The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Sixteen
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

Bathtub Blues


Down the back of Hatty’s Shack

is a bathtub painted black

full of tadpoles and bouncing frogs

a drinking place for the many dogs.


Down the back of our back yard

this bathtubs’ full of soggy cards

the children use it so willy nilly

someone placed in there a cockabilly.


Down the back near the corner fence

the bathtub sits since time hence,

those silly frogs jump and croak

seen though the murk a wheels spoke.


Down the back of the end of beyond

is an imitation country pond,

full of life and fun for kids

memories softened as they close their lids.


Down the back of Hatty’s Shack

a bathtub progressed, no going back

the life of nature running free

a place to look the likes of you and me.

Pacific Island Reverie


This happened, I tell you

so privileged to serve in the Navy

and every year when New Zealand wintered

a pacific tan would beckon and away we went.


We’d spend three months surveying

ten days working, 4 days playing,

in such environs as Western and American Samoa,

Tonga, Fiji, Funafuti, Tokelau and Niue.


Can’t forget the Cooks neither

each island group with it’s own microcosm

of Island Life and language, music too

dancing the night away in many places


I remember Apia for instance, for a kilikiti game,

on a cricket ground hastily prepared

near the Presidents place, up the hill from Apia,

afterwards relaxing at either Aggie Greys


or perhaps the sunken bar called Otto’s Reef

or perhaps even the Tusitala itself, talofa palangi,

then when the evening drew on, up the hill

to the nightclub, Mount Vaea Club for a cooling rum,


or perhaps Tonga, Nukualofa to be precise,

Joe’s Hotel or the Dateline, keep your shirts on

the locals have strict codes of conduct, obeisance,

the pool at the Dateline a fresh taste of relaxation.


Niue is different, so hard to get on there, but rugby shared,

a look around the island, no beer I seem to remember,

still an Island of utter beauty and remoteness.

We’d stay more often around Fiji, so much work there


enough to keep us coming back for four years,

yes four years straight I had an all round tan,

mainly based out of Lautoka, many fine nights

the Lautoka Hotel one of our homes, another


a long forgotten nightclub of dubious report,

the bottle store and a nearby park a hang out

with locals, share a beer, woman, guitars going

then the next morning off to Treasure Island


a trip out on the Tui Tai to the island,

rum punches the order of the day, sizzled

the rapport with other foreigners, Canadians

and many Australians, plus some Kiwis,


a day on a deserted island with just a small bure

sun baking, swimming, wind surfing, Bula vanaka,

The other main island Vanua Levu, sugar cane country

Labasa, not many bars, the one that was open


a call back to western times, grills everywhere,

across the bar, across the stereo speakers,

across the door if you’re fool enough to enter,

already stoked of Frigate Rum and Kava


we all enter and have a great time, as sailors do,

the dance music calls some to dance, the local

girls a treat for sore eyes, and some leave with one,

I never tasted the ladies, their lives mapped for them.


The underlying key to being welcomed as kiwi’s

was our own Polynesian history, we’re all islanders

we know the taste of salt, the bright of sun,

the language of companionship, touché


I used to know a lot of the languages where I had been,

made it a point to at least converse in the local dialect,

now my addled brain barely recognises basic commands,

I sit here and replay beaches, coral reefs, singing


The Last of the Robert Louis Stevenson’s, a writer now

eager to get things to paper, for me, and my girls,

they need to know that there is another world,

one that revolves around peace and harmony.



Licquorice Lashings


Hitler paid his dues, his people suffered the most, yet today Germany (and Japan) are powerhouses in economies. Maybe we should all learn and have a tyrant as head of state, go through the pain, and come out shining in a brave new world. OR!! Maybe we should learn and have a good governance, learn from the mistakes made by others, and live a happy life in a free world.


My daughter reads page four

she’s only three, reading aloud already

soon she’ll be reading novels

adult words meant for adults

yet at seven she masters Lord of the Rings

and by ten has conquered Dune series,

by eleven she’s commanded Thomas Covenant

Unbeliever, such a rich tapestry of fantasy.


She mastered mathematics early,

found mathematical puzzles so easy

by the she was doing work three years her senior,

her life changed it seems (the years I missed)

her schoolwork suffered as her health

depression and anorexia claimed her

took her away from her parents

into another world of cuts and drugs

still though, all through it, she shone

her beauty snapped up for modeling,

a veritable lady of youthful good cheer

despite her afflictions, she shines - to me.


Countries try and emulate the USA, to be a better economy, a better citizen of the world.  Some are hindered by poor governance, others by tyrannical saviours thinking they are doing the right thing.  Nuclear issues abound, as do free trade, and subsidies and levies.  The European Union grows with each passing day, a formal acknowledgement that everyone in any country can be treated fairly and with equality.


She’s a good girl, “I think”.

Has her head screwed on

in a naturopathic world,

helps her mother ease the pain

pain that is physical daily

and perhaps a small part mental,

they try their best, it irks me

that I’m not in a position

to look after them all,

maybe the clock will turn

and my mind ease

where I can earn a crust,

to maybe help out,

yes perhaps too late.


Knowledge economy, that’s what our government is striving for, an economy that uses education as a valuable asset, and to an extent it is achieving that, the problem is, the trained ones leave for overseas jobs that pay more than here.  Their student loans are crippling them here if they work in this fine country.  Some stay, actually a majority stay, no inkling to travel. I have it on good authority the education I have now cost me a few thousand dollars and I’ll have to pay it back.  It’s just that at this moment, I can’t work.  Yes that irks me too.


She sends me photographs

recent updates of where she is at,

a striking woman now, twenty and then

twenty first this year, will I get there?

I certainly hope so, a special day

maybe one she’s not prepared to celebrate

but time will tell, she was born

the day before my mothers’ birthday,

always had a special place in my heart

first born, strong and intelligent

and one that could have blossomed

had it not been for the curse of mental illness

that resides in my family, shame really


China and South Korea have nearly caught up with Japan and Taiwan.  The bowl of Asia a bedpost for manufacturing, for production, at lower labour costs, so cheaper goods.  It’s a crazy throwaway world here, firms going offshore to Asia to produce something at a lower coast to the same customers.  I think I bought a fridge once that was made in Asia, but danged be the label said Made in New Zealand.  Don’t know if it’s false advertising or blatant despotism?


Yeah, we started teaching her young,

the fridge (Made in New Zealand)

covered in alphabet and number magnets

we’d spend ages playing with her

count the steps to upstairs so the numbers stuck,

the songs in the car wherever we travelled

she loves her music, plays Bass

and has a sweet singing voice, cool

I’d like to open the fridge, grab a beer or two

and go outside and sing with her (now)

but I’m stuck in mental health poor land

unable to even share a daily joke

yeah it’s times like this I miss them all

my eldest, her younger sister, and their mother

but my bed’s been made and I lie in it

rather sullenly, but not without hope.


Yes that damn fridge, followed me all around my travels when I was ostracized from the family.  I could still see the magnets on it, like the shadow of Goebbels propaganda, see the beer inside that messed me up, see the full bins of food, when mine were empty, the family gone.  That damn fridge that held a stick of licquorice for a treat to myself for being a good tyrant in my own realm.  Yes I daily administer Free Trade, impose levies, have levies imposed on me and all because of that fridge.  My kids were no doubt better off without me for a while, I was kinda mean to them when I was undiagnosed.


Gnarled old Men as seen in a bole of an old oak tree.


You’ve seen those boles, ex-limb markings

the faces starring back like faces

from a living boxcar bound for Auschwitz.


The knobbly nose and furled eyebrows

peering with outward intent,

the likes of a gun barrel in Tiananmen Square.


An agape maw, the teeth all hanging on angles,

the bite of a vicious tongue

the sound of the throng hailing Kim Jong Il.


Dad showed me the Poplar Bole, thin, distorted

the pain in it’s being justified,

as too Geoffrey Dahmer sitting waiting on Skid Row..


Gary’s poems.


I write to myself

a message

of graying concerns

and the old folk - Delaware way


Walt denies his old age

his poems reeling off the years

time etches away at heirlooms

the need to write one a day,


relaxed now, the journey near over

five more I think to myself

though corduroy trousers

will wear anon.


I see his picture on the book cover

the one that adorns this site

the straw missing from a mouth

contemplating the American South.


Hail the days, when two great men

conjoined to tell you more than I can say,

the wish to read more

the reality - life ends.


Nathans View - Hiroshima


“Radiation burns, Hidoko” the doctor offered,

“but it’s been 23 years dokutoru-san”


the boils to the surface

cancerous nodules

the searing heat when hot water runs


lazily Enola Gay winged her way

her pilot recently deceased

a hero

‘to whom?’ I ask.


Japan outgrew the damage

leads by example

economic powerhouse

sores of centuries

a death of the Shogun

the samurai wrapped in rice paper,


rice wine Saki sunk in painkilling amounts,

the citizens long in the teeth

short of breath

everlastingly injured

to die the cheats way,


focus centered on Hari Kari,

a need to stop the pain,

yet why the children cry

they weren’t burnt

did not feel the pain

do not deserve to eat their fathers sword.


The valley orchids grow irradiant,

a chase of striking leaves

flowers that used secrets,

like the doughty people,

to survive the dangers,


Paper-thin walls seared to a sizzle

the heat immense, survivors few,

the back wings of Enola Gay wave farewell.


The Bolshevik Boys


In a country where culture is endemic,

there’s a group of Russian refugees

that dance the Troika reeled off with ease;


the Maori do the Haka and Te Ariki,

an Indian community dances to Darbari Aatam

Europeans waltz to Po and Rock and Roll;


The inherent beauty of an opera or ballet,

the select few attend in abundance, clap

the Bolshevik Boys clobber thump music,


Dance the music of human movement

an ability to put desires in the face of hope

ten ladies line dance to a country song.


I sit here and wonder what my affliction is,

be it stomp, thump, or giddy high schtump,

the result of all my attempts lost in poetry.


Slower than the day I won last place


I won last place you see,

was something like gumboot tossing

or perhaps dodgems at the raceway,


Maybe even the foot race at school

when Jimmy Cotton pissed all over me,

I know, sounds onerous, losers always picked on.


I recall my first job, reminiscement of Deja vu

the cloudiest of days when my mood was foul,

the lackey sweeping the floors spat dust in my eyes,


But I made it, twenty years on I own that business,

the lackey still there spitting dust in others eyes,

I'd fire him I owe him, he gave me resolve,


Yeah I hired Jimmy Cotton too, he's night sweeper.


Ugly People.


This day we walked,

my brother and me,

amongst the tents

of those called Free.

He turned and spoke,

the words so certain,

“why are all these ugly people

all born again Christians?”


I did a double take,

took another look around

yes he was right

ugly people to be found

but I’m sure their hearts

will be pumping pride

as you look closer

you see the love inside.


Ends to Means


Anybody could have swayed you,

made you change your mind,

I tried and the wall of silence prevailed,


you built sandcastles of airy fantasy

hid in minarets piled high with shit

tried to say you were the Queen of Destiny


I tried to see your point of view, tried

but failed to even attain understanding,

I rung the doctor, he said just keep trying,


solidly the walls grew between us, dying

the love we had for each other, leastwise

not the way we used to love, we’re parting


then one day your dreams wake me up,

you ask a question in your sleep, I answer

and you return my query, I see the minaret


try every night to learn to understand, cool

so during the day I ask you pertinent questions

and your smile lifts the gloom, I hardly sleep



trying to keep the marriage alive, cheating I guess

but it’s working, I seem the fantasy castle, questions

you need nurturing, I answer as a far off prince,


sullenly one day you snap, your mind collapses

the doctor will see you this time, remedies

I let him know where we are, he postulates


indicates the door, this must be done alone,

the result, a few weeks in a ward to come down

to be medicated to fix the dreams, cut her cord,


the reality that heaven is a place only for the dead,

soon she’s back, I have quit work to care for her,

too hard to face the loss, still I listen to her dreams.


Erroneous readings on the Lie Detector.


“So tell me Sir, the day you killed your Papal Orchid

were you aware the Vatican were watching it grow”.


The detector went off the dial – “Yes I was aware”

he slouched – his self respect shot to pieces, down,


the tube at the end of the letter box shone black

a pale white Lily passed by in two step mode, tangoed


ripe sheep baa in unison, little lambies suffer warts

the farmers deal as they do, vets there for comfort


and still Jesus Hangs By His Nails, a sign of strength

Pilate ushers in an era that touches things like war,


death, and depravity, all in the name of the Papal Orchid,

poisoned by the chalice of blood that is drunk weekly,


to avenge the evil that supposedly rules the world,

the lie detectors go off the scale again, the reality


all things are made up to assuage personal endeavours,

the teeth of a Narwhal fight extinction, whalers abound


in Southern and Northern Oceans, their ilk, kith and kin

plastered to the whaling wall, a Jewish parody perhaps,


the Palestinians have been there for life too, so fight

yes fight for the rights of whales and Jews, and Red Sunsets,


a blight of wild fires colourising sky with windborne dust,

God takes the stand, a detector twitches, this should be fun


so it is, a picture of Bob Hope on a golf course and Kart,

not to be mixed up with K Mart, where fallacies are traded,


suddenly the detector dies, all truth in words written

the key to decipher what each singularity needs to live,


I smoke a peace pipe with seven Indian Chiefs,

The spirit world lost in the beauty of a Papal Orchid.


Please???  Someone save the Whales.



Primal Screams.


Pencil a mental note to myself

why the dinosaur devolved.


Evolution started wit Adamus and Evus

both passed don leaving Us two men.


Amen, the end of the species friends

if the Bible is to be believed, succinct.


In the sink is a spiral motion that hints

the Ocean spreads it’s deep wings and sinks,


methinks the psychology class at university

is but a flash in the physiological pan,


Pan, hear his sweet tunes, see him ride

brides at receptions are often mistaken for Mother,


her brother climbs a tree, balances on a limb

seven foot tall conifers grew prolifically way back


the track, a seven foot dinosaur alive today,

a home, a burrow, a tree uprooted nearby,


where and why they made this mess, who knows

why large beasties grow on our naïve planet,


yes, ask Janet, she may have all the answers.


Passing Passions


You type the latest news into your generation X computer, bringing the latest on the tickertape.  You double, sometimes triple, check your passages to be sure the reader is going to understand your missive.  The day grows long as you type into the night, a magazine all yours and your content.  The readership is small, but eclectic and ready for another journey through your mind.


Those seven foot monitor lizards

peaceful creatures entitled to die

Tuatara race slowly to their next feed,

some say the Dinosaurs have gone

I point at Tuatara and Great White

both machines of a different ilk.

The Labyrinth of scallops and oysters

provide fare to hungry patrons.


The dummy on the table reminds you to go feed the baby, step down from your editorial duties and be mother for a darling child.  You fidget, no crying, unusual at feed time, no matter she’s still on the breast and they ache for release.  As you enter her room quietly, you see she is sound asleep, doing what little babies do.  You lift her gently from the bassinet place her by your left nipple, and the journey begins anew.

Those crustaceans stuck to ships

and rocks on a sea shore littered,

they hold the secret of life. 

I’m sure they do,

they always did what they do now,

barnacles that grow to a desired pattern

and then just stick around scratching,

times fly by when children cut and bleed

when adult divers dodge man-eaters,

when ships sink with the weight of the ancients.


She sleeps right through, you put her back to bed after a burp or two. You go into the kitchen to compromise your healthy diet, a feed of chips and dip, plus a few cokes to wash down a dry night.  Besides the baby needs a good healthy feed and by hokey she’ll get it.

The laptop beeps new email, you wander over to the damn thing and see your brother has sent a card for your birthday.  A bit early but all the good nonetheless.


A scientist ruminates the question of life

another regurgitates the restoration of death,

both look to the future for longevity,

does human life deserve long living?


A naked murder victim in the morgue

seven assailants submitting death blows

there’s a certain negativity about these acts

those days when questions outlast answers.


The brown detritus of effluent flows on beaches

not exactly killing the barnacles,

they thrive on the morsels and grow bigger,



This weeks edition closes on the freak show that is human life.  Why there are more disabled and handicapped people out there, some to parents affected by drugs and alcohol.  Your closing argument is that the scientists have it wrong, life isn’t a future thing, it’s more a now thing, nothing is predictable.  She then remembers a sister that ended it all at 14.  That wasn’t predicted and God it hurts still.  Her heart here designed to care for her baby, and the magazine is one small part.  Yes she thinks of the father, just wish he wasn’t a scientist always on field trips to discover life on new planets.



My Heritage


The Irish in me says Potato,

though in reality I’m hunting Shamrocks;


the weak English side says Haddock,

though in reality I’m crying a Pint;


the Scottish in me cries Haggis,

though in reality I’m Robbie Burns;


the German in me cries Frankfurter,

though in reality I’m a player in an Oompah band;


the Gypsy in me cries Flamenco Guitar,

though in reality I have a Pierced Ear and Ring;


the American Indian Spirit in my cries Destruction,

though in the reality I am Bedded to the Reservation;


the Maori in me cries Pork Bones and Puha,

though the reality is I am NOT Kaumatua;


The last song on the radio before bed cries Pain,

though the reality is I am Asleep and Dreaming.


Brain fade


The explosive reality of a brain scan

shows temporary amnesia is hereditary,

the spots on the right side

sure signs a footprint of evolution

marries modern design.


Later I had a pint with Barry

we spoke of old school days

and the girls that we both chased,

he told me his future wife loved me

when I was a spindly gawky youth.


Bypasses convert traffic from one lane

to another going another direction,

the doctor changed tack, crossed the road

found the patient in a coma sans underwear,

a sprightly eighty year old pointed, blood.


Pancakes on the griddle splattered away

tensions between East LA and San Francisco

left on a west bound plane (Honolulu) soaring

too many pets in New Zealand climbed the well to do ladder.

Yes my mind flirts with reality


and the unreal things that abound

toothaches are more real and tangible

the spots on a rarefied clot chart

mean the time has come to make the most

of every opportunity that life throws it.

Yes, No, Perhaps



you made the Djibouti Express



the syrup in Pancakes is runny



a time clock ticks on by for once



the catacombs wallow in steeped history



your nose doesn’t bleed when you pick it



arrows fly to a target, not the other way around



zero dominance in a Lions Kingdom irks



the day doesn’t turn dark with the rising of the sun



the Red Baron was a hero to all



seven dwarves did work for a living



daylight satellite TV programmes blink



men in tights in the 1700’s weren’t gay after all



life on Earth goes on regardless



pass each other without realisation



words that are meant to be heard by other ears



left in the barrel after the cork is popped.




Annually I pay Taxes

I don’t use hospitals

or graveyard plots


I dig holes in cardboard

for children to play

I don’t play in graveyards.


The secretary  genera

who keeps my accounts

tells me a Graveyard is for sale.


My license to travel

taxed at a premium,

like a hole in the graveyard.


Those far away days

where dreams float and prosper

gravestones shine in the night.


She met me by row 23

aisle 49, the white lane

we saw ghouls fly by, gravity.


Taxation will be the death

the life, money hidden away

families dig up graveside plots.


Girl Interrupted


You transcend the metaphysical.  Your portrait shows a clear resemblance to your mother. The taste of mozzarella on a hot pizza stupendous in the realms of gourmet cooking.  You crank up the old mixer your Grandmother passed on, readying the meal with utter clarity and succinctness.


The lady of Demon Light

shines coal black

in a coal black world,

the realisation ten dragons

dance war dances

for the lower end Cantonese,

a tug of Tarantula war

ensues as spider bake

cooks a web of common deceit.


Ten days after the Man’s Birthday, you’re still marveling at the sago pudding, your best yet.  The men ate with relish, the children passed as they do. Suddenly your mottled hair does changes to a distinct purple, your fighting spirit now of Bodecia proportions, your sword a cudgel of blazing Fish Slice, your shield a cake dish ready for another chocolate cake.



Yes Spider Monkeys,

they seem to thrive in zoos

the Lions roaring solemnly

I see a zebra shedding it’s coat

a new crossing for unwary children,

babies on a Baboons back

where children should be

the Chimpanzee picks his arse

the animal kingdom in control.


The club meets once a week to swap recipes and crochet patterns.  You say you must go, to be a woman, yet you’re more than my partner, a pseudo man, husband and wife a partnership. The days grow long, I await your return - a rerun of One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest on the DVD, I always have an affinity with Hightower.  You don’t like watching it, your father away with the fairies for years now.


Little Centipede

the road is long

you eat it up

in the time

it takes for cars

to travel

halfway down

the winding lane.


Pass the baton

the leader stands

raises his arms

pumps blood

into an erect


“We rule the world,

ruin the planet,

play unfairly,

all to win

the prize

we cannot see.”


There’s a cross stitch class on at the Haberdasher’s Arms, a pub for woman, where you can drink wine and call friends, friends.  There’s a lot of detail involved, more than in a spluttering AFL game on the TV, where everything is detailed for you, play by play.  You come home and show me the spider monkey cross stitch, inspired no doubt from the Zoo visit last week.  You also have a picture of your Dad, and your mother’s apron to share.  We sit and watch Girl, Interrupted, something we both have an affinity to.



Pass me the remote

change scenes willingly tonight

dyes her hair again.




Went to a funeral today

hot as all hell

everyone sweating

especially the pall bearers.


Ran across family

as you do,

made some new acquaintances

as you do.


The service was good

a few tears

sweaty palms

a good eulogy.


But hot, whew

had to have cold drinks

for all, though some had tea

did I say it was hot.


Pass on Kelvin

you fought to the end

but age knows no barrier

soldier to the end.


The Race


I spied the tape of the finishing line

my energy near spent

a taste of victory sweet

peripheral vision shows no attack

the ones behind lost in the roar of the crowd.


Another fifty metres and it was mine

my energy revived

legs driving full pelt

the crowd rising to my victory

then I heard it, the increase in patter feet.


I check behind, a longer look,

the red of USSR

the hammer and sickle

his feet driving faster than mine

I turn back and drive, running faster than hell.


Thirty metres, and the tape loomed,

I sucked hard the air

swam dizzy from exertion,

the sweat oozing as heat takes affect,

the sudden lessoning of the footfalls behind.


Released from purgatory, break the tape,

Reach out fast

with pumping arms

the realisation the Gold was mine

and with elation, exhaustion enters the mind.


She clasps a flag, the Silver Fern

throws it in my direction

lands with a gentle plop

I stand gingerly, grasp the flag

and somehow find the energy to celebrate.


I think back on this event, eons ago,

she is still with me

the Gold shines loudly

in a room devoid of other mementoes,

the memory will die with me, but I celebrate.


Glued to Neanderthalism.


You’re sitting here reading this poem.  You wonder what Thane is going to produce to provide fare for thought.  Suddenly you realise that you are too Thane, your fingers held out in front typing the words at 44 a minute.


You touch your nose with your ring finger,

the lazerlite shining hot sun through it,

settling down on the harsh black carpet,

burning retinas through horn-rimmed glasses


and as suddenly you’re back in the narrative, the fingers twitching in your mind, the sudden realisation you want to be a part of the poem, the prose, the doggerel, et al. Your eyes squint closer as you start to enjoy this little missive, the start reality you are a part of this poem.


Deck the halls with shit and garbage

fa la la la la la la la la

make the reason for this folly

fa la la la la la la la laaaaa.


Yes, a mind slip, the cause and effect of Bipolarism, the need to sit here and type nonsensical nonsense and make the reader squirm with the fact that love is amiss, hope is a facet of doom, charity is what one should get when and if she asks for sex.


Imperious arsehole, you called me Dolt,

I know what Idiot means, you don’t have to spell it out,

the dairy on the corner sells Peter Jackson 30’s

just to ensure my life isn’t prolonged.


I made a bed, much like you do, tuck the corners, smooth the quilt, pad the pillows and then lie down on it and leave an indent in the middle for the kids to dive in when they visit.  Oh I forgot, my keyboard is black (see you looked at yours) and my mouse is an optical type, (runs away when my hand approaches), fearful of another bashing at the hands of the rapid surfer.


I read this post with relish,

my mind amiss this afternoon

good I am me, creative

and with that, I finish my reading.



The Stipendiary Steward


On race day, the horses sweat for money,

punters raise a heckled hand to cheer,


Dead heats are received with disdain,

seven judges adjudicate on a photo finish,


a polling booth at voter time succinctly empty,

the elections perceived as a ne’er do well,


the administrators peruse voting papers,

to measure the means, weigh the rites,


a way to find doggerel in poetic circles,

read the lines that don’t rhyme, nor reason,


so today I spent a dollar on a nag, winner,

walked home flipping a two dollar coin.



Why the Daisies are Booming Zero


Delectable delicious Diamondback Daisies

dancing daintily down Dewar’s Droop,


Carnal Colleges crown cleaners cool

collapsing cowardly ‘cross cauliflowers,


Broken bowers bend backward brilliantly

bringing Bowditch brooms back by Bushwalks,


Another alliteration archive answers awkwardly

Arthur’s accounts announce another apt awareness.


I finished this thinking there’s not much more to add,

tasted D back to A, and the two in between so

tainted alliteration artfully prepared and written,


I ruminate on the dexterity of an artful poet

trash cans littering a dark alley, signals decay,

“Times” newspapers dumped on a park bench,


the wind blows subjectively, the whistle of a train

lonesome on a winters night, the chapel doors open

to let the ill content enter and assuage their sins,


a doctor points to Z, says a count back would be fun,

just four letters, Z, Y, X, and W, to conclude the end,

I race for the dictionary to see if I can accept the challenge,


I decline, very hard to create sentences with reason,

so I let this poem lapse and …………………………..?


The Tightness of Her Pinafore


…she passes the time baking, confectionary


That night long ago when she misfired on cordial

the reaction an over reaction, the case a coma,

her skin crawling with spider monkeys, itching

the marks on her arms a badge of office, nails


... she delights in story telling, laughing


those kids sit at her feet, one by one falling asleep

the story hypnotic and overwhelmingly  rancid,

her youngest, though yawning, the one to win

she smiled a hidden smile behind the story, recanted


… she plays with the car controls, even at 80mph


her dangerous acts always follow a manic attack,

the car a tool for mayhem, the driving act to scare

seven police cars in the chase to date, across town

she parks in a lay by, and accepts God’s judgement


… she walks the halls, the echo of her feet resounding


her mind is quiet now, the children came today,

the poor excuse for a husband brought them, he’s ok

Olanzapine and Lithium in large doses, to mellow

a lady in the next room screams all night, awake-mares


… she sits in the trial a spectator to her own demise


Your honour (pipes up her reedy lawyer), ahem

we seem to be at an impasse, the lady is clearly sane

just a moment of madness, a touch of unreality

she is fine now, let her go – at which she laughed.


… she sits in her kitchen overlooking recipe books


it’s been a week now, and still she can’t bake

the oven a demon of hot breath, the rays head cutters,

the ingredients sit transmogrified and affixed the bench,

children cry around her, unable to sample her delights.


… she turns to the TV and wished a cure


Olwen James, the chiropractor popped in for a visit

tweaked this, twanked that, and lo and behold, cure

beast of a sore head cleared with bone reconstruction

a belief there is a God and he’s human, so be it.


Battle of Evermore


Eerily, upon deserted undergrowth in bushclad seminars, the races of UnderGrath deal with the decay of living matter.  Toddlers play with fake swords and overgrown shields, too big for a serious tussle, to small (they) for the reality of war.  Spuriously, divine dream makers dance to the rhythm of the North Wind through the rustle of trees, the song of love and loss loud to all those that hear.


Supine the secret serpentine

she who deals death,

dances to the beat of a forgotten drum,

ladies in pinafores and undergarments

secretly scythe the wheat fields

for men are at odds with each other

fighting battles for glory and honour,

the children locked in a time warp

till Father walks (or limps/wheels) in


Dramatically the South Wind change brings Imps and elves to the party, teasing little chitlins as they go about their daily play on words, the frost from the west left a white cloak last night but now the warmth of the midday sun sings a melting melody, several Trolls clip clop clip clop across a bridge in the valleys depth, far below the trees that signal fun times and happiness.


The buried Sergeant Ganes in the chapel,

his mortal remains cremated to be spread

the ladies all cry, the children wonder

the Padre passes around a donation pan

to help feed the family, children et al.

The Military march in honour, brisk and sharp

the cut of their cloth indicative of long service.


The Doors “Roadhouse Blues” echoes from the woodlands centre, the Granny Bake playing her favourite song, tapping her blues ridden foot, swinging her over large bum to and fro, the beat driving the squirrels nuts as they play their daily trade.  Sarina the Saucy Siren sings Hayley Westenra’s “Pure” in water song mode, her enchanting voice driving the children ever inwards, to seek her out.  The boys driven by the Blues, the girls by water music.


Down Memory Lane the casket slow marches,

the 12 Gun Salute ricochets around the valley,

women weep, what men there are, puff out chests,

the lake by Dudding’s Emporium awash

with South wind ripples and the drip of tears

rent asunder peaceful tranquility, the day wanes

children hurry back from the woods and eat,

the woodland creatures retire to bed, work done.


The Trolls stop for the night under the Bridge at Downhearts Crossing, the leader hungry for more little children to torment.  Maybe this night will have a scream or two, maybe not.  The South Wind dies a little, enough for another Frost Cape to envelope later.  The Imps dance with their taillights, as if big cars on a speeders highway.  The Lady of The Night, Genoa, leaves a haunting song hang in the air, five miles into the forest, even farther into the haunted valley folks.  The funereal quality enough to have the good folk locking doors and battening windows.


Verily I fall upon my sword

the death of Men and Children

Women the true survivors.


Memoirs of a Twenty Something Hypocrite


She remembers the day

she stood in a  field of daisies

plucking the ones at her feet

and making a floral tribute

to herself.


She also remembers her first boyfriend

spotty Jimmy from the house next door

her first kiss

reminiscent of those daisies

a floral tribute

to herself.


Oh and what about the exams

passed with relative ease

allowing her

a passage

into university

a flowing tribute

to herself.


Now she’s a twenty something hypocrite,

drinking vodka to ease the pain

snorting coke to remove the memory

the boyfriend from hell

who used her daisies

and turned them on



Reinsfield prophecy


Like a rock drawing pretty pictures in a day old diary,

he reads the first chapter, the last chapter

fails to read the middle, the end like a bullet.


He acts like an enraged Bull, all legs and horns,

the act of charging at anything a failure to read,

white stockings like his mothers legs, encapsulated.


The junkie on skid row weaning off H, passes out

like a turd dropped in a dry bowl, no means to flush -

He dies with his pants down trying to expunge the fire.


lace of her pretty camisole flaps in a funereal breeze

she read him the middle bits in his dying moments

a story of death and depravation, a story of life dying,


The cremate his sorry carcass, like ten gun salutes,

the “bullets” in his bowel going off, rupturing the whole,

a smell of the happy party, not ten days hence, death


his mother takes the reins, drives the horse and cart

her reality that her children are dying before her,

she has two left, she’ll watch them closely, alert.


Bow down to evil

rice wine intoxicates

babies pass the gates.

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