The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Seventeen
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

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The Ode of Remembrance


We stand and fight

condemned by the next bullet

with your name firmly etched upon it.


We eat weeks old food

enough to sustain a certain death

the shelling sending lesser men crazy,


We pick up fallen comrades

carry them back to the first aid post

their journey in death over for now, forgotten


except men with honour and integrity

never shun an honest toil to kill or maim,

the sludge of winter mud in an Italian front slippery,


the take on death increasing apace

with each passing yard gained, or lost

the enemy also aware they could be going home


We take injuries, cracked bones

worn out backs, frozen toes in sodden socks

the boys of the sawbones busy with each intake.


As quick as it comes, it passes

the ladies cheering our return, our demise

the nation ready to hold us in high regard, honoured


The day pass, numbers fall

each Anzac Day sees the fighters

return to the battlefield and remember the dead,


those who fell to a named bullet

those who fell to a carefully aimed mortar,

those who simply fell to fatigue, minds lost,


and each time one passes

we recite the Ode, the constant reminder

that human life is infallible, transient, lasting,

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.*

* The Ode is recited at ANZAC Days, at each day in the Returned Serviceman’s Associations, and on the Death of a Comrade at the Funeral.  I dedicate this poem to my Uncle Kelvin who was part of J Force in Japan and an Army man for a while.  The Ode comes from For the Fallen, a poem by the English poet and writer Laurence Binyon and was published in London in The Winnowing Fan: Poems of the Great War in 1914.



Early Whaling


Under a dying Pacific sky,

the Barquentine Aurelias sails

mainsail taut in an afternoon trade

headsail puffing gently as they do,

Cap’n Ohrab at the Quarterdeck. measures

the mate yells orders for crew to muster

awaiting Cap’n’s orders to bring the ship about.


The whales appear on the starboard side

maybe a dozen, all white and ignorant,

their fate at the hands of skilled whalers

the First Lieutenant calls for the long boats

crew muster and wind out the heavy beasts

lowered to “yo ho ho and a bottle of rum”

the crew shimmy down the landing ropes,


the beat of the drum drives the oars,

harpoons readied, a close kill, danger for all

Ohrab stands atop his domain, watches the pots

as they are readied for the processing, danger

in every corner of this onerous task, reward

for the crew, rum and vegetables, maybe fruit,

a whale breaches, the harpoon strikes home


The dine on rarities, lap up the rum, the pots boiling

seven tons of blubber to be processed, the rest

discarded to the vultures of the sea,

sharks, sea lice, the hot sun and ocean,

the longboats long secured, a new course

the wind at her back now, driving her ever northward

up to the Humpback grounds, better fare.


“Whale ho” from the crows nest, the journey repeats.





I jesused my grynch, tied doumbs

together for the ride ahead


made crystalyses glisten in the dark

the frime a tick over two seconds


mystifrucktabled the window open

sevethreeforu touches a dead toe


delectabolism a mixture of nice and nasty

those deareabandies cough haltingly


sadly, they lay Quesdeemablora to rest

the making of a new language halted.


Ten Faces of Icarus




The babysitter came late,

delayed , a journey

to save a marriage

long on decay.




Teachers Pet huh,

bet you gave the quarterback

a ride of his life,

take your angst

blow it up with

a measure of vodka.




Parting company dear,

Yes I’m Gay

how did you know,

yes I have a lover

he’s taller than me.




Paramilitary maneuvers

in an apartment

South LA,

you know -

the entrance to gangland

just a whiskers breath

down the lane from Mac’s

takeaway drugs centre.




You posed a question

do I do the laundry,

I search my pockets

no recent down, clean

“yes I do my washing”

but I feel cheated by the air dryer.




The seniors Programme calls for patience

students in various stages of redress

wander the halls and rooms

each looking for hope,

finding only





There’s several days

memory loss

the speed echoing

illicit drugs hurting,

a blind poet






Lap dancers are erotic

I can tell you, I’m a man

no not a boy, they’d never

ever let a boy in,

though Danny from 53

tries it on with the local Ho’s

they slap his face

and encourage him to try again.




I sleep

you rest

she dozes

he snores

they rest

no rest

for the wicked

or tired.





The Bird flew west,


the winds diving shallow

Natures work awry

pleasant smiles

time passed

Icarus concludes.


The Six Wings of the Phoenix




Those pacing horses

riders quivering

a plate of pasta

for the winner

wings flutter






Sites of world renown

the Acropolis

the stadia of Olympia

Sphinx in all their glory,

whispering olives


to reclining Arabs

and Greeks.




By the light of a Shadow Moon

ghost riders of the Druid cult

play nightmare songs

for little children

in woodlands cottages –

Lady Genevieve holds a sword

so King Arthur can slay

imaginary dragons

with dragoons.




Imagine, you’re a little boy again,

reading books about imaginary things

fuelling the imagination, again,

then you live your life,

seeking the kings of beasts

the beasts of kings

the Queens of Nevermore,

seeing the images of Psyrene’s

and Minotaur, David and Goliath,

life flows with this imagery,

dives into the realm of possibility

the limitless dream songs

Wives and Husbands spend hours

reading from Mother Goose

the Holy Bible, the Koran,

other books of fiction, and start a story

that will live with little minds

for eternity.




Ripped, torn, guillotined,

French cakes sweet

after a revolution.




Avenues of hope take wing

the tax take higher

a population suffers

greedy gun worshippers

start a war to win peoples backing

the wings of Icarus fall

with unerring accuracy

on Iraq.



The Potency of Sexuality


Bend over backwards

for your partner

do everything possible

to meet her demands


the sexual Olympics

bedroom fun

and games

sweat the order of the day



the living room romps


to make children


a hot shower

where fun continues

the body pumped

for a good long night


lady luck intervenes

the News

on TV One

a bus crash in bushlands.


Passion killer.


Rodents in the Backyard


Backyard Blues bounce bonny bonbons

Dangerous Dave drives dented Datsuns,

French fornicators fuck fermented frogs,

Harris Haulers hunt harbingers, haughtingly,

Junior Jackson jams Jimi – jumping joyously,

Lady Lucy loves liquidating lingerie lines.


I stepped back from the tenancy agreement,

decided house loving was a thing of the past,

the Blues guaranteed to tap a toe or two,

Datsuns drive crazily around Japan and USA

matching economies and inflation rates,

the cost of living gauged by Coke and MacDonald’s.


A hunt for the Man of the Century went far,

a lady prime minister in the southern lands

puts her hand up - chosen on her pants suits

she runs a little country that boxes above it’s weight,

a society for the Protection of Children, Love Care

runs projects to keep disgruntled adults in line.


Harbingers sound the warning trumpet, loud

the ringing in your ears the prophecy of change,

free trade stripped as Jimi’s Star Spangled Banner

rings out raucously over Woodstock, his swan song,

why do children of the arts commit suicide, ignorance

or just a willingness to do drugs for drugs sake.


Lucy on Peanut loves her man, good omen for children

the life of cartoons a reflection of real life, not X-Box

where the fantasy of death and destruction rules,

kids now going into society and shooting up people

going into classrooms and wasting years of tuition

going into the wide world and blasting anything in sight.


Sadly the days go by

rubbish chucked out

the Daisies on coffins

planted with dead love.


Picking the Rhododendron Conundrum


Hey, Hitler, you lost the war

you killed millions in doing so

so why go to war anyway?


Those days when remonstrance

recalls the annihilation of Races

the last of the German Jews

making good in good ol’ America

those that escaped anyway.


Hey Goebbels, you lost the war,

yet your propaganda says you win

is it that hard to deny the future.


The homosexuals of society disgruntled

an ideology that said outriders must die,

pasting posters on lampposts for the populace

to dob in anyone that isn’t Aryan, pure

the German machine rolling on apace.


Hey Rommel, you lost the desert

you went a step too far, no support

the desert fighters of the LRDG triumphant.


Each citizen of the Third Reich enamoured,

tarred with the same brush, Fascisti

lackeys of the machine, left to stew their mistake

the lack of realism in a war full of reality,

cramped for room, the boys at war, doomed,


Hey Dresden, you got bombed to bits,

bombing from aerial rampage, allies

a resolve to thwart the Hitler Machine.


Those long days when winters cold bit, no fuel

just wood from the Black Forest and other groves

the wounded returning home apace, littering

their minds shot to pieces, bodies frozen by ice,

a resolve to see out the final days, alone, beaten.


Hey Churchill, now cometh the man

now cometh the hour, Roosevelt too

and Stalin from the North East, vigilant.


Death litters Europe, Africa, The Pacific Basin

Germany and Japan seeking world dominance,

the rest of the world putting a belated stop to it,

the coffins filling large cemeteries, inundated,

the Cross Of Iron losing it’s glamour, rusting.


Hey Johnny Appleseed, Hey Ivan Ivanovich

you meet in Berlin, shake hands, Hitler gone

the sound of Enola Gay leaving a bombed city.


The War declared over, countless homeless men,

equally homeless families, disjointed,

dishonoured, dismantled, dysentery.

The cost of following the tyrants

the payment - death and misplacement.


Carving Knife



a word

that could be



Runny Eggs


She fries eggs on a skillet

tosses egg whites high

yolks low


the salad tossed over

added ingredients

filling up


We all tried BBQ chicken

the fat dried and gone

finger licking


pas the sauce, hot chili

spray everywhere

devour anew


Splat goes the eggs yolks

splash goes the whites

splurge - we all do


Swan Song


Haven’t you seen the thing yet, Hogmenay Hoopla,

when scary demons delight little children


the sparks of crackers and fireworks booming,

drowning a sad town in tears of colour


practical townsfolk sell lemonade and soda pops

to help quench the thirst of those in need


the Beefmonger sells BBQ chicken and meat patties,

sausages sizzled on an open fire, spluttering


Ice by the bucket-load, chilled wine for society ladies

the menfolk quenching beer by the gallon


I made a turn down Ocean and Hands, the flowers

all abundant in their blooms, eye-catching


the road littered with the confetti and papier mache

little children playing in Wesley’s playground


I sample a family life, a single man in utopic furore,

the indicator on the car says I am turning right


Past Seddon’s Woodworks and Arts/Craft Store

down the left, Shoebridge’s Haberdashery


The crowd dissipates with darkness, lights on

to pave the way down Eastheimmer


a place I’m looking for, there, next to MacDonald’s

children entering and leaving with parents


there it is, The Sodium Carbonate Store, blackened

from a fire some months earlier, my new place


home and work, I park the Winnebago down the drive,

around the back covered in graffiti and artwork,


turning off the radio,  I hear the thump of Dance music

a bit of Techno Punk and the society dance of youth,


open the back door, the smell of BBQ’s and fireworks,

the fry pan apparently the cause, but a cheap buy,


my first plan, take advantage of the Mac’s next door,

the windows, now boarded, to be opened


and shine a brand new product on the helpless town,

a drop in centre for the mentally ill, a second home


but for now, work, and lots of it, to Rex Harrison

the ugly duckling into a meritorious swan.


Razorback Ridge


We spent twenty four hours scouring the brush

pig sign everywhere, the dogs on the point,

the sound of silence loud in a world of green,


I checked my rifle, an old Lee Enfield .303

checked the safety, a round in the chamber

then from a few hundred metres ahead, the dogs,


barking and scurrying through the bush, back towards us,

my partner Bill cocking his trusty Winchester,

lever action, a round up the spout, both ready,


the sound of approaching animals, stand by a tree

a balancing act, me and tree and Lee Enfield,

the sight set at 45 yards, enough for a hurried shot,


then out of the thicket ahead, tusked boar running,

it’s grunt matched by two shots, both hit their mark,

the boar staggers yet runs on, closing us down,


I lever a second round, as does Bill, the shot accurate,

we settle on who’s carrying, share the load, the burden

I get first digs, hog tie the front hooves, stand and carry,


Down through tough brush country, the weight hefty

but enjoyable, a good pig always brings a measure of glee,

Bill’s got the dogs, all in check, job well done, fed.


We swap loads, halfway down to the ute parked

near Spencer’s Gully, the keys safe in a pocket,

we melt through the forest like we own the place,


The pig grunted, or was that a death rattle?

we made it home, stripped the carcass, shared meat,

wild pork roasted with potatoes and cabbage, yum.


Children of the Longhorn Forest


Deep in the Belly of Balderdash Grove,

the songsters wail in mourning song

several tall Ent Trees swing and beat the air

the life of puppies in a house nearby

assured by the magic of the mystic forest.


There’s a thud of an earthquake,

Dream Robber the Weary comes

from within the earth, to steal things,

little things, and big things, just things

the children sleep in their beds unaware.


A mobile hospital settles in the valley

up go the tents, down go the pegs

into the heart of the Denizen Beast

king of the Underground, queen of the Grasslands,

a roaming Minstrel writes a nevermore song,


Truth in all it’s ugly facets, rears it’s ugly head,

spies the minstrel and encapsulates him in mist

the happy song now a crying song, children wake,

cry for their mothers and fathers, for the land

as it weeps - desert tears in a dry encompassment.


Ladies of the Seven Notch Mile, a house on Ragnorok

hear the beating feet of the Ent Trees, dancing happily

the children drawn from beds with parents, outside,

tears stop, the sky clears and a happy face Moon smiles

the cacophony of Glade Music sets all to smiling,


yes, happy heart, happy minds, happenstance

the Prince of Dark swept away with Moonbeams

the ground stilled with calmness and sweet song

children dance to the minstrel, his heart refound

adults dance a rumba, find new love and hope.


And on a branch in an Oak in Balderdash Grove,

three little bluebirds sing love songs to a bush aria

all the children and adults, the minstrel too, and Ents

all marvel at the sweet love they endear, and clap

(as if Ent’s clap) but all the land is basked in love.


Except under a bridge over the Merrywine River,

A grumpy old man with scales and seventy years of dirt,

holds his mud caked ears to keep the happiness away,

there is always one to be found in every story,

the arch enemy of happiness, the grynch pre-selling Xmas.


Fear not, he runs.


Flying the metaphor


Like a dove

on a busy errand


Like a hawk

intent in prey


Like flies

busy in life


The reason ten geese flying in formation, the need to fly places in regimented order, for life.


As an Eagle

from a lofty eyrie


As Uncle Sam

F-1’s over Iraq


As a Monarch Butterfly

sailing on the breeze


A height gained by a hot air balloon as it sails high into the stratosphere, men testing chance.


For every blackbird caught

another reaches a nearby tree,


For the width of great Oceans

the Godwit travels thousands of miles,


For the kneeling praying to God

a flight with lofty angels.


The Pegasus gallops time and space, sets down lightly on Mt Olympus, the smoke long since quelled.



Townsville Tableau


I pasted daisy dandelions in great hordes on a pin board made for notices.  The yellow/white conundrum splashed golden-like emanating light into a barren dusty room, the seasons passing as the light failed.  I’ll have to wait for next summer to revive.


The rocks of the foreshore

wet with incoming tidal flows

a sea lion sits on a promontory

basking in the glow of winter

a pup in the water playing, learning,


a Vespa hurtles down State 54

a sedate forty five miles per hour

the last of the traffic bedding down

for another night in the hills of San Fran

the blues bar on the corner pumps.

The other rooms are barren too, long lost a family used to excess, the dust gathering where no movement lies, a mouse the sole occupant, barring a restless human soul trapped in the netherworlds.  The yellow/white now faded, not to be replaced ever, a child’s thing to do.


There once stood a tall Redwood

now the ring bark tableau a picnic,

cars park in all areas dodging bears

the occasional deer runs amok

a teenager wanders from the pack


cellphone ringing and txting her love

she’s not attune to nature, most aren’t

they’re more than likely face a parent

than the reality of the outside world,

the tunes on the Mobile baby like.


Yes a soul lost in time, ghosts they’re called an untimely death, not time to say goodbye the white/gold of a ring on an opaque ring a reminder that once a good family lived here.  Then the light dies and all images deflate into grey/black.  The dandelion shines in memory.


An amazing sight, Humpbacks at play

not to mention Minke’s shadow dancing

the coast full of sightseeing boats

as humanity tries to get to grips with Nature

a long lost heritage, the sea, whence we came.


The Mobile in Geoff’s room rings, incessantly

he races to answer, trips over his dirty clothes

dives for the bed and answers, out of breath

out of time, the thing bloody clicks off, battery low,

she will ring back, though she’s rather impetuous.


And the night brings tears, soulful deep tears, the memory an ache, the longing a desire, the five fingers of ferns on the desk gathering dust, a reminder of better times.  ‘Why’ he thinks ‘is he a prisoner of this wretched place.’  He wanders back to Heaven, mindful not to disturb the rest with his moaning wails, his deep sobs of regret.  He takes the memory of the Daisy/dandelion with him, his final visit.


She leans against the redwood table

cursing that poor excuse for a boyfriend

she’ll drop him if he doesn’t get his washing done

if he doesn’t keep his phone charged, duh!!

She’ll drop him if he doesn’t become a man.


To date, the world faces reality in many ways, but most of it is out of tune with nature, with natural things.  Everything is now the Wow factor, the less we see it, the more the WOW!!  And unfortunately Wow is losing to human endeavour, destruction, expansion, advancement.  Too late to grow dandelions and daisies, they’re getting few and far between, too late to fix untimely deaths (though they are encouraged).  Yes a true conundrum.



Rock and Roll


I’m a Karaoke singer of ill-repute

sing rock and roll

do the stroll

belt it out like a coot.


I’m a Karaoke singer of fame

sing Rock ballads

poetic standards

rock it out with no blame.


I’m a Karaoke singer of good cheer,

Led Zeppelin tunes

Roy Orbison croons,

thumping it out with no care.


I’m a Karaoke singer, Rock’s my line

Deep Purple’s Hush

a Dylanesque rush

Forever Young in full time.


I’m a Karaoke singer of divine light

George Thorogood

sounds that would

leave a parting shot highlight.


A stroll through my memory


The road was long,

wound it’s way


the memory

of my  mind.


The taste of salt

as it meandered

along a populated


bathers chilling out.


A foreboding

as it careened

through petrified


filled with Neanderthals.


Dream sequences

as it stopped

at an Intersection,

the cross traffic

fighting with pedestrians.


Seven seconds

a reaction time to

fallen heroes,

the cenotaph

laden with wreaths.


My mind sees a white line

dotted in places

passing areas

where high speed technology

fights with semantics.


My head is sore

to much input

touch of output

the need to breathe

or take a data dump.



I’m lost in the fogs

of Otago Harbour,

Mount Cargill covered

in the early snow

of autumn.


The black ice

on Franz Josef Glacier

sends slivers of cold

on a Haast Highway

creeping buses.


I seem to remember,

a time when I drove

with head out the window,

black frost killing

screen and ears.


The alacrity of sourness

a taste of black top,

my motorbike sliding

the helmet saving my life

still tar in mouth.


Today the road winds south

always south

to a time I have forgotten

to a memory

fading with the years.


She says - I say


I walked down the road,

cars whizzing by

your tacit NO to sex

ringing in my ears


I should have learnt

she’s sixty five, me seventy

the need to fulfill

animal ambition, contrite.


I walk down the street

trucks slowly pulsing

I asked you for Honey and cheese

you gave me a forlorn look.


I should have remembered

the days when your mood

is a cannon to a flagship,

the wreckage strewn everywhere.


I walked past Kirkaldie and Stains

the pants suits reminding

you are the boss, figurehead

me a cold shovel in midwinter snow.


I should have taught myself

to play the violin to your double bass,

a concerto held together

by the rhythm of life.


I strolled into a Police Station

to fill out a missing persons form,

you’ve been gone for days

the house a mess, silent.


I should have read your moods

after all it’s been 40 years,

I see the reflection in the Sergeant’s face

know that look well, mirror.


I walk home, as if it still is a home,

a message from her sister

she is safe, just wanted time out,

I make a pizza and cook for dinner.


I should have rung her back

I know not the reasons,

pig ignorant, to women’s ways

the light switched off for a lonely night.


Ice on the windows


I take something as simple as an Icicle

dip it into an icicle liquefier

watch the puddle patterns

articulate into nothing.


I take ten golden Chocolate éclairs,

munch manfully hard

the shape of dripping

cream leaving shapes

on a patterned T Shirt.


I utilise bricks from a brick wall

build a sand castle

dock leaves for windows

the mortar runny

as it splashes my galoshes.


I take seven strips of leather

twirl a sequence

pass to my son

a hat for his tiny head

his dribble pooling on the floor.


I borrowed my wife’s pantyhose,

tie the lettuce plants

to stout sticks

tomato sauce

on a hot sausage.


Wind Chimes of Life


It’s the end of the day,

a hot sun putting itself

to bed


those screams of night

about to interrupt a sleep

of the dead


a pale wind puffs along

blowing moonbeams

into my room


I’m touched by gentility

softened to tender roast

eaten again


by a ravaging Morepork*

on it’s nightly errands

poor mice


a lake pools on the carpet

tears of Never Again weep



at the rising of a morning sun

the mourning wail recants

tears of ice


We make it back to reality

you and I, all of us,



So sadly the Moon sinks

to be dragged up again

on the morrow


Pasted to an opened window

the reminder life exists

wind chime.


The Flight of the Hawk.


I went for a walk this morning,

sort of mid-morning

not too early,


birds all a flutter and preening

flying to the ground



I past a paddock with a horse in

he seemed too pleased

with his life,


The cows in the field over the road

chewed their cud and mooed

as is their want,


The road took a turn to the left

the tannery belching

dead flesh,


On the way back, a car roared past

I gave him the proverbial fingers

he practically took them,


back to nature, the hawk soaring

on wind patterns etched

in the mind,


I got home, quickly wrote this poem

my feet swollen, testament

to a long hike.


When the River Ran Free


Deluged, downpour

dripping dirigibles float

falling farther than

ten titan’s tossing cabers

catchcry calling clueless Honies,


Hopeless happy honorariums brown

boiling bottoms, butt-kissed, still

sodden saturated stilt walkers cry

circling curiosities cringe manfully

making music mount zestfully


zebra zing, zealots groan

giving gravity great jest

just juicing jalopies afresh

aftertaste about apples running

right ‘round Rogers window


where workman wonder inside

incessantly incanting  irritable Kings

Knights keen – kneel opulently

opening orations on Victorious

vectors, violent volumes pour


pouncing ponies prance quaintly

quizzical quips queuing, Unicorns

uncover uniqueness, under etchings

elicited every evening largely

liquefied largesse loosens longingly.





the water running free in gutters

could be

used for


or clever toiletries.



the thoughts of fancy land scopes

should be

used for


or passing Croatians.



the bottom of the rum filled barrel

would be

used for


to alleviate a dire need.


Roman Roads and the Aqueduct.


A wide sweeping vista,

daffodil filled fields

the spreading Oak

a lark eschewing a poem

(Keats I think) yes


as seen from an old Roman road

the country the same

two thousand years on

to think, a Centurion

squatted by the road


to lay a plan for dominance

the need to subdue the Saxons

whose leader in years to come

would fight with vim and vigour

Bodecia, lady queen, fighter


from a roman aqueduct

where water flows still

the drains irrigating paddocks

flowing in the wind, - wheat

and barley for beer production,


Yes a centurion tasted of the broth

made from hidden Hops, yeast

frothy head and warm brew

to be supped with tender care

a Caesar copulated with royalty


the babies of the Celts ready,

above Hadrian’s Wall, steady

to fight and drink and be heady

the Tartan Kilts men fight and win,

the Romans held at bay, always.


A tight ring road around the Old Roman Baths

the Bath township built around springs

by Roman splendour to due diligence

to capture leisure after a hard fought battle

many bums have sat on it’s tiles,


post-roman, post Anglo-Saxon

post Viking, post Celt, post Norman,

post French, Post German, post IRA,

a post in a river ties a punt to stillness

near Cambridge, City of Knowledge.


And many English Poets see the aqueduct

write a love poem, or a sonnet, musicians

write creditable odes and ditties, aware

that history stopped at the now, not wherefore

ready to recognise something as it is.


Making Moonshine with a Difference.


I ironed my white starch shirt, the heat sending steam bubbles into my face.  The TV’s playing a rerun of MASH for the umpteenth time, Trapper John mixing another illicit cocktail.  I liken myself to Radar, short, impish, diligent, like how I press my clothes.  I look at the steam rising and wonder why it’s taking 30 minutes to do one shirt.


The mind, a conundrum

thinks by itself

moves with the moods

Serotonin and Melatonin

fighting with each other

for a stable condition.


I drive the car, firstly the left lane to bypass stalled traffic, secondly center lane to access the bridge lanes.  My indicator flashes with each move, due diligence, a cornucopia of decisions.  I look at the Speedo’, a sedate 75 kilometers, the bridge gliding snakelike under tires filled with air last night.  Averages say wear is even, odds say the puncture will come.

Today must again be my lucky day.


The work is innocuous

time sheets say chore

a knock on your door

a need for more output,

the brain clicks into overdrive

as neurotransmitters pulse.


I made it home, another day of durable dalliance, the second time this week the mood swings changed in mid work.  I looked at light standards on the way home and saw roman gladiators waiting to pounce and score lion cars.  The traffic lights blinked secret code messages to me, letting me know that there will be no crashes here for another week – steer clear.


The blazer in the cupboard

golf meeting Wednesday

the lady of the house

remnants like her scarf in the pocket

she’s been gone now for 8 years

my fault entirely, I’m afraid


The Dashboard clock sings twelve forty three pm.  It actually flashes it in diode red.  The stereo is pumping out Ironmaiden’s Number of the Beast and already the psychosis is taking affect.  I make it to the meeting, a little worse for wear, a minor sweat brushed off with the scarf from the pocket.  Even that action cries tears.

There is no one at the door, a usual trait, but this time it doesn’t need someone to stop your progress.  Illumination comes from a light above the door and a message board – Members Only.  Yes, 8 years ago I was a member.  I’ve done this every Wednesday – tortured my soul with my old life.


You have Bipolar

the Psyche said

permanent for you,

I made a massive recovery

clung to past things,

as I rebuilt the future.


I’m not even sure I live in a home anymore.  I know I go to 266 Forrest Hill Road, a house, but it’s not a home.  I haven’t seen the girls for 4 years now, and that really hurts.  They are my children for God’s sake.  I slip inside, drained, touch the photo’s of each of them, yes in my mind I also touch my wife though no photos, I know that relationship is closed.  Tomorrow I’ll travel to work, and maybe quit, I need to change my reality to include my family. 


They sip champagne,

I sip cordial,

just because I can,

the smart ones with new clothes

the ones like me drifting along

in non conformity.


I start ironing the shirt again, yeah left the iron on when I left last evening.  The heat burns through the starch and the material has a bronzed streak running over it.  MASH is still on, Hawkeye spilling his banana daiquiri over Frank Burns.  The light outside dims, good, I don’t mind the dark.  A street light outside flickers incessantly, luckily my bedroom is on the other side, otherwise I’ll be flickering.


Mind games forever

we know nothing else

Thinking Warriors





She sits in her kitchen

messy as all hell,

a flower on the window sill

wilting in the midday sun.


She runs through the minefield

that is her decaying mind,

a touch of rouge, lipstick

a dress to die for.


She hears him approach

goes to the front door

a measured manly knock,

does she hurry too quickly?


“Good afternoon Ma’am,

here to read your meter “

his gruff voice warming her up,

she shows him the thing he desires


not her she thinks, his intent

to finish his task and leave,

she looks at the flower again,

not him then, she was flummoxed.


“Thank you ma’am” he intones

turns and leaves by the way he came,

she smears the lipstick on a handkerchief

the scent – she needs a shower.


Still she looks at the flower

wondering who left it in her letterbox

a white rose a sign of love

the dissipating flower puzzling?



A Rollicking ol’ sea shanty


Those ten foot seafarers, riding White Horses

across an Ocean so blue the sun blinks,


across Pacific Islands covered perennially in palms

men stepping ashore and giving birth to Sea women,


across horizons bent with sun shimmer, mirage

the height of these men increasing the closer they get,


roaring Forties, and riding cascading water falls

some seven metres tall and oncoming, till CRASH


they hit the side of an abandoned Log Carrier

dive into the fucken hold and sinking the lonely beast,


the now 21 foot seafarers glee in their capability,

saving souls, sailors, and sailoresses, scion of the sea,


white horses now growing to charging elephants,

and lambasting a shoreline like a wild tsunami,


rotting houses, dead bodies, unwary populations,

the salted water deteriorating vegetation, as it does,


like the Royal Albatross, floating on mid air currents,

fighting for fish behind brave ships, in the Southern Ocean,


Back to the warm tropics, piggy backing on trawlers

the scurry of fish hungry sea birds scavenging food


45 foot tall seafarers growing apace, running on cyclones

the rage of wind and sea throwing it’s power at Fiji,


the bure’s washed wet, the populace on high ground

a white horse appears to reclaim it’s rider,


the riders make their home on Kilauea’s slopes,

the fire mountain and the sea farers, companions,


until another summer storm whips up the sea,

and off they go again, ruination and wreckage


into the realm of Tangaroa and King Neptune

into the real world of the hardened sailor, Ocean rave.




If men were born
with ovaries in hand
and the bits and bobs
to go screw themselves

how would they handle childbirth?


Top Fuel


I thrust into her,

a thought

she could

do better,


tweak this, rub that,

see the dials respond

at one hundred miles per hour

her pistons

running full bore,


well oiled cylinders

thrusting back

in response


I see her head sweat,

the gaskets straining,

nitros pouring into a rampant



powering the counter thrust,

her legs stretch responding

to full acceleration,


then I hear it, the power boost

grease nipples straining

at three hundred miles per hour


and the parachute ejects

after another four point six second run.


Yes I love my car.


A Mirage of Vague Musings


a burgeoning weight of responsibility

the ladies carry children

men their pick and shovel


the relaxation of security

war finished

fighting over

stick figures in coffins

play Mozart’s Requiem Mass


opportunists take stock

the thievery

so easy

to do

when eyes averted


a dove flies to the Middle East

an olive branch

dropped with

Icarus Wings

over Iraq


then the nanny at No 19

cries loss

baby snatch

from under her eyes

the police suspect

a drug lord

as you do

in LA


instruments show a rapid descent

dropping lie flies

over a dead desert

long lost of life

from nuclear


the mutant scorpions


mutant ants


and up the food chain robbers vie

for deviant fare

on soul less streets

where babies cry

in strollers

pushed by




then sadly a president is shot

the free world aghast

mutant marksman

find his target

the last of the wannabes

a tribe of city Indians

left to make mayhem


sadly the roses wilt, irradiation

the world goes crazy

as deer and antelope

in an African sunset

find they are


in the reality

of big brother


and one sees the Mountain Gorilla

the rock of Primates


just because

they are valued

by Chinese medicine men,

the toe nails an aphrodisiac

would you believe


might wins most wars, salient point

might used wrongly is war

and the memory remains

into children

left playing

with fake guns

in a New York precinct

the murder rate

bound to increase


then in closing the sun shines blue

one morning

and the citizenry

espy Neptune

in the rear vision mirror.

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