The Writing of Thane Zander

General Poetry Fourteen

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 rather eclectic range

Foreign Tastes


I lick a stamp,

a somewhat onerous task

the taste foreign to my recollection.


We sail hard

the boats jumping about,

“about” the action of tacking again.


She clips nails

the long ones on her hands

her record a somewhat envious one.


Children dribble

the mess ready for mothers

to wash and hang on a line again.


The day closes

sunset bright red and orange,

the chill wind of winter onset cools.


Red Cod caught

the barbeque fired up to hot

the taste of fish wanton this time around.


The Oak bends

under the weight of winter snow

summer acorns wind up in squirrel burrows.


Love filters in

the likes of hugs and cuddles

new friends aren’t averse to the actions.


The Lady and the Killing stroke.


Her right hand, beholder of beauty

her left, the closed fist of power,

her time on Earth, not wasted


Pakistan her family, the prize

to beholden of power, for the people

to raise the consciousness of self


Benazir Bhutto Lady of the Right,

returned from exile to lead them home,

the promise of sensibility in leadership.


the melting pot of religion and politics

Islamabad the radical clerics spread their word

Karachi and Lahore home of moderation


The picture to become clearer, as it does

when Musharraf declares martial law

to fight the clerics and supreme court.




 The Middle Ages and Kings.


Grey onerous taskmaster, Castle Nevermore

the inhabitants as dreary and as onerous

the parsonage nestled within full this Sunday

a gathering of town folks mustered by the Master.


The Maidens swim with their washing in the stream

the light of summer sun drying their endeavours

the lads stand on the bridge and choose one for life

the marriages conducted in the parsonage, aplenty.


Those unions bear fruit, children’s voices echo in the woods,

their mothers and fathers gathering the crop, fruit

their wares to be sold in Nevermore’s marketplace

for travellers and locals, the money to be donated.


The Knight ‘Thane of Nevermore’ rides home now

his journey to the Crusades finished, another win

Christianity saved for the ones that follow, forced

the schoolhouse for the well to do breeds good news.


Peasants bring goods and fare for his arrival,

their hero, the man that does the job, his retinue

following on bearing gifts for the gentry, his honour

the patron saint of Nevermore, the Laird, Sir Geoffrey.


He declares a public holiday, all the land shall exult,

all the peoples shall share the good Thane’s arrival,

the children dress in glad rags trying to match the gentiles,

Mothers and Fathers in Sunday Rags, to honour.


A cart approaches Nevermore’s ramparts, drawn

by two draught horses, a wizard atop with mischief,

the clown in front making merry, dancing and frolicking,

the children run to usher forth the wizard and clown


gifts to for urchins, maidens, fireworks for the Thane

and especially for Sir Geoffrey, sage advice on matters

the forthcoming death of the Good King John,

the return from afar of King Richard the Lion Heart.


Today, the day after all the fun, children sleep,

Sir’s and Thane’s go about their political business

a good wizard and amiable clown move on to London,

the wives and maidens go about their washing.


Men tend to crops and other affairs of state

the tending of horses, the cleaning of a church,

the market empty except for the naysayer’s

who preach their daily doom to anyone that cares.



Those years when snow rained down.


August an august month

blown with wind and snow

children don warm cloaks

dance down gutters

ecstatic about the white fluffy stuff.


Foreign visitors shiver anon

grabbing warm jackets

hiding their heads in beanies

imbibing in alcohol to warm

juices frozen with ice

knowledge that the season has changed,

like last year, remember.


Mindless morons wear shorts and T shirts

never once thinking of the cold

open to good ideas, not sensibilities,

probably been the same for eons now,

quiescent Barbie dolls dressed by kids

representing the population

star crossed lovers separated

through snow spears, not Brittney.


Underwear is normally Y fronts

viciously hauled up around the arse

we howl when pulled too tight

Xavier does it best, hauls highest

yesterday’s ones still littering the floor,

zoos lock their gates when the snow comes.


Zealotry pulls a strong bow,

yearning for new days to come,

xebecs sail past the country

where snow hides the growth of spring,

verily we scale new temperatures

underwritten by lawyers just because.


Teams form up on frozen lakes,

start hitting the puck, scores a goal

resonance from the crowd thrilling,

Queen Latifa from Samoa calls it a day

passed being too cold, goes home

overseas she lives, the Pacific

negative thoughts leaving her mind

making for the warmth of homelands.


Last week the Daily Neptune predicted

killings on the roads, ice apparently

Jesus was called upon many times to save

I tried my best to stop the carnage

had enough influence to see the skies clear

good enough for the warm wind to melt snow

for the Ice to trickle away as rivers.


Eric Johnson at 48 was found stuck to his heater

Dave rescued him, you know Dave, No 5

Charles said he helped too, saved a life

bad thoughts where snow storms are around

another next year and I’m moving.



Leaving Las Hacienda des Gringo


I stumbled across this place

a resort to bring drunks around

was seventeen years into a good drunk

the need to straighten out very dire.


They had me on oats and wholemeal

a breakfast meant to soak up the rubbish

water the drink of the day, occasional soda

the meal at lunch and dinner sparse.


Today I left after four months of abstinence,

back to Las Vegas and my night job as croupier

the house emptied of alcohol, as it should be,

the need to go to a bar after work distorted.


I found poetry when I was drying out, yes

a need to write about things in my life

to straighten out the desire to reoffend,

to place in order a life of misery for those around me.


Rhetoric the Dinosaur


If I could talk?

If I could walk and show you?

If you could understand the dinosaur

or Humans as we called ourselves.

If only you could see the world from our eyes,

to see the lushness of woodlands

the grey drear of deserts

the marshiness of swamps.


What’s to understand you ask?

We had it good,

life and death a fine balance,

no pollutants bar belching volcanoes

no global warming fuelled by greenhouse gases,

no suicide or murder

just nature riding it’s course

strongest species not necessarily the best

each day a long protraction of life on Earth

(yes we called this Planet Erath too)


No more of us survive,

well not entirely correct

Sharks and Tuatara abound

and the reptiles were borne out of us,

yes there is a hint Humans are aliens

as we were aliens too, ships long gone

the Garden Of Eden for us all,

yet we perished, as surely you will perish,

such is the way the cosmos works

such is the will of God (Yes he was here too)


Enjoy life Humans, we Dinosaurs applaud you.


Kimi Chandler makes moves


The dog shat on the front lawn, as dogs do

the flies were fast for the feast, as always here

seventeen year ol Kimi Chandler washed his bike,

a seventies Hog, Harley original, now a roadster,


Martha Grady walked up the path, skipping along

she was fifteen, and in love with Mimi, a child love

she’d come over to help him rub the chrome clean,

he kind of liked her around, but she too often cried,


The snoring inside was Kimi’s drunken lay-about father

another bottle or two of Jim Beam washed down, soda

the usual Saturday afternoon, his mother out working

his younger sister playing catch-up with friends on email,


Insignificant reasons for living, life at 42 Garmons Way

the day rolling with cleaning, polishing, oiling, testing

Martha climbs aboard as he revs it up, the vibration

reaching from her thighs to the top of her head, exciting,


He asks her to get off, his turn to feel the rhythm anew,

don’s his Blazer Zero One helmet, drops the stand,

and roars out the gate at break neck speed, eating tarmac,

the Father coming too at the noise, curses the world.


They buried him on Tuesday, his headless corpse

the result of the glass truck and his bike’s impact

his Father managed another bottle to help forget him,

Martha cried for hours, as did his sister and mother.


The paper reported him as a motorcycle gang thug,

heck, he’d had no time to learn the meaning of it all,

the public once again painted with the wrong picture,

the family ostracized as a result, except maybe an uncaring dad.


A Murder Mystery Poem


No one died on the spot

more like murder in the zoo

animals aflutter screaming monkey talk,


asphalt chalk drawings

the position the body was found

two tigers growl, their teeth washed daily,


the mind open to debate

where lies the tool of deathliness

five dollars indicates a hurried escape,


The News at Six eschews

the body of a Man/woman located

any eye witnesses to report to the Police,


a daughter of a wealthy man

sends details to the news hounds

the Police arrest her for being an accessory,


eventually time steals respite

the murdered moved on to the morgue

the lady – crime of passion, settles for court.


Headline 73 buried in Page Forty of the Newspaper.


There it is, found it.  I’d been waiting for the snippet of information since the interview seven days hence.  The Cub Reporter was true to her word, within one week and there it is, “Mentally Ill have been Great People”


Winston Churchill it is said

was mentally ill

lived a life coupled with depression

not sure he was Manic Depressive

possible though.


The window of Depression is always dark

the mood of the bearer often slouchy

the light of day darkened when passing through,

I suffer Mania, so can’t comment

though I’m sure it’s as debilitating.


The article was two hours of interview, though the short piece surely doesn’t warrant mentioning.  Maybe I wasn’t that interesting, though in my own mind I find myself highly worthy of mining, yet I get the feeling the gold I tried to pass off as my illness was subjected to editorial dismantling.


A lot of stars of stage and screen

suffer from Bipolar,

suffer from depression,

suffer from drug abuse

and maybe alcohol too,

The Lap Dancers in some hotels

snort cocaine to stop the pain,

the degradation of self

degeneration of mind,


a young kid in a classroom shows disinterest

shows signs of fidgeting,

knows he not fitting in

he’s got puberty to wait for the outcome

the diagnosis,

a mental illness part hereditary

part self abuse,

all to often seriously underrated.


I read the article another time, just to be sure that it  would articulate with fellow sufferers, to accept my invitation to join our consumers group, to offer peer to peer assistance, to let them know they are not alone.  She highlighted the meetings every second Wednesday.  I think ‘is this enough?’ then ruminate that maybe it could be too much for some.  Such is life.


We meet every second Wednesday

to keep the pace of the meetings going

to do crafts and the likes

to sing

to rhyme

to make things happen,

numbers are low

we expect that

to start with,


this week we hope after the paper article

things will pick up, improve, increase,

of course, buried on Page Forty

not many would have the patience to read that deep,

I sure as hell wouldn’t,



The register we sign when we clock in shows a marked increase.  Maybe the Winston Churchill reference or the elucidation of famous actors, but this week coming indications are more people will be there, the phones of the organizers running red hot.  Someone read, yes, and they read me, now time to meet and mingle as fellow humans afflicted with likewise ailments.



Under a Blood Red Mountain


I’ve not read the plays of Sophocles

his passion for the written word

in a lifetime 123 plays, seven survive

Oedipus and Antigone remain.


Aristotle marked him a man of means

highlighted how great the Tragedies,

the battle for Troy a passing passion

for Helen and her minions, Carthagans.


Under a blood red mountain in Italia

the citizens of Pompeii run a kilter

the remnants now a site for tourists

the death of both countries cultures - highlighted.


Power Failures


Yes! Your standard car versus pole

this one today lasted four hours

a double pole taken out by speeding car,

the inhabitants apparently OK, BUT!!!


They left me without power for four hours

sacrilege – did they not consider me,

did they not think twice about my PC time

if they had they would have gone the speed limit.


How did that thought crop into my mind,

yeah this one – Bush is a shining example of power failure,

him and his cronies - or does power corrupt all?

Clinton had the power to tell the country, we did not do it?


Yes that’s right, Monika Lewinsky, where is she now,

all power corrupts, makes minds wander,

I wonder where they think they are when having sex,

with the wife or other, where is there mind?


Sadly  they don’t win, love at all costs conquers all,

love of country, love of the planet, love of the cosmos,

do they realise, yes even the car crash victims,

that supercharged power corrodes everything.


Now (as is plainly obvious) I have my internet back,

all power to me – have no fear, I’m incorruptible.


Iliad – absence of sense


I could start this poem with “o’ Behold – Iliad”

could continue with ‘thine eyes beholdeth death’

but that’s not my style, far from it.


I will start with what’s a Grecian Urn, about a dollar,

and hope you didn’t miss the joke, yes finger dancers,

I think you’re starting to gather I have naff all to say.


Then this little masterpiece, Life, the preserver of Love

and your interest is piqued, throw open the doors

applaud the gaiety of variety, the promise of lust.


The secret smile indicating a return expected

your face screws up, what the fuck did that mean?

I tell you, secret lovers have secret messaging regime.


Lost my virginity, happens to young good looking men,

she was a wanton hussy, her boyfriends photo

standing proud on her nightstand, I knew him too.  Ouch!!


Oh yeah the Iliad, some Greek tragedy, eons past,

possibly inspired by some Greek maiden, naked,

but you didn’t need to know that, but I told you anyway.


Yes, my wife, first and only one, she’s a beacon

all around her shine when she looks upon them,

I picked her when I was drunk, best investment ever.


You didn’t need to know that, I just slipped it in,

you do need to know that this poem is bloody hard to write,

as are nothing poems, normally, I need to smoke!


Oh yeah, while I’m at it, Cleopatra, wanton hussy

goats milk baths and suitors aplenty, gracious too

by all accounts, though lost her head with M. Anthony.


I’m listening to cricket as we write, we are enjoying it

(yes we, you’re along for the ride) so dooly up and hi ho,

the time for recompense overdue due to sexuality.


Ok Ok I’ll put you out of your misery, SLAM!!!!!!

Wake up, you’ve been dreaming, wake up I say,

read back what we wrote, tell me nightmare??


A Life of Dreams and Possibilities


A case study of green versus red

the light through a stained glass window

of the Christ suspended from wooden cross,


The Pew, across the church where bums sit,

except when they slide off for prayer

the priest stammers on Job.


Sanguine Virgins dance

a witches coven with fire blazing high

the devil thrusts his engorged penis in all ways,


Members of the coven all now seated as the chosen

is slain, the baby due in nine months

utterly human appearance.


The Eskimo slay seals

a part of their life for eons now,

the blubber used to purify children and maidens,


Pigmies in deepest Congo dance a love dance,

calling the spirits, many a male loses

his virginity in marriages.


Lay down your condom

you have done your bit for the planet

the growth rate slowed by necessity and commonsense,


the layman on the street with his porno movie,

dances with actresses and admires,

his manhood wasted.


The Story of Alfred E Neuman as of yesterday


I was a kid once

loved Mad comics

the antics of Alfred

and his staff


made it each week

with a bob or two

parted with the readies

book in hand, hiding time


maybe my derangia was self evident


so reading the pages

enough to make me laugh

and to cry

to make the day go by,


Alfred was a geekie

long before geeks were around

his idiotic face

enough to fill my space

each copy was passed on to a mate, he was nuts too


we’d share a chortle

a well meaning laugh

share stories of family

ridicule the mad ones


we both ended up mad

sort of had to, upbringing

they tried to tell me

I was psychotic, who - he?


I made sago pudding with fried rice and lemon rind.


The icing on the cake, blue

to mirror the sky and blues

sing out from a trumpet sound

left my feet tapping on the ground.


The taste Alfred leaves

in your mouth

so far larycose

aahhhhh Sir, all too close.


You baby me, I baby you, together we make babies true.


The Daybreak Orchid


My aunt next door

when we lived in Auckland,

grew orchids for fun.


She had many varieties,

Asian, Australian, hybrids

the lily white with colour streams,


my favourite, a purple backdrop

to a bright orange flame,

Daybreak she called it.


She died, as did her passion

I never had a green enough thumb

to master her artful trade.


A Pregnant  Cow and an overdue Calf.


It was Friday,

somewhere around 3.45 pm

the constant drumming of heavy machinery

the epicenter of eruption

your brain


Could have been a ditch digger

using a jackhammer attachment

to build another prefabricated hole

could have been a hammer machine

breaking bricks and mortar for hardfill

could have been Mary

trying to put her new shoes on.


Could have been the speakers from my stereo

pumping out Dance Music at 140 RMS,

bass heavy and pure tribal fusion, dance I said

my ass on my chair swaying too and fro

as the hump, hump, hump of the next song bites,

could have been the hairdryer being smashed.


I might have made it all up, all day, all night,

the thump, thump of a nightmare causing sweats,

could have been Jerry next door banging away,

my wall vibrating with my snoring and his ministrations

a big toe swollen from when I hit the doorjamb,

blood welling into a bright purple balloon.


Suddenly I realise it’s the Poetry Alarm clock

reminding me to write another poem for the day

a couple so far you ask, yes I’m prolific, and a liar

I’m in so much daily pain, as outlined, one a day’s enough.


Startled Opossum


Imagine the bright eyes

funneling back at your car

imagine an animal stuck in time

the taste of disaster

as you run it over.


Imagine then your guilt

if you were in Australia

(they’re protected there)

then imagine your joy

as they are vermin here.


You stop your Detroit Diesel

walk back to the flattened mess

uplift and place in the fur bin

take it home to your son

so he can strip the hide for pocket money.


Imagine that your wife’s fur coat

is the product of unerring road aim

the warmth of many startled cur

wrapped to a warm cloak, roadside

watch the Detroit Diesels as they soldier by.




Over rough land

make for cover

the legend rose

babies chortle.


Africa - dark

chocolate rinse

the need to die

where once stood life.


They dance joyous

snack on snake skins

polish their shoes

ruby wax wheels.


The tusk – rhino

meant for life worn

now ground for sex

China holds sway.


Rock music pumps

The Sex Pistols

reformed to Clash

God Save the Queen.


Lap Dancing girls

in the right, just

men lost souls found

wander home, - wed.


Salad bowls filled

the grey/green plums

prunes run amok

stop the shits, dang!!


Write first person

then third person

then no person

then don’t write ever.



I saw your eyes dip.


I saw your eyes dip

they shaded themselves from pain


I saw your lip curl

a grimace cleaned out with a smile


I saw your nose twitch

the dimple on your chin filled,


I saw your tummy heave

the taste of food disheveling


I saw my baby arrive

your curses sweet nothings to the ear


I saw your hips shake

we danced rock and roll to celebrate


I saw your legs stammer

the music no longer meaning it’s tempo


I saw your feet swell

the onset of age a sure sign


I read your obituary at church

I saw your smile


I buried you next to your Mum

the earth fresh to touch


I erected a memorial of stone

your name prominent


I sit and watch our family videos

your growing evident


I have the girls around and chat

your name always top of the list


I made your cake on your birthday

enough candles for One


I sit and await my time, writing poetry

to salute you


I cry in my most quiet of moments

you would be proud


I ready for the long sleep to be with you again

the time draws near.


Always, in my every moment, you are there

I see your smile again.




My children.


I don’t know why, but I haven’t ever written any poems about my children.  It was always a struggle bringing them up and I guess because I missed the last seven years of their lives I missed all the good and bad that didn’t escape them.


I was there for both births

I held Marita’s hand

mopped her brow

helped her with her exertions.


The first was plain sailing

pure natural birth, at first I though “a boy”

when a rebuke from the midwife

suggested girl.


Amy, right from birth, was a dream girl

she grew well, learnt well, behaved well

an overall joy to have as a child.


I think of the times when my illness ruined her outlook on life.  Why was I mad, I was never like that, always a cool calm collected character, yet sometimes my then ten year old could get under my skin.  I guess she forgave me, we talk and chat and generally love each other as adults.


I ducked out for a smoke

Marita was still in Labour

but things weren’t going well,

the epidural was a sure sign.


I got back and was in time

to see Ashleigh born, blue though

the medical staff in a race for life

to resuscitate her, breath life into her.


They succeeded, but it was the start of a difficult life for all.  After three months she was back in hospital, not feeding, breast or bottle, and she wasn’t thriving.  The next nine months saw her in and out of hospital with all manner of reasons.  She had to have a gastric tube feeder, something we got used too, but having to take her out in public was a problem.  People cringed.  They didn’t understand.


The doctors told us

she would probably be dead

by seven, a deadline

we were determined to beat

she was a little fighter

on medication for epilepsy

still only able to eat soft food

but she got our love

unconditional, and sadly maybe

to the detriment to Amy.

Amy loves her now more than she did

so that’s made me happy,

after me and Marita go,

it’s odds on favourite Amy will look after her.


Are we a happy family. Generally yes, we had to go through it all and have to come out smiling.  Sure the hard times are still there for Marita (as we split when I was diagnosed Bipolar), she had to bring up the girls herself as I struggled with my problems.  Will we get back, probably not, though one never knows.


I haven’t seen my girls for three years now,

though I chat with them often on the internet,

but it’s not the same, I’d love to go see them now

to share a moment or two, to dance, to smile

but alas my situation forbids me this luxury.


I’m lucky, I have two lovely girls, both finding life as I found it, an open book and a open mind.  I hope both will find their own paths and make a mark on an otherwise loveless world.  Tomorrow I’ll sleep contented, after talking to my girls.


One Liners – an ABCDarian





























*ill-tempered woman


The Light of Day in the Square


The light dawns crimson from the east,

sun lovers pack a  mental note

to head to the beach, Himatangi


The ladies traipse around the Square

shopping, no noticing the Marae e Hine

not seeing me rolling up my sleeping bag,


the infusion of smog making transport,

I wander over towards the sun, to toilet

refreshed by another Palmerston North night.


My mental note not of the Beach, but food

a tummy hungry now for two days, pancakes

from Mac’s on the Square, my two bobs worth,


I taste love in the air, couples toing and froing,

summer, early as it may be, gets the best of people,

the garbage collector beats me to the trashcans.


The warm rays of a climbing Sun remove my coat

a three year old hoody limps free, shoes scrape on,

Michael, the sociopath juggles for cigarette money,


As the summer Sun climbs to midday, a sweat starts

still hungry, I tackle my bank account, no benefit yet,

so hang around Subways and scoot in to fill with leftovers.


Afternoon finds me back in the Marae, writing poetry,

I can’t escape those boulders, a new poem for each,

I wonder often if they’d frame each poem for each boulder.


The traffic out of town, after school, kids and parents

off to the beach to capture the rays and swim, balmy

yes, Balmy Palmy, those with nouse head to the Lido.


The sun starts to dip, it’s day almost done, reverence,

I bow to my feet and supplant life curses on the ground,

the day cooling means jacket back on, the hoody too.


Shadows from the Library lengthen, the Square darkens,

people shuffle home leaving me to my solitude,

cars return with red skinned children, and sandy feet.


In the deepest recesses of the West, the Sun sinks

the lights in the Square take effect, brighten key areas,

a dog that turns up around the cafes, looks for scraps.

Suddenly I find myself unrolling my sleeping attire,

the benches in the Green Belt a usual haunt, peace

the statues of reverence overlooking as sentinels.




A Touch of Love


It’s simple really, reconcile

with a light brush of the brow


The torch that resounds light

shines diamond reflections in your eyes


The French Kiss so tender

the aftermath, then a hot shower,


Tucking each other in at night

passing a story or two on children.




Stretches over nether bits

finely orchestrated in patterns

the feel fine to touch


at the top of stockings

ready to furl downward

the feet shaped for sex


today lovers entwine

uncapping lace bra’s

baring buoyant breasts


a soft hand, not male

smooth across a bare stomach

the belly piercing jiggles.


A  soft moan emits

laced with love

the sweat starting to pour


a sudden realisation

I have lace on the brain

I replace the written hand.


Dad the Deadbeat.


You stand by the refrigerator

measure the food for affect

decide you need to go shopping.


The yard is an affray on sensitivities

lawn 12 inches high, blowing in the wind,

the kids toys buried in yet to be defined work.


The car sits in the carpark, overdue a wash

the tyres appear flat, well flattened to asphalt

the dog pee marks on the wheels indicate tagging


Bemoaning the fact she left you for your slovenness,

an ability to not do too much when too much is required

I sit and chew over procrastination, my affliction.


The dicey thing with death is it’s lasting

apparently as long as someone can read your headstone

moss the final resting place of the deceased.


Magnificent that thought, how it snuck in

here I was writing about being a sloth

ending up proliferating death of ones’ life.


I take the kids out the back, pick up the toys,

clear the yard for the lawnmower, weed eater first,

Drive to the nearest garage and pump the tyres up.


Her what used to be indoors still mollified,

given her a chance to come back,

though she indicates many weeks.


Aghast, I soldier on, father, maintenance man,

jack of all trades, including Father AND Mother,

the juice in the fridge needs replacing, thirst.



Part time Work


T’is the Ides of March

the dock weed grows

people ruminate anew


Lacklustre the feeling blue

black frost in winter slips

degenerative ideas slacken


Afterglow sunrise yesterday

Welcome Swallows dip and dive

longing for love lost in mire


Strike of lightning, scars

the resonance of thunder

Skyhawks drop love bombs


Radiation burns in Nuclear era

homes demolished askance

people wonder about it all


Laud the peacekeepers

sign treaties to improve Man

the likes of North Korea shiver


Suddenly men shiver amazed

weapons stored for eternity

rational thought replacement


Lately I’ve wondered why I exist

I check the pulse, still purple

I have life left as others do.





All morning I cried

alligator tears

all afternoon I screamed

manic incantations

all day I sat

in the boiling sun

all night I will dance

in solitude.


All my life I will try

do the best I can

All my death

my poetry remains

all my children cry

when they spread my ashes

all that is left of me

will continue unanswered.


All my peers

mark me with pride

all my poems

along for the ride

all my women

one was a bride

all my mountains

on death subside.


Escape from Planet X


Been in cyber prison for eons

secure on Planet X, captured

released to Xythonicon

to practice real world stuff.


The latest jet cruiser’s in dock

no ticket, no way off planet

squeeze into loading trolley

baggage in a death area.


Suddenly a hatch appears open

I slide through into the cockpit

the stew’s done the numbers

heads off into the cockpit.


The blast off as smooth as silk

my stench after five years

of no washing permeates

the looks of neighbours sheltered.


I stand and walk off, home

back at Planet X, a waiting guard

they drag me back to Block K

throw away the key, bad Father Prison.



The Grecian Tragedy


Idly standing by the Conundrum,

the philosopher, the mathematician

five school girls with books in hand

the right to argue sensibilities

maybe a call to argue calculus.


Dumbly reading from the Parthenon,

steps littered with students of Emporia,

the architecture highlighted by stone

remnants of ancient buildings tumbling

into the emptiness of historical pages.


Suddenly from deep with in Ancient Greece

a rumbling of a deep earthquake, 6.4

the return of Atlantis to the shores, Aegean,

the rocks of Seruptus pervade to heaven

Archimedes takes measurements to score.


Socrates and Plato leave an indelible mark

generations hence affected by their brains,

the tales of Ulysses oft told for eons hence,

the Rumbling of the Carthag warns implosion

the fights with neighbours to this day relevant.


There is deceit in Ankara, there is deceit in Athens

Cyprus a push me pull you, a place argued

the days of peace yet to come when either cedes,

From the Acropolis to the Grecian horizon

ladies in regalia toga hold the hands of errant sons.


The Green spoon Principle





in the



Deciduous trees pointing skyward









A passing Jet leaves a life sign.









My first love smiled endlessly.












Those mirrors that reflect nothing to scare one!




















Hills in spring, green and coated in sheep blotches.

















Sunday I gave up smoking, now I can’t bear myself.



 The Welts a Reminder


The weeds grew long at the farm Evermore

a farm lost to passing markets, grey grass

to occupants long used to other sorts of weed.


Occupational therapy caned my frigid arse

the welts a reminder death was close by

my butt used to sitting when standing dies.


Crops at Evermore are welts on the landscape,

the paddocks an arse ready to wipe clean,

seasons give the impression wastage rules.


The daylight railcar slices through the paddocks

the farm deviated from left to right, cut asunder

non crops grow with renewed vigour, marijuana.


The house a mansion left to waste, not elegant

the paint and varnish wilting under summer sun,

a winter wind blowing the wallpaper to the corners.


Grudgingly ladies stay stoned, as do the front steps

too solid to shift under decay, too strong for small boys,

too many days when rain drove in horizontally


The day’s waste away, as do pot heads, deviants,

seven days a week the farm is reminded it isn’t one,

the animals that used to run amok, deathly corpses.



Daring Acts 1


You stand staring up at the nine foot wall,

eyeing possible hand and foot holds

the thought of your loved one cooped up

in the mansion across the grounds from the edifice.


You touch the top with panther like poise

leap like a leopard to the ground below

hard footfalls making a puff sound on the grass

as you roll forward and leap gazelle like to your feet.


The light from the mansion emits longshadows,

the life of the occupants studied in practice,

you reach the three storey building and admire it,

the new path to the bedroom littered with drainpipes.


Puffing lightly, you stand precariously on a sill,

poke your head across the bay window, peering,

see your love at her vanity cleaning up from the day,

your insistent tap on the glass raises her eyes.


Sadly at that moment the sill gives way, CRASH

the sound resonating around the grounds, OUCH

a sound of yourself realising the left legs bent,

a cry from above, ‘are you alright’ answered ‘no!’

Yes the ambulance, the police, the doctors,

Yes the hospital, the pain killers, the food

Yes all that secret agent shit for nothing but pain,

Yes your girlfriend kept under lock and key.


Alarming Dreams


Bonjour mes amies, I salute your attendance,

today we have gateau and frog legs

some oil de la Llama and seven truffles,


I awaken in fright, a Frenchman in my head

the strong smell of Garlic permeates my breath,

a French Loaf in the corner hardening.


I  get up and have a drink, ice chilled as always,

the cheese on the table sagging under it’s own weight,

a piece for me, and several more for the meeces.


I sever ties with my dream, roll over and sleep,

this time ladies with black stockings, dare we go there,

a gentle snore adjusted by an alarm clock ready for service.


An afternoon Etheree





maketh the man

undoes the woman

Seven pages of spin

calls the doctor to the home

please pay me in dollars not coin

pastry chefs in the dough make cashews

to go along with the Bread they bake now.



Stick Figures on a Cottonwool Globe


Playing a concerto in A Minor sounds fun

try getting an electric guitar to repeat the feat


Alfred the Great must have been a hairy beast

yet fought his way into English hearts (and minds)


Indicators on cars have a use, left or right

cars crash for no other reason that the need to


Haciendas in New Mexico stand baking under the sun

cowpokes ride dust storms to move cattle hither or yon


Green Grasses grow in the Green Belt, wind ruffled

combine harvesters reap wheat crops for bread on plates


Triumph is the catcall of the victor, the key to the city

Romans wandered far and wide to bring Rome glory


Franchise holders on the stock market shiver

the Dow on a downward spiral enamours panic


Kitchen hands wash the myriad of plates and utensils

the fare placed in front of patrons suffice to speak


Zebra on flowing savannah, the wind blows both

a new direction on the whim of a cloud, a mountain


Yesterday I ate seven courses in a Chinese restaurant

leftovers I fed to the cat as if it needs MSG wontons


Freight trains roar daily outside my window, heavy

the weight of forty two carriages rhyming clickety


Memories of my married life make me strong, weak

the feeling I get when I think of the way it ended.


The Queen of Rock Crowns and other stories.


She stands erect, arms out thrust

her pleas for a wooden cross

a religion to a faltering crowns.


Her maidens catch shingle shattered

the bolt of lightning radiating around

silvery diamonds trickle to the floor.


A mass of public gathered to encapsulate,

aghast at the sudden crystallisation of a monarch

they bow on bended knee honouring a holy woman.


Rainbows in the heavens colour the realm

a princely ransom for a lovely lady beckons

time on a wizards sundial reaches high noon.


Bathed in the diamond light, a maiden flails

the crowd startled close in to spy the spectacle

“witch” they cry, “witch” off with her head.


Fear rules a kingdom fraught with magic,

devil disciples ride black horse in black robes,

the dust of cobbled streets awash with horse dung.


Queen Diamante they now call her, Lady of Light

takes a scepter and strides elegantly on by,

a sickle-wielding farmer feels her eyes on his back.


The right of passage for life given her, to lead

her minions now part of a miracle, sans black robes

the stones glittering where her feet once stood, picked.


Those days have gone by, only a story remains

and her many children and ancestry, thousands

they all go by the name of Smith now, her legacy.

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