The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Thirteen
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

The Glassblowers Apprentice


So you blow

to create

you puff to enlarge

twirl to shape

dunk to solidify.


You sold it for four thousand dollars,

amazing what a bit of hot air does.


The American Revolution


The Democrats came out fighting in 2012

the war chest of the Republicans emptied

the bloodshed on the streets of Chicago

the rising of the gangs on the streets of LA

times when Red beat White and vice versa

blue days when the star spangled banner

was burnt on the avenues of Washington DC

Ten Commandments forgotten in Holydom.


The back waters of Kentucky and Tennessee

reminiscent of the days of the feuds, refueled

as the stills of Louisiana spill their firewater

to fuel riots on the plaza’s of Houston and El Paso

the American Revolution caused by foreign wars

fights outside with the neglect for life within,

the ladies of the Auxiliary Christian Martyrs

withhold sex to stop their mindless men warring.


The Space Needle in Seattle spins red, white and blue

trying to show some sense prevails, normalcy

yet neath it’s height gangs of GOP and Dem’s clash

the Wall Street Journal mirrors a plummeting dollar

and an even more plummeting stock market, bonds

unleashed to each side to fight their campaign,

The Great Lakes lined with the Mediterranean Fleet,

the Pacific Fleet off San Diego and San Francisco,


The beat of the drum on Virginia and North Dakota hills

sounds of returned fire on the plains of Missouri

the vast deserts of Arizona, Nevada, and Texas,

death carnivals on the Rue of Saint Louis, New Orleans

the tornados of death rampant on the pastures of Ohio

Utah the Mormons sit and pray, their only ally

ten thousand hippies of Montana, heads raised,

the sudden demise of order on the New York boardwalks.


Yes, the demise of the American way, stopped

because it failed to heed the world and the world bit back

the World roared, sold America out from under itself,

bankrupted the very powerbase it had followed for too long

beware the Bear from the North, the Cougar from within

beware the Sioux dancing, the Arapaho riding 

beware the Dolphin of Peace, the Orca of Death

beware the fighters within, the Iraq Vet, lost (again).


Just beware, we’re watching you.


The Life of A Poor Man in Armistice Avenue.


The footpath his domain

a red wall his bedstead

bus stop seat, his bed

traffic passing, lullaby

bag and booze, sleeping tablet .


His name once was Jerry Falwell, an effluent ne’er do well.  From a family which held respect and standing in the neighbourhood.  All the sons (five in all) successful, scholars, businessmen, a preacher.


He rifles through his long coat

finds the Bible, prays

opens the page anywhere

reads a scripture by heart

the lifeblood of a step down.


Jerry went through seminary, passed with flying colours, given a parish in Lower Brooklyn, the place a haven for all the street dwellers escaping the law.  It was his demeanour to help the low life’s, though he never thought of them that way, life’s lost minds.


The brush in his right pocket

used to fluff down the sleeping areas

to remove lint and dust and unwanted leaves

once used to paint life’s sorrow

today the brush is in bed, ready.


He found it hard to follow the teachings.  So much hypocrisy, so much not to be understood, yet people would recite it verbatim or read between the lines, to each their own.  Unfortunately in charge, he’d argue.


The state of the Nation

well that was their business

(pointing to the passing cars)

the dog from 1st and 40th peed

as it always did, near his bed.


He looked again at the Bible, knew which Psalm to say for his peace, which passage of Genesis to appease.  Still even on a cold street corner the words were too much to take in.


He stepped down from life

decided to walk the streets

attend to the “lowlifers” – bowed

speak to them at their level

street preacher and believer – just.


The paint on the seat was a rustic brown, sort of earth tones meant to give the city a little life.  The fire Hydrant next to it a shiny Yellow, the bus stop sign red and ready.  The police haven’t been for days now, they usually move him on daily.

Food courtesy of the Food Bank

toileting, a shelter around the corner

for street folk to come in and shower

to do their toileting needs,

another ex padre runs the joint.


The key date was 11th September 2001

when the madness hit the Twin Towers, when his parish was inundated with grief and morbidity.  Wives and children of Firefighters, the dust coated urchins choking to death, the poor lucky to survive.


Across the street, Subway

scraps from the bin interesting fare,

the daylight hides it’s flashing sign

hides the well to do clientele

capable of paying for their meal.


He long gave up on money, it never meant anything to him anyway, just something to burn holes in pockets.  His total life, even in the seminary, geared to pennilessness.  He does whistle though, and does it enough throughout the day to afford a packet of smokes and a bottle of wretched wine.


Sometimes he’d wake up,

rummage through pockets

find another ten dollar bill

stuffed in his greatcoat pocket

the donor a complete mystery.


The walk to where the Twin Towers stood was lengthy, but necessary, to see why the world had gone crazy.

On the way, he passed several homeless people and asked them what they thought.  Most mentioned they were lucky not to be there, the subterranean carpark a common haunt.


The dark of night finds him walking

searching for the forbidden truth

searching for a dog to pat

reaching a hand out to humanity

supplicant in his demeanour.


The Bomb that dropped on Baghdad was beyond his comprehension.  Violence should never begat violence in his mind.  If he was punched by the street gangs he’d cower until the attack was over and move on, licking his wounds.


The Teacher, another homeless man

passes the time of day while walking

they speak of nothing in particular

though their life is sort of like that,

dawn reaches into their psyches .




Towards Central Park, to feed the birds with scraps from the Subway bin, the peace and solitude a boon, maybe good does exist he thinks.  A female jogger runs well round him, must be the stench, he’s used to it now, the shunning.  The birds are happy though the pickle gets met with disdain.


Homeless people live long

some can be homeless all their lives

others, mostly start after failure

failure to fit in with society

the need to just drop everything and crash.


Father Dominic from the Catholic church looks after all the central city lost, ministering all the spiritual needs, looking out for the dying, the doomed, the ones that have given up life totally.  There are a few.  Jerry doesn’t exactly trust him, but lets him carry on.  Just cause.


The story of the Homeless

never ever stops, ceases, ends

every time you look and see them

see the lives they left behind, help

by passing the time of day if they ask.



Looking under stones


Stony river

the need

to turn stones

se what life

lives under.


Stony cottage


at the layout

turn every stone

in your memory

to remember

how well built

stone cottages



Throw stones

you’ve picked

at perceived


to sully

the tale

you weave.


No stone unturned

is a life stone

it’s a perception

that all beneath

is well.


Driving the Decision Making Process


I got voted onto council today

on my honour,

I Will



Best for you all.


I sat in council, the meeting started

the pontificating Mayor

the ever ready old councilors

new councilors chewing nails

the public wanting to see it work.


Objection” I interjected

the mayor nearly fell of his perch

I think ‘this is going to work’

the mayor stares me down

I stand up and announce my manifesto.


They all cringe when I say

“I will be deputy Mayor”

even though I’m reasonably new

a small sprinkling of nervous laughter,

“I have the skills and the balls”


I sit down, shaking from the effort

I can’t see me lasting too long here

But I have to drive the decision making process

to make real issues take precedence

over new residential zones.


I took a savoury pie from my bag

let the hot air go on around me,

sat and munched while the vote was counted

a quick count, I was consigned to the back bench

if I stay here long enough, I’ll win.


Sadly the world needs me now.


The Deer Hunter



The movie stuck in mind,

did a Wikipedia search

found the plots and sub plots

the memory now rekindled

of death and death, near death

the spinning chamber of a one bullet gun.


The story of brothers in peace

and brothers in arms, Saigon

the hustle and bustle of a mad war

the stifling heat, and voracious enemy

days when captured and playing,

Russian Roulette, memories of deer hunts.


This movie stuck with me for months

Christopher Walken and Robert De Niro

the principal actors, lead roles super

the rest of the cast dragged along

by the restless plot that inundates

Merryl Streep the love interest

back in almighty Pennsylvania.


The movie is taxing on your mind

asks questions you daren't ask,

the romanticism of war and peace

sideswiped by constant action,

the dialogue handled well with ease,

the one redeeming feature, one dies.


Drying an apron on the hot element


You know the feeling

nothing going right

life a crock of shit

the phone’s been silent for weeks

the cat scratches your legs

mail is all bills

and the winning lotto tickets alludes you


so burn your favourite apron on a hot stove

smoke out the house

burn all the mail

carpets ringing wet from buckets

carried from the bathroom to the kitchen



the neighbours see the smoke

ring the fire brigade to poop on your party

why did they do that, you don’t know them

the fire is out when the big red engine

with the noisy siren directs attention to your plight

a policeman passing races in to clear the house

sees you standing with your last bucket

the burnt rag on the stove

rings the psychiatric assessment team

to assess you

fuck the damage

it’s you they’re worried about.


You mention the bills and the lotto ticket

as if that will stop the process

burly firemen assess the damage,

place the rag in the closed bin

turn the element off

turn to have a private chat with the cop

seems this is the third time in a few months

yes psychiatric help needed.


You sit in the corner, light a smoke

not realising it’s a doobie

the cop grasps the weed and tosses it in the bin,

“You don’t need that where you are going”

You weep

where are your family

where are your friends

what happened to the world you knew,

the job long gone, too weak to work

the policeman sums it up,

“Been a hard few months huh”


You stand up and go to the bathroom

lock the door

take a leak

light another smoke, a real one this time

open the window (as you don’t smoke inside)

the cop bangs on the door

you give him silence

he knocks harder

the fireman pokes his head in the window

says everything’s ok

you close the window,

close your life

say good bye to your home

exit the bathroom

let the cop lead you out

close all the windows, lock the door

and for the third time in your life

you’re lead away to the Ward

to recover from another depression.



Green Grasses Grow Purple


(this is a series where each stanza increases by one from the previous)


You start as a young experimentalist


display skills artists ten years your senior

wish they could have produced way back when


Lack of colourisation

the hues fading

squirrels and cows colour blind


an artist with a crazed brush

daubs green grass purple

mixes paints on the palette

to mess up a work of art


Sells his wares for a few thousand

enough to buy another group of colours

the splash blotches on canvass

as one does when in the mood

the new sketch adorned with bright orange.


The Gardenia Grey art gallery hangs motifs

the aftermath of several attempts at portraits

people with funny glasses peruse the oils

one says that one will sell in the tens of thousands

your popularity garner by people with weird tastes

the lollypop dark moron on yellow sells best.


The pathway to certain success follows no path

just meanders as the market sees fit, glowing

the reviews that mention your dexterous ability,

ten thousand for a shoelace print the horror,

the juices flow again, another batch of contemporaries

to flow through to the art world, the mind numbingness

as more follow, the brazen attitude that art mirrors life.


Me the Dreamer?


The lady of the house

timid as a mouse

forever dainty

walking quaintly.


She managed her life

so I made her my wife

as things would have it

I would have to shave yet.


She made my day

doubly joyous and gay

a baby for both of us

comes with love and trust.


Play with the children

over and over again

we dine with our guests

spy the sunset in the west.


Paid the price of greed

did something we neither need

met another lover

now she’s another mother.


So polygamist I am

twice the father half the man,

work twice as hard now

sweep the yard and pow!!


You wake from the dream

with a silent scream

you’d made it all up

have a coffee from a cup.


I see the heat pour down my neck

and a mark from a kiss peck

where is the woman of my thoughts

like all good things, come to nought.



For Heavens Sake – A Rant


Goddamit, get a fucken grip

the price of a new car is set in stone

refrigerators priced to do a job

cheap whores on the streets of Seville

meant to do a service for men.


There’s ten dollars in my wallet

there always is, I like that way

yet you moan when I give you a fifty,

your sneer reminiscent of your mother,

please put your book away, I know my place.


I saw a car spewing carbon monoxide

a truck coughing diesel, my bike pollution free,

and travelling me to my destination, cough

there’s a tunnel that holds fumes, cough, cough

the train from the Deep South puffs coal dust.


my parents died BUT I don’t fucken miss them

get over it family, they died through age

stop blaming everyone else for their death

Life’s not like that, leastways the way I see it,

the blast from the South signifies global cooling.


And on that note, a scientist proclaims global warming

exists as a natural way to end the species,

that should surprise, but is there truth in it?

Margaret Thatcher took a nation to war

just because she thought England ruled the world.


The Dollar Coin


Used as currency in a marketplace

or as payment for a lolly or two,


I ended up in a homeless mans’ pocket

where I rattled around with washers and nails


he spent it one day, enough for a bottle

the kind man behind the counter gave me back


now I’m getting scratched and indented

as he hopscotch’s down pathways, passed trees


the tacky ticker of the stock market increased

the same time my value decreased, a quarter now


my life ended when he threw me down the path

and some squirrel ran out and picked me up


now I’m growing old in a  cavity in a tree

roasting my ass off for the new year to come.


The Farm


It’s the days of the Cold War,

the Iron Curtain

the Bamboo Curtain

the curtains in a spies home closed.


It’s also a time of mistrust and trust

when governments censor the public

simply to avoid conflict and nay sayers,

the Secret Intelligence Service busy.


It’s a time when news is stilted

to detract from the honest truth

the papers left handling misbegotten news.

The government stifles freedom of speech.


It’s a time when Jesus is a comforter

the church sanctuary from the craziness,

the religious ready to stand up and cry

cry for the people, cry for the land, cry for their lives.


It was a time when moods shifted,

communism dissevered, disarmed

when curtains were opened, light came in

governments now at the hands of the media.


The war on terror raises, again, the stigma of a curtain

a Dust Curtain, to capture Taliban, Sunni, Shia, Muslim

taste of desert sands taints American papers, media

all tainted with the Government propaganda, to fight.


The Saudi Oil Dollar paying for stability with US forces

some call them the Saudi Mercenary Army, fighting

to keep the peace in the region, to help stop terrorism

to help the Oil Dollar stay sane, yet it rises, steeply.


It’s now a time for distrust again, for nations to close borders

for nations to stymie the press, the nation, the people

a time when someone walking the streets doing their business

gets racially abused just for their clothing, remember Red?


I danced.


She made me smile

her life mirrored

her need to be with me

………………..I danced.


She said yes to my question

we organised

the time flew

and …………...I danced.


We had two children

both angels delight

like their mother

…………………I danced.


We separated amicably

I still  cherish our time

the photo on the wall

…………………I dance.


A Rose by any other Nomenclature


A rose can be an adulterous beast

ripping and tearing parts asunder

the drip of blood melodious tonight

a Goth streaks black/white down a street.


Thorns on a rudimentary blackberry hedge

sharpened by nature to protect, to defend

the yellow pollen-laden legs of a bee quiver,

the skinheads hold their weekly meeting alone.


The sunflower smiles golden yellow teeth

silver sparrows at speed dart and flash

five months of growth - an Oak cedes to autumn

The National Front join the KKK for dinner at 6.


Violets small and dainty, opulent in smell

broad flower petals wide open to catch a look,

more bees dabble in the daily pollen game,

Black Power and the Mongrel Mob fight at Stacey’s.


Smell the luxurious scents from the Lavender,

the purple nodules each comprising an odour,

remnants of Saturdays party at 42 still littering,

The Stellenbosch Seminary celebrates Mass.


The Ice Cream stand on 76th and 10 features,

the painting that of a young artist plying his trade

children run in/out of the frame, daubed with colour,

The Mighty Midgets Softball team glow with a  win.


The rose that started all this dies and is picked,

thrown on the disused dead flower pile by the gate,

there’s a motive to all deranged meanderings,

I sell the house and move to the desert.


The Empty Road


I look out the window

see the black tarmac

car less for months now


the food and necessaries provided by trucks


I look out the window

see the clouds and wind

an airway empty of planes


the practice poo pooed with no fuel


I look out the window

the steel tracks cold

trains running twice a day


the diesel shared between trucks and trains.


I look out a window

see the erosion of choice

since fuel ran low


the consequence of a planet that was greedy.


A Day at the Beach.


We left St Dom’s, windy, cloudy, dreary,

travelled over to the other side of the island

sunny, calm, beautiful, and that was the beach


Packed a picnic lunch, dined on the soft warm sand

van load happy for the occasion, enjoying the scene,

walking to the lighthouse high on the fossil reef.


The wind started to whip up as we left, sand blowing

trip back littered with toilet stops and a smoke break

the return to drear complete with light showers.


Natural Ability


She started out a goddess

finished as God


she ate broken glass

to help solve problems


she went to the toilet

twice a day, such a bladder does


yes she was human

but to me she’s a pinnacle


she melts molten rock

a hard task if one cares to try


her looks settle from Fonda

to a pardoned Marilyn Munroe


her babies ours

but she has the right to call them hers


the luncheon we just had

to remind us we’re still able


Natural ability flows

where good parents swim.


I toss ideas around

she turns them into viable propositions.


Yes, love rides many roads

as does my favourite Harley.



The Seven Guilty Samurai.


Deepest Japan, seventeenth century

the Shikoda dance death wishes

the Seven Samurai practice

with seven dancing doilies.


The prize, ten geisha each

to start another dynasty

of fighting and winning

and playing daydream games.


I read Shogun once

taught me a lot about

Japanese culture, the Emperor

the samurai, the geisha

the peasantry

a lone European



Today, the Ninja rule the samurai world

the black Ghi, the flashing swords

twirling stars

and a pointing knife

(for close action stuff)


Now they permeate the business world

cutthroat at every turn,

tough as cutting swords

sharp as flying stars

dangerous as a weakening Yen.


Back to the seventeenth century

the valleys ringing out with killing

a failed samurai falls on his sword

such is the way of heraldry

the way of the Samurai, clear.


Ten geisha added to a successful harem.


Days when rain makes for a gloomy time.


In a stadium, rugby being played

teams run to and fro, saturated

players displaying adept skill

as we the spectators stand drenched.


The wives at their Saturday Fair

crowds milling, the throng beating

drizzle puts off children playing,

profit down as the wet continues.


Out on the lake, rowers ply their trade

putting muscle to oar, back to the rain

sweat mingling as effort expended

days when tedium is broken by hardship.


A timer on a bench top oven chimes

seven trays of cookies ready for family

a picnic outside wrecked by precipitation,

Police give up the chase at 230kph.


Diehard supporters back their team

rain, hail or snow, the flow back and forward

as each team wrestles with a wet pill,

my mates wife stands transfixed at the door.


A players jersey is ripped asunder

another player pulls it more, for effect

the ground erupts in a roar, the rains gone,

the referee calls time, we have won, just.


A happy crowd wanders out to a full carpark,

find their vehicles, the losers with head bowed,

trudge wearily to the bar for a few quiets,

the winners off home to a promised picnic.


Happy Campers and a few Animals to boot.


Average, the camping ground

bent on trouble

catch a cry

deer footsteps rocket

everywhere in the glen

foraging grizzlies feast on

garbage in cans

happy campers shocked

individuals run

jump the tables

killing gnats on the way

lakeside resorts scamper pests

making for devil may care melee

no second thoughts here

open fires a danger to wildlife

play a guitar chord for love

question your part in relationships

round faces glare past the fire

seven large caribou saunter past

then dive into the bush

undergrowth crackling with their passing

verily they wander home

way away from human life

Xtreme BMX on the portable TV

yawning, another long day,

zzzzz’s aplenty for happy campers.



Radiation Burns on Cheap Plants


Those ovate orange trees



a moose with no horns



Ten Guitars singing



Buses passing yellow



silence in an auditorium

game over


child with a smile



lady bugs dying



a white bicycle



plastic chairs on the porch



The mind with no thoughts



Republican ministers



Democratic ministers



Radiation in the atmosphere



Solve the worlds problems

bomb it


Save the world from strife



Bury the dead




Poppy Seeds


How can such innocuous plants instill so much wastage the world over.  The heroin trade a sad legacy of the Western World, heck maybe even the Eastern World.  The misery of addiction, the decay of life, the unwanted dead, all legacies of a small plant in East Asia.


Diecast Ramrod belts out another rock song

the chords juxtaposed to the screech of electric guitar

the other band members high as kites

as they go through their set,

the poison in veins

creating Death Metal,

the groupies front row center

throwing heads to and fro,

the girl with the Rose tattoo

scantily clad

swings her head in melodic tempo.


Cocaine spreads it’s evil wings out of Central America, bound for the markets of rock stadiums and street life in North America and other western territories.  The insipid plant that breeds misery and death, fucked up lives living fucked up life.  The dollar it earns going into illicit bank accounts.


Joe Ramirez of Capital Investments

sniffs another toke

his daily habit worth $200

he functions better, sharper

so he thinks

not that he thinks now

more an automaton to self destruction

the lights in the room flicker

or is it his mind that bends

the sound of commerce outside his door


the sound of his sniffing

inaudible bar the compulsory cough.


‘Hey Man’, said Bob Marley, the king of Gunga and Rastafarian,  the sweet scent of Mary Jane as you toke back on another bullet.  The sweet sensation of a moderate high as you take it in deep and hold, to give full effect to the weed.  It’s often home grown so hard to police, but still idiots try their luck and get caught.


“Gonna give you Kaya now

got to give you kaya now

and the rain is pouring.”

The caravan is steady

if not the inhabitants,

the smell wafting out one open window

the children wait their turn

big brother holding back

in case someone comes


the smoke in the cabin enough

for the little ones to get high,

this is such a buzz he thinks

not thinking he’s ruining fragile minds.


That’s seven today she thinks.  Seven Halcyon sleeping tablets.  Not trying to get high, just trying to lose memories, before she loses her mind.  The most she has taken in one day was twelve, and boy did that knock her out, slept for three days after.  Her mind slips back to the rape (again) and the nonsensicalness of it all.  Heck, he was her best friend, had been for years.  Sure, they’d both been on crack, but his animalistic attempt at love had killed her.


Pills rule the world

as do chemical companies

a pill for this

a reason for that

the times when days passed

and the pain lingered on

the nights when high

was better than nightmares

the days when sleep hurt

those seventy dollar shots

meant to drown the pain.

Yes the world is crazy,

and not getting any better

maybe it’s proportional to growth?


Trimaran’s and a Fair Wind


The day lay lazily open with a scant nor’wester

the boats of the small fleet head towards Charn

the Trimaran “Whalesong” leads by a whisker.


The wind as they head northward swings south,

intensifies to a small gale, up spinnakers, blasting

speed reaches twenty five knots as white horses dance.


Lady Wigram, the bowsprit of Whalesong, bows

the indifference of swells and chop fighting each other,

the super schooner Daybreak Lover, takes the lead.


The single-hander’s are fighting with each other

seventeen miles back now thanks to the big rigs

who possess more sail area -the size of the smaller boats.


Around Charn, one of those insignificant channel islets

drop the spinnaker and rake open a fresh genoa,

head pointed to the wind and swell, pushing for Roget’s.


The smaller boats are starting to pull out, the wind is high,

the Doctor on the Chase Boat administers to fallen sailors,

The “Doctor” that is the Southerly wind increases again.


Whalesong regains the lead, though another multihulled,

Black Widow” dives noseward toward the lead,

Whalesong tightens it’s headsail and finds a few more knots.


Now they round Roget’s, a lighthouse-topped Island

and start the tacking duel back to the start line,

two clear leaders, both fighting the wind, the sea, and each other.


Sails dropped, engine run up, sails packed away below decks,

the waves of appreciation to a gallant loser, and thanks

the salt laden decks and sailors soon to be washed down.


The Dormouse cries.


Little darling

how sweet your tears

the mouse in the house

the men full of beers,


Hey Little dumpling

how cherished your love

the days when ladies dance

and sprinkle flowers from above.


Hey there Petal

the glowing flower you are,

displaying shiny teeth

as you drive your new car.


Omigosh gorgeous

your legs they make me sweat

I run after your fading body

you run me into the deck.


Hey my aging darling

your love forever cherished

the time we’ve shone and mingled

twice she, doubly blessed.



African Animals


African animals loiter

bearing young regularly

chasing down prey

dancing around the watering hole,

everyday the same picture unwinds

frolicking Antelope and Wildebeest

Gazelle scampering to and fro,

Hippopotamus wallow in muddy rivers

indicative of their portly weight.

Jack Rabbits run from fast Cheetah

killing machines – Lioness, Hyena

Leopard high in tree ready to pounce.

Marmaduke the former circus chimp

naked in the savannah, inexperienced

often seen tailing the Gorillas

past the Congo jungles to Kilimanjaro

Queen Baboons pick nits from younguns

runaway Elephants scatter en masse

sauntering with swinging trunk,

Tea Ladies


Victoria Falls

washes water afresh,

Xylophones of the Jungle Quartet

yammer alongside

zealous Zebra.



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.





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