The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Ten
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

Art Deco photo finish.


Anya’s round dining room table

an old Formica art deco model

a lace doily on the centre,

a base for a pot of day old Tulips.

The camera set to one side, on legs

a tripod that lowers and raises

the flash set for extra light

the tulips glow in seconds flash.

A picture on the wall, round

like an art deco table set,

with Bright Tulips and doily

the background fuzzy in flashlight.


Up to the Mountain.


Today was outing day, bitterly cold

wintry morning, the wind cutting you in half,

12 of us piled into 2 vans, the drivers staff,

and on the road we went.


Northbound this time, last was east,

towards a mountain that stands high

a volcano that rumbles from time to time,

but today it was Reverend Ruapehu,


standing calm and white,

under a blue, blue sky,

people all chasing each other upwards

through a forest of natives

over icy patches

a few worries, minor


‘til we reached the lower carpark

our mission to build a snowman

and all stand around it smiling

also to bring home some snow, proof


the day up there was warm, no wind

the hot sun melting ice and snow apace,

we climbed in the vans sated

and headed home, some slept.


That was my day, how was yours?


The Worm


I’m a worm

in a


full of


and floral



I look up

down rows

of daffodils

and jonquils

the lizard

lazily launches



on an ant





of leaf mould

the lady bends


a flower


from hot sun

the edge

too close

for Davidus

the queen

of earwigs


the green


of foliage


in an oft-told

dream of


and nymphet’s.


The salad bowl

a baseball game

between lettuce

and onion

the ball

a tarantula egg

the bat swinging

a stick of celery

the outfielder

a mass of bees

buzzing by

heading for


full of pollen

to nurture

into sticky honey,


can I have

the remote?

The game’s




The Gavel swings Guilty.


It’s not often heard these days, the gavel clash

with a desktop so regal, all cower before it,


the defense put up a creditable case, worthy

of a good retort from a confident prosecution,


the defendant stands hands-in-pockets, morose

a sure sign of guilt (or not knowing whey he’s here)


there’s two sets in the audience, the defendants kin

the dead cyclists family, all wanting a good result


one side bound to be disappointed when a jury,

twelve solid citizens ring the words half will hear


the other half will wail and cry, but which side

watch the Jury Foreman nervously, a-twitter


the words forming towards a Judge sincere, austere

“Guilty your honour, on each of the charges”, the wail


of family members, the bowed head now chest bound,

a chance of the death penalty, 1st degree murder,


Whisked away to a prison cell to await his fate,

to chew the fat with lawyers on an appeal,


the days’ darkened with passing thunderstorms

the rain the tears of a Just God, a willing Man


The crime, now referred with regret, with sadness

with trying to come to terms with his youth, idiocy


the act of retribution,  a mere driving misdemeanour

a course of action now regrettable, now guilty,


now morose and awaiting the retrial, the appeal,

a time to chew what if’s and maybe’s, guilty.


The Ladies a’ feeling


Ecstasy etched her errant smile

a rueful rambunctious ripping yarn

the quiescence of Quiet Queerism

all a story of ladies humping for children


not all I hear you ask,

not many either

just a few ladies of the night

or nymphomaniacs nubile,


One I knew, Sally (name changed to protect)

had a body to die for

had a brain to lay for

had a day in her life

she’d rather forget,


yeah, her cousin Seth from Homewoods,

took to her with his enigmatic smile

taught her that there is more to sex

than a pile of Love and Affection

yes, he was rough


But she liked it that way now

and that narrows the field,

except maybe on the Potomac

serving sailors

serving her own desires

the rough hands from rope

on nipples used to a good tweaking

sweat all too readily available.


Then she’d go home and cry

such is the life of her ilk

tears hardened by years of travails

years of punching her shadow

of chucking up down the toilet again,


A gun always at the ready,

another Sheriffs report, if, just if.



He was an innocent kid.


His mother mollycoddled him daily

father just passed the time of day

he lived in a fantasy world

of dungeons and dragons

and internet games.


Then one day his parents said,

“time to be a man”

step out in the world,

make something of yourself

maketh a man

do something.


He wore tidy clothes,

mothers’ keen eye

but work was hard

took him away from his games

he couldn’t now afford to play


then clothes became rags,

the games gave way to drugs

the innocent young man hooked

work was too hard, crime was easy

the time to run hard, being chased


yes he was still an innocent young man

his parents built him that way

made him useless to all

made him a nuisance

and didn’t care


(it was always his fault)

they tried to take him back

tried to get him keen on the games again

tried to make him feel wanted

to make him feel worthy


but time was gone,

hooked on the thrill of the chase,

the rush of illicit drugs, pulsing

the taste of danger

to flee,


then one day, he ran for the wrong reason

a 45 aimed at his back, the slug faster

the middle of his back a small hole

the front of his T Shirt a large blot

the life ebbed before he collapsed


his parents said he was innocent

innocent of any crime

innocent of life



They didn’t cry

such is this harsh world.



Silver Brushes Shining.


I lay in bed, warm, snug

head propped by all the pillows

I sit up and watch your ritual

the seven Silver brushes

massaging your golden locks

that extend from the very top

to a rump widened in years.


You start with those two short haired ones

the stiff ones, the weed out grey locks

then the three long ones, soft to massage

a shine starting to effect, the gold rich

the sixth and seventh dampened

to hold it all in place.


I love you regardless, but your hair helps

I love your smile in the mirror

when the returning shine from your hair

hits, and stylizes the humour you have

for yourself, your hair, your smile.


That’s been my morning ritual

for forty two years

and long may it reign.





There is a change in the range

a swift swirl in a girls twirl,

sated sausage in massage BBQ’s.


Twice in the vast past, eons gone

the days went fast, nothing wrong

midnight was dark, as redwood bark.


Mind games are lame, still the same

the ladies of the street, tap out the beat

it’s a man’s turn to say no, wherever they go.


Go forth and multiply, as it signifies

a change like vicissitude, can be rude

the children of the light, shine aloud at night.


Then Mayflower descendants, drive a bargain

with local Indians to buy land to settle once again

in a new land full of promise and build a train track


to carry people further on, and leave dust gone,

the trek of bullock trains, and the fight with pains

the days long the nights cold, youngsters become old.


Prehistory or what it was like last century.


Did you know, that in 1903 there was a law

for growing Chaff and distributing it amongst

horse owners and bullock teams alike.


Yeas 1907, Shackleton departed on his journey

to the Ice of Antarctica, I have the books,

my ancestors came to New Zealand for good.


The Great War killed many soldiers, no one won,

the motor car and airplanes advanced, as technology

does when people are at strife with each other.


I have a 1923 Webster’s Encyclopaedic Dictionary

wafer thin pages with a huge amount of information,

I call it my bible, the words fair leaping off the sheets.


1929 brought on the Great Depression, times when

work simply did not exist, workers scraped fields

to help beat the Blues, hobo’s aplenty scraping for food.


The rise of the Third Reich and the unpleasantness

of the Second World War, the advance of technology,

the A Bombs of Japanese targets heralds danger.


The Cold War, when Black East and White West

muscled each other for ascendancy of power

still more died of starvation, the need to be free.


Sputnik, a sign space is the next frontier, high

satellites buzzing aplenty, dancing new promises

the advent of media as a tool to win hearts and minds.


The Vietnam war, where insolvent foes hold back

then advance and leave a country with the second

largest military force on retreat, beaten back, lost.


The destruction of the USSR, other communist states,

the sudden advance of freedoms, societies marching

new regimes promising an equal world, celebrity.


The 1990’s, the world moving fast, Islam, Christianity

plight of nations at war with each other, emphasised

21st Century, a time when my family and I live apart.


Why, You Little Rascal


Why, you little rascal

you stole my walking cane

now how’s Gramps gonna walk

catch you and smack your hide?


Why, you little rascal

took my TV Remote

how’s Gramps gonna watch TV

so he can sit you down and watch Discovery together?


Why you little rascal

hid the dreaded whiskey bottle

how’s Gramps gonna get tickled pink

so he doesn’t have to care for the sadder world?


Why you little rascal

kissing your girlfriend in eyeshot

how’s Gramps gonna find a girl

to keep him warm and safe in the afternoons?


Why you little rascal

Putting Gramps in a rest home

How’s Gramps gonna forget

that age affects everyone, even himself.


Why you little rascal

The TV is fine, the whiskey great

and Molly from room twelve

loves a bit of slap and tickle in the afternoon.


Hey you little rascal,

you’ll be in the will

not sure what as yet

oh yeah, keep the cane and whiskey, and condom.





a group

helping souls

to meet concerns

a mental health turn

to help others meet aims

to achieve something on terms

making objects out of nothing

turning their mind towards other needs

expressing themselves to the best intent.


You eat Licquorice.


You eat licquorice with vivid lips

you wrap your tongue sensually

around another black stick of lust


a blanket around cooling shoulders

to hide your heaving breasts, you eat

whipped cream and catch it, mouth corners


smeared with love juice as it spills

over a chin that holds the blanket in place

your dedication to your task sublime


suddenly you burp, uncharacteristic

the sound shaking me from my reverie

we laugh and giggle like little children.


The Poetry Reading


He stood up when his name was called

Roger or Graham or some unpoetic name,

he had a bald head, shirt hanging out,

smacked of disinterested businessman.


He introduced himself through his poetry,

all lovingly recited with a fair mixture of laughs,

the fire from his recital lips burn images in minds

drinking the flavour of his recital, then he finished.


I stood up when my name was called, Thanneee

the MC mispronounces, I take my awaited cue

get a quick dose of the Jelly Belly, a quick burp

(silent) and take the stage and the mike in charge,


I recite effortlessly, and receive warm applause,

though some clap louder, the deaf lady asks me

for my copy of Ngauranga Gorge to read, smiles

as she leafs through the poem and understands.


Yes today was National Montana Poetry Day,

a day when poets or poetry readers equally

share their works, their loves, their words,

when all smile with joy at the spoken art shining.


A Saturday Dip in Serendipity.


I lick liquid love

eat easterly breezes

play wink, wink, nudge, nudge

with grandchildren asking for more;

I swallow my pride as you dictate

the lines for my next work

the dog chases bliss

in empty rooms.


The Jolly Rodger

sails from my figurehead

the light of evening past flickers

like too many wet puppy noses dripping;

the slice of morning dew cake, melting

subtly moves left on the table,

follows kiddies hands

to a maw mashed.


Pastor Roger Wick

burns the midnight oil, dull

the room from years of dust, gloom

the house that that sits empty for days now;

I eat passion Lollies, your mood dictates it,

the slice of Green Sponge wet

from too much moisture,

the lady dancing.


A coach nears a bend

the driver in charge of his destiny

the destiny of the folks onboard, danger

the sound of a blown tire, loss of control, death;

the coroner has his hands full, moving the dead,

sending sadness back to a dark morgue

the lights shining bright, captures

the stink of death, done.


This necklace grows

then shrinks as ideas float off

the concepts there for the taking, somehow

ladies in waiting awaiting a new prince of poetry;

You could use a helping hand explains the radio,

commands people to think about choice

men with holes in pocket, torn

play hey diddle, diddle.



Blueberry pie my friend

for the end of the Necklace poem

the search for form and fashion, to capture,

play Find me a riddle out of nothing, Mum passes;

yes she died, nearly twenty years ago now, missed

Tattooed on her Gravestone the love we had

I go there yearly to clean it, a task

or a chore like poetry.



Egg on her face. (A Dali)


Mona Lisa with fried egg eyes

a banana mouth

set off with broccoli nose.


Michelangelo’s David

fitted with car tyre arms

inflated tubes for biceps.


Leonardo Da Vinci’s helicopter

rotating ideas pre mechanization

the lofty ideas battering.


Monet’s pastel countryside’s

the oils splattering

where a picture takes effect.


Why I like the sea.


Sailing in oceans grey or blue

the colour indicative of the weather

both colours worked fine for me

rough or calm, superb malevolence.


On a calm night, near the tropics

you can see stars for breakfast

the constellations clear and precise

the shooting stars aplenty, buzzing.


Or a huge yellow moon rising

inching it’s way above the horizon

the Sea of Tranquility bringing peace

the thought of a poem starting.


The gentle lap, lap of the waves on bow

directly under feet dangling to cool

in the splash of lap back as it rises

the snore of old man night growls.


I look behind me, the grey of frigate

merging with the ebony of night,

the sound of snoring souls below decks

humming in another night at sea.


Taken to task for pretending to be a teenager


It’s the clothes

hoodies and trackpants,

sandals mostly

though on cold days

warm socks and running shoes.


I slouch along

like some skateboard kid

or dress as a BMX’er

that startles juniors,

when they see the grey hair

poking out and proclaiming

seniority, they laugh.


Heck I don’t mind,

quite enjoy the notoriety

old man skatee

with the red goatee

tinged with white,

the lady shopkeeper

looks askew,

runs for the cover

of the counter.



The Dead Ones


Obituary – They all died doing their Art,

the likes of Jon Bonham, drummer

his mate Keith Moon, also drummer,

Michael Hutchence of INXS

not to forget Jimi Hendrix.


They flock to a shrine in Paris

Jim Morrison Deceased.

Alcohol got to Bon Scott of AC/DC

the likes of Elvis too, RIP

not forgetting Kurt Cobain

and many more not so famous.


Well there are more, Janis Joplin

and Phil Lynott, bassist for Thin Lizzy,

Mark Bolan of T Rex fame,

and some others, fringe players,

artist that died way too young, Marilyn Monroe,

James Belushi from comedy circles.


Feel Free to add to the list, as a token of remembrance.


Toby and Moira (A Homerian Epic)


Several times in his life, he’d found cheap love

many times a night in the hay, a tale of nothing,

then one day working at the university shop

he spied this lady, about twenty three perhaps

she walked up to his counter, asked for milk.


He stood rooted to the spot, unable to move

just stood and stared and blubbered a hello

she blushed aware the effect she had on him

she too stuttered, ferreted in her purse for change

to pay for goods she hadn’t yet purchased.


He blubbered and fussed about, asked her

what she would like, more than anything on Earth

she said yes please, I’ll take those (saw his badge)

Thanks Toby, um er a pie and thickshake, lime

released by her calling his name, he filled the order,


then returned and she smiled, Hi I’m Moira, (blushing)

he handed her the goods, asked her out for a date

said he’d pick her up from the Five and Dime, Highway

One on the outskirts of her village, he knew that then

walked away, bounce in her step, skip in her stride.


As is the case with love you look back and marvel,

Toby and Moira have their fiftieth anniversary soon

five children, three sons and two daughters, great

kids loving parents, the need to repay their diligence

and love to honour a café and stumbling beginnings.


They marked their day an uncommon kiss, no passion

just the need to fit hand and glove as they always do,

to let their kids see their love as they always had,

to let other family members share their love and joy,

to let the day be a moment that once started askance.


They both died a few days apart, in their late eighties,

buried side by side at the local cemetery, raining

tears from heaven for two wonderful people, leaving

behind the respect of many wonderful kindred, in love

with each other, with life, with others in life, for life.


A room adieu


The room is an unholy vacuum

sucks dust and detritus

to display as ornaments

on mantels well worn,


the pithy creatures stuffed

lend an animal ambience

the teeth on one Boar scarred

with the etching of hanging bulls horns.


It’s a gentleman’s room, empty

of the lesser things in life 

the blue long coat in the corner

moth-eaten from years on neglect.


There’s a pad fall from an errant cat

sniffing around in antiquity, ageless

the writing materials on an Oaken Tableau

left unused for decades, the silverfish abound,


Two days ago you had visitors

from the historical society, toffs

to resurrect the room in a museum

the days of the retiring gent gone.


You loo k at the room again now, love

the likes you had for just the room

not the man, the hunter, the loner

but the room speaks his bright side.



A Day After the Rain went.


She’s prodigious, spends hours

weeding, planting, pruning

the garden her pride and joy, shines

when visitors walk through it.


Not bad for a handicapped lady

one arm mauled off by a dog years ago

the memory lost in the No Pets regime

the garden the only thing that barks.


Her hair glistens this afternoon,

I sit on the step

reading my Man Mechanic

but secretly watching her studiousness.


The sun glorifies rainbows in the air

where speckled flowers glimmer

the lady the pot of gold

shining riches for all to touch.


The wet of recent rain amplifies.



Little Gems




The distended Nose Bone

trumpeted the arrival

of five elephants

in my home.





The azure arising sunset

cluttered my mind

a day shorter

for the





There’s an Aussie Brown billowing

it’s whippish tail flicking

days when snake free

is the cry of time.




The men of the bog sailed

for shores afar, a dream

the railways across

great lands





The bloodshot forehead

of an Indian Hindi

the remnants

of love.




The cut glass of crystal

no match it seems

for diamonds

in dreams.




The deep green of forest

the tense jade pressured

reformed for Taonga

to dispense standing.


The Tarantula Hypotheses


I often wonder, the Sea or the See?  Either is as good as the other, but the perspective so different.  Many wax lyrical in thought, the Sea or the See, a vast expanse of sight, or an expansive view of thought.  Daisy the Cow often gave me insight into real life, the ability to think like a blank chewing quadruped, to clear the mind and chew ones cud whilst thinking of vast green oceans of grass, or even vaster mind waves of Blue Sky. Yes, Sea or See.


The Newspaper ran an article about two druggies murdering a child molester.  They apparently knew his case and felt honour bound to end the guy’s life.  The danger of taking the law in your own hands well highlighted by this story, the couple appearing in court for murder.  Yes the guy was a predatory child molester and didn’t deserve to be in society, even if he hadn’t reoffended in 23 years.  Maybe they passed the chocolates around and decided he just didn’t deserve to be here (drugs does that in folks – paranoia).


Sea meets See

when murder

solves issues


The Promised Land


No one owns any of it,

all land is administered

by transient caretakers.


The men women and children

of the Promised Land, beg

with weapons meant to maim.


For millennia the battle rages

who owned this land (or that land)

who had riparian rights.


Sadly the colour of skin

or hook of nose

determines right of seizure.


A stream trickles through both lands

water recycled from above

the path determined by effort.


If both from either side

were to drink the peace

the water offers, touché!


The Glacial Degradation Theory


You sit at your work desk



as the day rolls on

the light of electric glow



as the heat

melts your mood

the lady in Pink

drips sweat

onto a computer keyboard

designed for soft touch typing.


You drive home air con on

the heat of the traffic



and sensibilities

the steering wheel sweaty

from wringing wet hands

the day wanes



and glaciers survive

to live another eon, ancient


the last podocarp forest

as global warming



crumbles under the weight

of oxygen regeneration

the ladies inside



for children thirsty.


Sea levels rise and fall, the tides

the wash eroding beaches



on houses moved to sate owners

to provide air con and sweat

to changing changelings




a glacier growing

global warming

is both fact and myth

a recycling event from eons old.


The Last thing you need


An empty canteen in a five hundred mile desert


The children to out grow you before your time


Two seconds to make a decision when all day works


A few million dollars when you’re used to poverty


Saltwater Crocodiles on your front lawn, visitors


I sat and watched the Discovery Channel,

and marvelled at the way nature works,

when man doesn’t intervene, or does,

the touching thing animals flee,

running and jumping, happy

to be alive and free,

to swim alone

in the pool

of life.


I see pictures of Elephants downed, detusked cruelly,

bloodied and painful deaths, such that most shiver

when they see the state of the Elephant nation,

also those Rhinos sadly dead on their sides

the horns ripped off for faraway sales

in aphrodisiac stores in China

the pity the ability to stop

such wastage, death

a sad state to be

when a Rhino

with horn.


The Last thing you need


Truth to be lied about, when rape means mind death.


Ladies on the streets doing it for Love, not Money?


Tonnes of Sand poured on your lawn, just because.


The Lecture you missed on Sociopaths, A grade pass.


Ten times a year you’re struck by lightning, white fella.


Father Ted’s Place


Aphrodisiac cough Lollies,

belch inducing, hiccup,

couples passing wind laugh,

due to the fact that someone

erupted in front of them.

Father Ted wrote home

gone now since 1987

happier in Hamilton,

instead of drear Calgary,

Juniper juice coloured purple

ketchup on open sandwich

lauding the flock, aplenty.

Mary kneels to pray, blushed

now the father has her attention

opens her purse passes a tenner,

quaintly shuts it again, smiling

Roger in the far aisle shivers

says out loud – Eureka

turns to Mary and smiles

unevenly, his upper false teeth

vehemently fighting his lips

wise counsel often does that,

xylophonic melodies dance

your ear attuned to loveliness

Zed – a letter signifying end of poem.


Mary Had a Happy Clam


There’s always tomorrow

a day after today,

two days hence yesterday,


there’s always Salmon on favourite menus

the delicacy of a fish swarming in headwaters,

the day they die new life forms,


Suddenly THUMP!!! Earthquake

I guess 5.4 on the Richter scale

go to my seismic website, no report yet.


Now I have to change my underpants,

earthquakes do that, make me change

change something any way, choice


today it’s underpants, the old ones are clean

but after a good Quake I have to change

(yeah I know, repetition, so what, I’m writing it)


I typed a few words to start another poem

but now I am no longer where I want this thing to be,

perhaps I should try again, another tangent.


Mary had a wet nightgown

she wore it to bed one night

she woke in a dire muddle

and you thought I’d say puddle!! Shame on you.


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