likes, construction gangs,

pickers of fruit and vege, the time is nigh.


Marshall George Washington III - a proud man, an author, a wannabee, stares proudly at the certificate he has from Harvard, clear in the knowledge his forebears were behind him in his endeavours.  He can trace his heritage back to Jamaica, but then not sure if he’s from Nigeria or Sierra Leone.  It doesn’t matter now, the flow back is starting, the knowledge and wealth back to where it began, before the Arab masters arrived.

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