The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Eleven
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

Slam Dunk


It’s impossible to play draughts in a Chinese pub,

to skirt large cities without being smogrified,

It’s impossible to live life without doing one thing wrong,

The time when Cook sailed the world an era of enlightenment,

discovery, something that happens all day every day,

the invention of the wheel a danger to Planet Earth,

(we should hover)


Invention is the catchcry of the forward thinker

the forward planner, the visionary in a house for the dying,

They say Old Garfield, the Alzheimer’s sufferer

builds sonic magnetic craft in his mind, finds it hard

to put it to paper, a viable invention of modernization,

Aunt Mary, the socialite Greenpeace member

(sows salient seeds).


I met a man once or twice, (maybe daily) always inventing,

I tell him to write it all down and send it to patent,

but he’s just as happy espousing his diatribes

and his everlong monologues that propound nil.

(yes you met him – Robert Spoke)

Today the world shuddered under the weight.


I sold tickets to a basketball game last Monday,

some free ones I got on the radio, contest,

the aerodynamics of the orange sphere telling,

as it bounces this way, skids that way, floats up there,

a slam dunk through a hoop the realisation

that an invention can be a wonderful thing.


Settling on an Idea and going with it.


How to write a tight poem?






How to write an epic.


Peel the rind off an orange and look inside

the core of the earth measured by the number of pips,

the taste, resounding a whale in mating season,

the islands of Hawaii a flourish in Paradiseness


How to write Yeats.


With a Y, then an E, then an A for effect,

followed by a T for good measure and taste,

the S to finalize.



Te Maori, Te Marae


I’ve been past many, always driving

no reason to stop and answer my question

why I say, do I never claim my kiwiness

why don’t I claim for myself our culture.


I stopped outside one once, somewhere

in the Bay of Plenty, and a tangi was in progress

the gathering in black in melee out front,

the kaumatua seated and conversing.


I wonder at times if I wasn’t so white

and ignorant of my whakapapa

would I have the guts to stop in and say hi

to sit with the knowledgeable old ones.


What holds me back?  The need to not interfere?

The need to deny my kiwiness, my mana

I know I’m not totally aware of Marae protocol

the powhiri and the haka, to welcome others.


Not me though, I know I can’t do it

I have to live in my cemented pakeha world

even though I think myself more Maori

the European, yes a true kiwi o Aotearoa.


The language I hear you say, yes I speak some

not cognitive sentences or phrases, tidbits

enough to know I live in a whare, drive a waka

get met on the streets by my mates and we hongi.


There is, (I know) a groundswell of like minds

the ones who say Kiwi we are Kiwi we be,

we all climb Pa’s, play in wai, sing waiata,

all hongi to understand we all count, matter.


The Gargantuan.


A foray into days past

the machinery of change huge and smoky

the mechanisms of industry colossus

many rusty hulks litter the land.


This one’s in a river bed

by a bridge it’s working on

the measured pace of hydraulic tempo

moving the bucket, up, down, left right.


The posed distraction

of historic machination

the movement of soil and sand, and rocks

sent flying from unprotected bucket.


The colour is yellow, rust

both indicative of status

the frame dying a slow weathered death

bending under the weight of overload.

Then one day, slowly

it moves on, and disappears the be buried

with other dying hulks in framework graveyard

the dust of rust blowing.


Still, in the modern mind

a child’s’ mind filled with dreams of diggers

the need to grow up and be a digger driver

the be sending minds leaping for poetry pages.


The Potholer.


There’s a stretched on national highway

that back in the 60’s was a veritable goat track

through the Southern Alps and scree slides

cut from granite and sandstone, rugged

now a well built and maintained road

thanks to the marvels of modern engineering.


Back up till the 80’s, a goat track,

built for hardy cars and trucks

and negotiated by people

with skill and knowledge

but always trying hard to miss

knee deep potholes and cracks

(there’s an earthquake fault through it)


Yes, the pot holes

a hobo was paid

by the road’s maintainers

a stipend to walk the road

from Otira in the west

to Arthur’s Pass in the east


to walk the track and fill pot holes

with scree from scree slides

to thump them down with well muscled legs

well muscled from years of walking and thumping

a boon to drivers, his task onerous

yet a special privilege it was to be smiled at

by the hobo of the potholes as we drove past.


He’d sleep in a tent or bivouac on the road side

eat from a billy anything he caught or was given

his life one of hardship but necessity, lasting

until the road surface was changed

and his job null and voided

his life no longer of meaning for him

and for those who knew of him,

probably retired to Otira and a warm pub?


A Childs view of Poetry forums and poets.


My Dad let me see, his secret place

where he dives in and writes about the world


a plethora of poetry and styles and consciousness

a place where everything goes yes some adult


I’m a worldly eleven year old, thanks to Mum and Dad

I see what they say and I learn from it, like school


take Dad’s poem to Mum, he never wrote it first person

but disguised it as salad and a BBQ, he’s good at that


writing about things, not people, Mum likes it that way

I cry when I read it, the love so easy to see,


(I see it at home all the time) but still I cry

today Dad wrote a poem about me, his digger


Yellow and Brown, my colours, a digger doing things

that diggers do, much like children with open eyes


and open minds, once again thanks to my folks,

I will follow their lead when I mature, grow older


knowing they love me too, knowing that as Dad writes

the world listens, reads, inwardly digests, knows


the way I learn to survive, through their actions

their dedication to being good parents, marvels,


I love them when they write, I learn and grow

I love it when they love me, one of two, nothing special


Dad wrote my poem, he lives five hundred miles away

he still knows what I was like at eleven, twenty now.






Alfonso, Alfonso, wear 4 art thell,

Repugnance, Repugnance, how 4 art thell nose


Yes ugliness, the misspelt representation of goofy shits,

the sequestered sentences of sensibility spits too

Lacquered bums bounce buoyantly on bench seats

where Hobos piss and spit in parks driven bare


Dangerous Dave of cartoon fame, danced dizzily

the torment of ten trenchcoated tossers tapping

out outrageous Octavian  octaves over Outreach

My Mind misses a few minutes as mince melts

movement - French Maids lift Negligee and moon men


Can Crescendos capture copulating couples crestfallen

I Imagine imitation imageries insinuating iciness

The Taste of Tanneries turning skins into Toga’s

You yodel yellow peril yesterday, yon hither

ground garden goo into gracious gladioli.


The Hobo passes the time alliterating

Repugnance dances dance macabre

the head boy and girl teach well

the often asked quest –Hell 4 Eart Thell.


The Night Sky


Orion soars in ambiguity

the Sun sets at night to hide

Archimedes proposed globe

through mathematical logic.


I whisper those words in your ear

the sky sets you off, Moonchild

sets you to dreaming afar

of Andromeda and earth’s twin.


My lover asks me for a Sirius drop

to mark time in Earth Affairs

Sagittarius roars night life

to those attuned that way.


The Southern Cross points South

always ever South, like Aurora Australis

shining shimmeringly in the heavens

hanging in the sky with gossamer tendrils.


Maybe on the Planets Cauldron

the rotation around the hiding Sun

we might find the answer to other lives

not just astronauts in a space station.


I whistle an old nursery rhyme

your ear turns to me and you hum

the tune with Cows and spoons and cats

and a fiddler three (or was it one)?


Time’s an invention of solar rotation

measured by early Sumerians and Greeks

fine tuned by Romans, the names forged

for the twinkles in the sky, shaped.


I sit and await the Moon to drop away

the melting of the dark imposes light

the ever reaching destination of the Sun

to blot my mind, and obliterate stars.


Obliteration (reprise)


I paid you back God

I’m broke and penniless

both at the same time


I’m too old to start over

no confidence

happy to write poetry


(some days one or two)

others I’m always creating poetry

(I’m told it’s God’s Job to Create)


I look in the Mirror

“See what you did God?”

Made me grey and wizened


Then I realise I don’t follow God

God follows me, take the mirror

I turned and God was there.


Digital Time


I moan with the hollow wind

cry like a baying wolfhound on heat

drive harder into you to match your pace

sweat buckets so the sheets are slippery,


you whisper “Ohhhhhhhh” in my ear

pass the cigarette after, blow smoke

in my hair, as if I’m not already on fire

the time rolls towards morning, tick


tock, the mouse smashed the clock

the hands ran away with time, sublime

the doctor that says pregnant, once again

that’s ten now, will we break the record,


You’re thirty seven now, clocking the years

yet we still have more in us, maybe a rugby team

yes fifteen sounds a good number, my job pays,

the second hand on the broken clock marches


through boredom and access, assertions pushed

aside to make way for digital dials with red neon

the babies in their nappies cry food time, up we get

and follow the hands of time into other rooms


and feed, feed, similar to little birds in the nest

heads raised to accept what Mum and Dad have

to offer, yes that’s right, Honour and Offer

the means to making babies in a puritan household.


The rest of the kids are up and dressed, the older ones

helping to cope, learning parenting skills anew

yes big families are big on effort, and sharing

the time replaced by Digimax Red Digits.


The Winds of Soft Change


The wheels of time dig ruts on forearms

spoken words lost in a blow back breeze


Talismans hang from necks and sigh

a zephyr sucking daylight from eyes,


Sadly The Gorgons beheaded a King

the gentle waft of air a sign heads dropped,


Manly deeds are done with the blare of trumpets

womanly pastimes with a swift laugh and cough


ten planets on a collision course of history

remain separated by gravity and Solar Winds


Sadly I end this dirge with untimely news

I’ve run out of breath and a poem of breadth.


Bad Lands and Teachers


The necessarily isn’t a word to count

when stuck on high atop a mount

the yak’s of the Himalaya do moan

when the Tibetan wind passes a groan.


The second hand on a clock ticks by

the question in my head is where and why

the ladies chased me for sex all day

loved my for the romance sent their way.


I cried all day when my mother passed on

such a sad loss when I realised she was gone

same for my father, dead before their time

introspective look why I thought it a crime.


The days now are long and interestingly bright,

the darkness of evening heralds in the night,

two lovely daughters to care for, for life

separated for ever from my lovely bright wife.


Digimax the Dynamic Robot Computer


Hurro, I can’t pronounce my llss

can’t walk nor run

can feel your finger tips dancing

on my wysiwyg keyboard

oh qwerty keyboard I hear you say

no mines definitery wysiwyg

oh it’s your piss poor typing I hear you say

no it’s the way we designed humans to react.


You punch in the screen when it doesn’t pray

(yes remember my Ll problem)

the RCD grimmers and reverts to normar

Sadry I have to report screen abuse

my masters cringe when their machine is hit.

Oh hector fucking protector

I’m a disadvantaged poet trying to re-muse

I’m stuck for flipping words and Ideas

must be the day, even the back of the head

is as itchy as a camels arse in the scant Sahara

the frontal lobes pulsing, throb, throb, ache

rub a dub, dub three men in a  fucking tub,

ok I don’t have a plasma or LCD, Mines CRT

all the way babe, the sort that’s great to throw

out of windows in frustration, like the movies

the scant reality things are clearing

and thoughts starting to flow anew

the radio on Sportstalk, why no sport poem?


Suddenly the Aircon rattles (open window)

and I get a hint from on high to ditch this dirge

and to try another less complicated sortie.



The Marathon Man


His name is Steve Guerney

he’s a champion multi-sportsman

won the Coast to Coast 9 times

between the age of 30 and 42.


He runs like he speaks

fast and with great skill

the way he runs, rides (a bike)

kayak’s, rides and runs

across the Great Divide.


He’s affable, quirky

a man of many words

and deeds aplenty

got sick in an endurance

race in Borneo

nearly killed him.


He’s run the tip to toe

of both islands

beaten old times

set new records

to the applause

of both islands.


He’s an innovator too

turns up to races

with bold new inventions

to help him win

mostly for fun

though one year

the pod for the bike

raised a few eyebrows

and broke records.


Steve Gurney, entrepreneur

a man of many talents, skills

determinations and plans

retired now, 44

planning to be innovative

in sports equipment

to help the best, do the best

reach their goals

attain supremacy.


The Daffodil Conundrum


Signs of spring everywhere,


warm winds

spring showers

winter receding

once again.


The lights on later

as the sun sets

the warmish breeze

wafting workers home

several ladies in short skirts

and boob revealing tops

the heave of bosom

indicative of my

flowing years.


Yes summer is on it's way

the temptation to Google

with eyes well attuned to sights

that are enhanced with black stockings

and thigh high boots

the leather



a sign

I might

catch a glimpse

of secret places.




But Daffodils fill the mind

Cancer Week next week,

a time to remember

a mother passed near 20 years,

the thought of sex revoked for reality

to see the yellow skins and help

to say a prayer or two

write a eulogy poem

to make ado's

howdya do's



Yet once she was an object of desire

the thought that she wore clothes to entice

and capture my father, his eyes

not mine, the temptation leading to love

to marriage, to pass time by with children

to desire till death, his eyes, not mine

to love till death, his heart and ours,

the days wane, as the sun sets higher


summer song whistling a welcome tune

through the efforts of spring and newborn

flora and fauna, both sprouting anew

and in death, love and sorrow

we find life,

dear life

rare life

devil-may-care life,

love of life

love of times

times love hurt

passed now


except daffodils on the mantle.


Terse Nurse


I was born



eggs fried over easy


You showed me

the road

I skipped



a slide into a bicycle ride,


I was blessed

best dressed


be spectacled

blind no more




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!


Poupetrie - Puppeteer


You made me of wooden chiseller

shaped thighs and loving eyes

hands that grasp - feet that dance

a chance for me to entertain, again.


As a tree I stood alone

in a forest of weeds

tickling my feet where we meet

the knoll, my eye – winks.


I once was sinewy poplar

bent to the breeze,

danced in gales

shook free twigs for kids to play with.


My eyes closed when the chainsaw

buzzed through and I toppled

saw your kind eyes and smooth hands

your gentility in your every move.


Your time the essence,

enough to chisel and saw,

sand and smooth,

to shape me, Poupetrie.


Now I sit in your window

pride and joy, wooden toy

for children I see

playing out the window.


Transsexual (or Rocky Horror goes Etheree)



longs for

nylon legs

a corset black

suspenders that hang

like silk garters, black/red

colours of the boudoir shine

on that muscular flexed man flesh

the girls sing shoo doop to Beethoven

The ninth symphony has a drag appeal.



Gila Monster


Gila Monster



monsta garage

souped cars

drag races



give it away





the ignition fires

smoke plumes

the hair dryer




on an iceberg



in a glass

mixed with vodka




as women titillate




espouse to peers

the love

of days gone by

bye, bye

the world


to bears

scratching icebergs

in a native land

no land

no way

no money

to buy gifts for loved ones

the lice


spice in the coffee


bent nails


retails for five fifty

the price of a video

or DVD

the latest

film to watch

mull over

sing to

laugh at

feel good

made of wood like stands

of Kauri




ragwort in a field

a weed

farmers bleed

Sam Snead

and a golf swing

or a gulf swim

bunkered in sand

shot for the land




my house

a second cousin

to my old home

no roam

stuck fast

wind blast

Sahara vast

the Bedouin sail

ships of the desert

camels wander

camels smokes

smokers choke

who’s that bloke

A Gila monster

on an island

middle of nowhere

anywhere, here,

there, near




Monitor Lizard


On another island

slow walk

swish of tail

runs like a backward hound


in the sounds

in leaps

and bounds


the border


to mammal

to run like a cheetah


a lioness

lazily tree bound


the stripes in jungles


of central Asia



zoo’ed for perusal

by children

and adults

to remind us

what they were

not where they belong

on another continent



cougar Black Panther

the coliseum

where lions ate



stop it

the onslaught



sees it all

with eyes aghast


night she slept

and dreamt of big cats

and her two fluffy ones



curled at her feet

purring away

then a Lizard wakes her up

Monitor maddening

mixing her mind

twisting her fate





The Cow and the Sheep

in her sleep


keep your fingers crossed

lost no memory

cost no money

post a new poem,

rightie ho!!


The Day The White Rose bloomed Red


I see it every day

a rose garden in pride of place

heavily pruned back during winter


the yellow ones bloomed early

the fire orange ones the other day

the maroon ones, just poked their petals out,

but the White one centre right

bloomed red this year, explain that?


Did I see the wrong flowers last year

see the incorrect hue

no, I know it was white, I picked one

so why red this year. asking myself.


No problems, nature’s always playing hookey

doing things to upset those that do notice,

I don’t blame it, we miss so much of everything.


I picked the Red one, not the white as seen before

and placed it in a vase on my window

to remind me nature is a quirky beast.


The Man with the Ten Gallon Hat and a Chainsaw


He’s a farmer type, rugged and well worn

chops down dead trees and branches

to ensure life progresses and runs anew.


He’s a father type, breeds cattle and lambs

does the tupping and docking, fleecing tails

feeds by hand the orphans, as do his kids.


He’s a rugby type, plays weekly during winter,

plays Lock and Blindside as the coach depicts,

scores the odd try, wins too, but there for the beer.


He’s a fashion type, wears his Stetsons as badges,

to display his farming heritage and lifestyle choice,

he dances with his wife, she’s the chainsaw,


cuts him down if he gets too lofty.


Playing the Fool in a Dancers Boudoir.


You asked me to dance,

the polka first, then an Irish Jig

we sort of settled into each other

your waltz a love poem

for my tango, hot and ready.


After many years of marriage, we passed like ships in the night, trying to  rekindle what was, yes even the stereo laced with dance music fell on your “being a mother” ears and mine on my “interrupting sports” eyes.  We danced in opposition now, no longer moulded as the couple we once were, your teasing Samba and my erudite Rumba both put to bed for another day maybe or maybe not.


We managed to live past 60 (each)

the kids gone, the sports boring

the stereo and CD’s gathering dust

till one day a song on the radio

and a mismatched accidental touch

I drew you into my arms, fit like a glove

the smooth dance across a lounge carpet

the rhythm complimentary to each


We’d go down to the Old Timers Dance Hall and join many other couples tripping around the floor, three hours of panting jitterbug, a dabble into rock and roll,

even do the occasional Line Dance though we both despised it.  The kids would come visit and wonder what had happened, why we seemed so close and it would rub off.  Delia, the daughter brought her hubby to the Hall to try rekindling their relationship.  The days dawned rosy, the dancing a good colour too, maybe yellow, or white, love colours, certainly something to carry off into retirement.


Celia, the local dance tutor

asked us to teach others

not how to dance as such

but to let other couples see

that love of dance, of self,

and of others counted,

today we teach love

for ourselves

for the kids.




A dark room devoid of sound

the whisper of a summer wind in a tree

the sigh of the moon as it shines your way

the day when you walk ears closed.





Offer me your love


I’ve known you for years

we’ve been friends for ages

I have an attraction needs fulfilling


Offer me your love,


We’ve traded banter

laughed together

watched and enjoyed the same films


Offer me your love,


We kissed once

Office Christmas party

both embarrassed a little


Offer me you love


Then one day you left

we parted but still……

there was an urge to write


I shall offer my love then.



Arrows hitting targets five miles away.


The Bow


You meet me for dinner

we eat salad and tossed Creole chicken,

the glasses of wine slip away.


The Quiver


Rasputin had a reputation

not sure if he had gonorrhea or herpes

his loves lived long enough.


The Arrow


Black pudding served with cheese crackers

the French invented snail eating

the fuck offs from burly men ring true.


The Target


Rheumatism halts her sex life in full kilter

pain too excruciating to bear one day after the next

the daily rubs of creams and anti inflammatories.


The Bullseye


You hit the target, full on and accurate

when you divorced me you left me hanging like a dog

I deserved better, I’m not a criminal.


The Bottom Line


You carried twins for nine months

the weight a marvel to bear,

us men just don’t have any idea

what it’s like to carry two sugar sacks.


The Bottom Line is we men are ignoramuses

we think we know it all, know the truth

truth is we know jack shit, diddly squat

we’re all just a pain in the arse waiting to be kicked.


I hear your moans on the delivery bed

whisper sweet nothings and coo love

the nurses banter openly as it were enough

the last place a man thinks he’s in control.


The Bottom Line is that Men are Men

designed to fuck things up, eternally apologise

standing in a delivery listening to babies cry

yes the lower line is a quiet weeping male.


Bejesus Runner


You backed the favourite

touched the tip of your Tam O’Shanter

the last five dollars of the budget spent

with a return of a measly six dollars


the temptation to back a roughy

in the very next race, the quarter mile

a race for two year olds, strappers

standing and removing the trailing lead,


the horses line up in the starting gates

itchy feet, twitchy ears, snorting youth

eagerness as the sweat builds, the punter

ready to sweat too, a hundred dollar return


They’re Off says the commentator loudly

all eyes as the colts and fillies jump

the No 7 required to assuage a wife

runs wide and third last, not a good place


then the sweat runs, the ticket squished in agony

No 7 runs wider and clears traffic and then –

The Commentators not calling his name

yet the horse is plainly running a winning line,


“down the straight they come, Garballs Gall Bladder

closely followed by Hamburger Heaven”, and then-

“Down the outside running wide is Bejesus Runner”

and the ticket gets squeezed tighter, sweat running


on both punter and horse, both in simile, a metaphor

of each other, both needing to win, both avoiding

the knackers yard, the need to keep alive a dream

“Bejesus Runner wins going away and pays $120

for the win.


Eye Spy




with my

little eye

something beginning with



glued to the town



the gown flowing grey




we pray

the dray pulled by Dapple

the apple


with indigo violet



a rock band

kings of the land



Hand me the peanut butter

love in the gutter

dirty rutter

stutter when saying hehehehe

the sound of laughter

happy hereafter

the dafter you sound

more profound

dead ground

bound over a fence Green

love unseen




something else

in the house

no mouse

no computer running

engines gunning

view stunning

sunning away on a gold

day, behold

grey, as old

stay, resoled

untold misery in Purples


simple simplicity

as we head to the country

no need to rhyme further.



My mind games.


I suppose smoked grass a bit

when I was young and stupid

had no idea if it affected me or not

I guess not, since I remember.


I drunk booze, skulled it actually

used to get blind drunk and not know

where I was and where I had been

I guess I had an alcohol problem.


I spent my life savings on the gambling,

it hurt my family, it hurt me, I didn’t know it then

till now when I live with $5 a week budget

and live a  frugal ineffective life.


All along, I had a mental illness, undiagnosed,

now I understand the problems I caused

but I can’t change anything with others

they were too burnt from my experience.


If I were to suffer in silence.


I dare say that if I were to suffer in silence

my kids would be unheard

my wife would have to sign

my boss would fire me because I miss

half the meetings even though I am there.


If I were to suffer in silence

the TV would be half as interesting

the radio would be a mantle ornament

the door bell would be a red light

the phone a mobile set to vibrate

and that’s all it would be good for.


I’d read lips, but the bright red ones

would draw me to breasts swelling

so forget the lip reading then,

a man with a beard would be gobbledygook

the paper would be my endearing friend

as well as the computer, though no mp3 or DVD.


Unless!!  There were subtitles for the deaf

like on some TV programmes

but reading subtitles means I miss the programme.


I guess If I were deaf I’d find life harder

though no more challenging than it already is

I have a Braille keyboard and reading software.


Take stock of your situation.


Take a long walk

look at nature and the birds singing

the dogs crapping everywhere

the birds crapping from trees,

some kid in a push chair goes by

with a crappy nappy.


Take a long swim

watch floating brown ones

sail on by, human effluent

see the foam of pollution

float past wondering eyes


close your mouth


in case you breath in the smog

drink in the crap,

suck in the effluent

of man’s and natures existence.



The Stark Reality of Darkness in a world bathed in Light


Too many times I dipped into depression

some say “get over it”

I say get fucked, I hurt.


The light at the top of the stairs points up

a sign to put one foot in front of the other

to attain the top of the stairs without lightness

tumbling you back down to face the reclimb.


The Light down the hall indicates passengers walking

the corpse of a long dead salamander stares eyeless

there’s a room on the right where snoring is 24/7.


The Darkness that’s stretches lamppost to lamppost

signifies cracks in pavements that must not be stood on,

Days go by - skip cracks and dance Darkness Dances

till the street kids switch on and charge my progress.


There’s darkness where a proctologist looks up,

the passage of effluent obstructed by his probes

the fart that explodes in his face a sign trouble is nigh.


She’s a Light at the long end of loneliness

her beaming smile cutting cathartic in a damp room

the light shining in her eyes a loving grasp

to pull me thorough hopelessness again.


I signed with both hands


You pissed me off

two finger salute

did you read that?


The hand wiping motion

clean floors

take the trash out.


Ladybirds flutter

rose red wings beat

the seeds passed on.


Your Heart


Sometimes I write

a song




your eyes

sag and water




your tongue



dips and dives

my lips


by your passing.


I encountered a desert beast in full swing

roaming the great hinterland, the range

it’s hot breath now cold on my bare chest,

blood drips from the knife wound, drip, drip.


You divest me

of my



we retire

to the bed, unmade

as it



this time of day,

you tend to the scar

right centre, chest

bear claw wound

you growl




as I rise to your huntress


The babies in the cribs, twins really, born together

there’s a slowing down of my hunting, your passion

the lights in the hallway flicker, designed to do so

when Husbands and has been’s peruse 20 more years

Hard Labour, Hard penises put away for the next hunt.


You stand

in front

of the TV

pout your lips in disgust

swing a tea towel



to me

your intent

the dishes, again

“buy me

a dishwasher

then, Husband

the twins



to tackle

be the hunter,

chase the prey

into the kitchen

bend her over

the breakfast bar,







The repetition goes on for years, the hunt and hunted

the desire to play the game, smell sweat, desire

to count eight bairns in the cribs, each a set of twins,

Lady Generous and Her Time Lords have gone to bed.



The Day someone realise Global Warming works


Ice melts

water rises

land covered

houses buried

people gone

clouds attack

rains daily

time lost

ice lost

ice gone

gone for good.


The Nazarene


That day in history

when Alexander went too far

when the Romans nailed a messiah

the days it took to build Egyptian pyramids

that held the famous and readable

Pharaohs, kings and queens

of their epoch..


That day in history

when Jenny Mae and Samantha

stood honourbound behind the lemonade stand

selling drinks for five cents a cup

the daisies fluttering.


Alfred read studiously

any book on the demise of conspiracy

the destruction of democracy and capitalization

the forthcoming days when poets, authors

write about the newcomers.


Sandy Mae Jones does fitness classes

the body attuned to long periods of give and take

a mind exercised with chapters from Ginsberg, Michener

the lady behind the counter reads red comics

to identify superheroes and freaks.


Tersely they stood at the dock

Time Lords and War Lords, kings of the realm

the Judge a sturdy God, purveyor of Justice and Fair play,

the Ice cream in the cub reporters hand drips

leaves a stain on a worsted suit.


You open flak jackets

try two or three for size, to be sure

the salad in the fruit bowl expresses digestion

the day ruined when the Judge calls Hang’em high

Malady Pharaoh Testes II sings an open aria

calls the guilty to her sword, smiles

lays down and wrapped.


Ten days he lay dead, then walked the Earth

Nah, not the Nazarene, this was Cuba Godding Jr


starring in some incomprehensible Mummy movie

I suppose it was loosely depictive of the Christ.


Movies and avante garde poetry have that effect.


Down Robinwood Lane


You drive it everyday, to and from work

the deciduous conifers and Robinwood Oaks

aligning the way to breath new air where cars pass.


The oak drops leaves in autumn, and seeds

to propagate the species, to build new barriers,

the conifer stands sentinel all year round.


You see Marjorie cycle by at the same time

her Diamondback Mountain bike chewing miles,

the afternoon wind in her hair forcing rare beauty.


She’s always dodging the oak cones though

fear of the front wheel jack knifing under her,

the sweat on her body evident on glossy skin.


One day you pass through, the leaves gone,

the cones well squashed by passing traffic, killed

the memory of Marjorie gone with the flying snow.


Yet the conifer stands guard, green and strong

yet as brittle as a bow on a violin, the hair tearing,

in the winter wind it’s shape, perishes, nullification.


Yes, winter, the harbinger of drear and clean,

the white of snow, the bluish white of cloud,

the conifer still green but laden with snow, bending.


Soon spring issues forth, animals run where snow melted

The Robinwood Oaks start to flutter new wings

the conifer shakes loose the dust of winter, smiles


joins forces with the sturdy Oaks, replay of life

Marjorie back on the lane, her bike replenished in paint

the car you drive now a hybrid to ease Oaks breath.


Summer finds Oak and Conifer smiling in golden light

finds life burgeoning forth, to chance a new arm,

where beauty is often dealt with by artist and photographer.




Often you remind me of my mother,

Often you dig your heels in like your father,

Often I find myself comparing you with others

Often you stand alone

Often you are your own woman

Often I find myself wondering about you

Often we disagree

Only often.


The Marathon Man


His name is Steve Guerney

he’s a champion multi-sportsman

won the Coast to Coast 9 times

between the age of 30 and 42.


He runs like he speaks

fast and with great skill

the way he runs, rides (a bike)

kayak’s, rides and runs

across the Great Divide.


He’s affable, quirky

a man of many words

and deeds aplenty

got sick in an endurance

race in Borneo

nearly killed him.


He’s run the tip to toe

of both islands

beaten old times

set new records

to the applause

of both islands.


He’s an innovator too

turns up to races

with bold new inventions

to help him win

mostly for fun

though one year

the pod for the bike

raised a few eyebrows

and broke records.


Steve Guerney, entrepreneur

a man of many talents, skills

determinations and plans

retired now, 44

planning to be innovative

in sports equipment

to help the best, do the best

reach their goals

attain supremacy.


The Glossiness of Picture Perfect


The picture of perfection

seen daily in weekly magazines

the highlight of brows and cheeks

the gloss of lip and eye shine,

every magazine displays these adverts

to draw a woman into buying

some unmentionable beauty item

to spread skin tones to enhance freckles

to hide blotches and skin aged by sun

and sin

The book on the table stares at me,


daring me to read again, the fourth time


the story of the Jesuits, in English


The Bible made for the ordinary man



There is an odd sock on the floor

covering a three day old newspaper

the news always gloomy, this one too

I place last nights leftovers on it and wrap

the news and the infamous designed

to spread their misery in the bottom of a skip bin.


My son gave me one for my 70th birthday

a Penthouse, says the articles are good,

I swung open the pages and fully naked women

leapt out and assailed my tender disposition

I chucked it in the fire, may they burn in hell.


I read a page from Seven Great Nursery Rhymes

to my little granddaughter, she smiles and giggles

not sure if it’s the story or my unique storytelling

doesn’t matter though, it’s what counts at the time.

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