The Writing of Thane Zander
General Poetry Eighteen
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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Were it not for your snoring

and incessant farting

when we retire,

I’d marry you


Were it not for your nose picking

and radiant moanful look

when we go out,

I’d call you mine.


Were it not for the screeds of make up

and garrulous clothes you wear

we’d make love

every minute of the day.


Were it not for your mother and her phone calls

and the incessant ranting and raving

I’d give her a kiss

just to silence her.


Were it not for your continual missing

of things like birthdays and such

I’d question your mental state

but only if I married you.


Were it not for my stubbornness

and incandescent smile

your life would better

knowing I’m yours.


Were it not for your indefensible temper

and your knickers throwing rants

I’d follow on behind picking

the pieces of our lives up.


Were it not for me, you’d be helpless

but then you knew better when

someone said for better or worse,

I strung along for the ride.


Lay me Down to Die


I lay me down, by waters edge

dip my toe in waters clear,

the song of Tui forces a smile

I splash and dash, moronic at heart.


I lay me down in Hot Summer Sun

to play a nose flute for all to hear

sand flies buzz hither and yon

my skin a bright ruddy red.


I lay me down in my feather lined bed

to snooze a nana nap from nowhere

those yellow and brown robins sing

I play a toe drum to keep the beat.


I lay me down on my mother’s grave

to be near her on a roasting summery day

I feel her heartbeat through the depths of dirt

reassured that I can continue this way.


I lay me down on a road so black

afraid of nothing, the thought tasteful

a car whizzes by, the air hot and cold

I lay me nearer the centerline for ease.


I lay me down on an old mans bed

ticking the time as it draws ever closer

the medication not really working for me now,

days outnumbered by hours, so to speak.


I lay me down on pastures green

cow and sheep and a ruptured spleen

I count the seconds as all the birds fly,

this last of wishes, peace, as I slowly die.


I am


I am a Boulder

the size of two cars

blocking a mountain stream

full of Pounamu

for Maori to use

in trinkets and taonga.


I am a Rock,

the size of a stroller

large enough to stand still

small enough to flow with flood

young boys lift me

as if roman gladiators.


I am a Stone

moving ever downstream

past bridges and lakes

wearing away,

young girls stack me

rockatree art.


I am a Pebble,

if flat skimmed across river

if round used as eyes in sandcastles

thrown by boys across river

a home for cockabilly

in a fast running flow.


I am grain of Sand

one of billions

on a beach so long

footfalls of humans

deep rut’s of car tyres,

a nuisance in windblown eyes.


The Deck of Cards


The war sped on

soldiers come

soldiers gone

the whiplash

of gunfire crackle


Rounds flew overhead

finding an owner

the newly dead

stumping for cash

in a hut ramshackle


Then during a heavy lull

soldiers talk

soldiers skull

having a bash

at pinochle.


The dead walked off

during the game

some do scoff

players stash

many a belt buckle.


The enemy close now

“hey Kraut, wanna game”

“Ja, Kiwi – how”

meet in a stash

the title so subtle.


So the game’s fully done

the middle of war

and soldiers fun

waters splash

for sweet fuck all.


The 12 Hour Timesheet




Forgive the language

it’s about to explode

all over the page

all over the fucken road




I mated with a black witch

we had a grey child

yet our lips are pink

when mingling




there’s this old cunt

lives down Framby Avenue

he’s been tormenting children

that stop at his door begging for fun.




my baby floats in jello

she’s fucked her life badly

I try to rescue her daily

but teasing old men suits her fine




lettuce leaves covered in snail trails

I was and clean

dusting off spam

apple seed coverings

today the fucking light shone black




ok so he screwed her big time

the life of a sailor hazardous

gonorrhea and herpes

maybe even a punch in the head

till dawn drunken matelots

service the netherworld women

and them they.




capsicum, green, yellow, red

mixed with mince

a drop of Dolmios

and onions to kill for

a delicious mixture

served with macaroni.




i delighted in ecstasy

fucked this island virgin

on a beach white

from coral and sun,

we humped like baby pigs

till dawn’s light

she told me - in Tongan

she loved me,

i said thank you, and ran





the valve on the old radio

sparkled and warmed

the station too sketchy

to tune into.





remorse, I’m sorry

the language so guttural

so esoteric sailor speak

the black humour

a thing to cherish

a dead person

treated like shit

just because we are alive,

pass the remote,

I need to sanctify.




ok so I went

from the New House

to the outhouse,

my time on the streets


by days in dust

and rubbish bins,

a passing stranger

treated like crap,

like the turd they are,

they have a life

mines exorbitantly dashed.




i sometimes lie on my back

under the spreading Kowhai

a Tui wings it’s way in

pecks at the flowers,

a bird song of pure joy

emanates into the ether

summer this year fine

with nature singing “all’s well”




Oh the love

her gentle kiss

where no kiss exists


her softly, softly touch

where only a screen exists


She rings, voice soco voco

her nuances

meant to tease


She writes

snail mail

a card

a present

a meaning


I taste the envelope

sense her odour

sense her caring touch

sense a reality

that simply does not exist.


I see her webcam footage

sense a movement

sense a nuance

sense a flick of hair

the hinted taste

of reality

yet still

not real.


I go to bed at night


where my reality

skipped, like

where did she get under

my skin?

I go to bed at night

with the reality

I can dance with her one day.


If reality is kind.


Musings in F Flat major


I need to get a cup of coffee




 The last two lines were painful

sort of flatline

the buzzer alarming

as the heart stops


a nurse has come in

I’m conscious

but clinically dead

(how can that be)


they pump my chest

one tries to french kiss me

my tongue unresponsive

my lips blue from nothing


then I skip a beat

the blood flows back






the last two lines wildly evocative

my tongue responds

I try to reach my hips

stop the blood flow

now my head rings

my heart starts pumping again




I rush to kiss my saviours

but they grab my hands

suppress them to my side

I thank them with dry mouth

and blushing face




Now where’s that cup of coffee?


The Gallops


I race a wild horse across a bleached sunset

clip clop of miles eaten for the sake of love

beaches left barren from the latest westerly storm,


I sense the encroaching dusk as my mood swings

wolfhounds run ahead chasing shattered dreams

the chalice of potency within grasp, lessons to be learned,


five fingers grip a taut rein, the turn hazardous,

dust whips up behind, the chasing pack miles behind,

they have no chance of capturing Adonis again,


then a storm to the north rifles it's icy tentacles south

into the clutches of the Riders of Damacles, champing

and hollering and the bit between the teeth, closing


now on the prey, a winsome lassie leaps in his road

the wolfhounds miss their mark, he swoops places her

firmly on the back of Dragonlord, the pace heightens,


and in the way of love, they change course, pulsating

ever southward, far from the clutches of the Parasites

into the land of Darashand and the lady loves of Sheed.


This all happened in the Land of Our Lord in 1128

when Fairy Stories were invented to cheer and scare

little children of lost tribes, on the zenith of the Dark Ages.


Sequestered in Silence


The Round Room echoes

past goings on

the ghosts

of ten riders


in halls

meant for little children


The Square Room sings

divided in quarters

a cubicle

for each


to push their craft.


The Oval Room polished

a table

with red phone

white blotter

one fountain pen

a decision

to be made with jurisdiction.


The Blue Room mellows

destruction lost

silence sequestered

a child’s mind lost

in the rudiments

of Blues and Dixie,

the piano against the wall quiet.


Through the Looking Glass


Frosted glass like opaque eyes

frog farts sounding in unison

I dash amongst the lilies

to catch frozen dreams.


As Humans we’re Gnats

always in search of life

short though it is, longing

to be like Arnold Schwarzenegger

steroid abuse to Governor.


Rhythms in nature

a hum from latent machinery

sounds of crickets playing ball

with poisoned  children

minds inured to excess.


Resonance of sound


She makes coffee, diligence tested

a repair to darned socks, made

a resonance of sound, a whisper

in a lounge suite torn, withered

a petal lost in the degree of context.


The Red Lounge is brown today

spilt Mountain Blue Coffee

on chairs long used to tragedy,

a flowers petal flourishes

under a Mobile Repairman’s van.


He lounges on a repaired coffee table

his shape flattened for effect,

the ladies of the Petal Society

paint with dabbing strokes

and the need to drink fast.


Coffee Tables, Lounge Chairs

a petal opening in a room

moved to romance,

a repair of distance necessary.



The Day I Emailed the President of the USA


I found it in my email inbox this morning

a scrap of a message from Palestine


“please sir, help us rebuild, we need houses

the Israelis keep bulldozing our ones


and building new Walls to signature autonomy”

I read with intent, felt for the pour soul, it goes on,


“my sister and her family have been dispossessed

their dwelling demolished, their livelihood ruined


we need to stop this illegal possession, stop the rot

save the Palestinian way of life, feeble as it may be”


I Googled President of the USA, found an email address,

forward it on for the sake of sanity and brevity


I never received a reply, though I see more aid going in,

perhaps the poor mans plea was met with a hint of reality


a hint of amusement too maybe, knowing the US stance

on the affaire d’Israel, perhaps more cement for walls




then one day, the CIA sent me an email, ‘we’re watching’

who were they watching, me or the Palestinian


did they want to engender paranoia, for both?

to have us scared for the final solution?


I emailed the Palestinian back, all is well

yet still the Wall lengthens, encroaches


still the fight goes on in the Land of the Holy,

where once peace stood in the name of the Saviour.


Silly Poem


I walked the streets,

ate dust bullets for lunch

a tiny footfall behind me

little old lady

with shopping cart

outpacing a champion walker.


I stole her bundles

just to slow her down

but like the Energiser Bunny

she took off

and yes, gained altitude

I bet she was pissing herself.


I passed the parcels

to a kind leviathan

raced after her, before

she resembled a zeppelin,

the time sped up, caught

her ankle and pulled her stockings down


so here I was in the Main Street

with old ladies nylons, a group of parcels

a dog that wanted to be in the poem

and seven Japanese Tourists

clicking away with their cameras.


Yes, I felt embarrassed

red as the Beetroot on my T Shirt

the sounds of seven dogfighters

returning from battle over Iraq

they leap to the ladies assistance

come back down to earth with

bloomers that serve as a parachute.


As quick as it began, a double decker bus

captured the errant oldie, dropped her off

adjacent Smellinggrasses Hair Salon

where all her worldlies were returned

in somewhat embarrassed states,

the dog made another appearance

as did a passing Samurai Master, sword drawn.


Her ability to place all her goods in the right place

then to move off at the same rate

astonished all, even when she flicked the Bird

it was right in place, and totally out of place

with the context of this rather silly poem.


An Armless Tree


He stands there groaning

Ash off indeterminate age,

I feel sorry,

his limbs succumbing

to agelessness,

Sap like white blood

emphasizes decay,

I see Maureen,

she sees what I perceive,

her daily hug

warming his bones,

rooted so solid;


a devil wind

fails to uproot.


A day in the life of………..


It’s not any old Bus. No. It’s a Japanese Import, runs on smelly diesel and choking the environment with it’s endless emissions.  I have to take this bus, against my better judgement, as it’s the only means I have to my disposal to get into the University.  I suck in a truckload of fresh air as I board it, and for the rest of the journey I exhale slowly.  Bear in mind this trip takes twenty five minutes.  Yup, Blue…..


the colour of her top

she’s too young for my eyes

but nonetheless

I can watch with a keen eye

she sees me looking at her

a silly giggle erupts

the campus suddenly stops

the world stops

she moves on

I too, run away.


The Massey Bus from Palmerston North bus depot is a ‘clean’ bus.  It uses biofuel and the atmosphere around the exhaust pipe is relatively clear.  No need to suck in deep breaths for this one.  I watch the road eat away behind us, the river flow under as we navigate the bridge, the onset of park-like settings and tall buildings poking above them.  We enter the slow moving road zone, the start of the University proper.  I admire one with a dark top……..




she smiles,

in her Japanese way

her eyes avert

as is protocol,

the taste of sushi

wet on her lips,

she tucks her folders

under the other arm,

and moves on to another class,

I settle into a steady trot

looking this way,

observing that,

seeing groups chatting

as if class isn’t enough,

the Sudanese Bus driver

passes by going the other way

his attention to the road,

mine to another young cutie,

this university thing

is doing my head in,

I stop at the Registry

all is well, I fit in

despite a biker beard

and Bulldog T shirt.


The road back resembles the road there, but in reverse.  I’m no longer espying young ladies, tall trees, and dirty buses (for now).  I’m concentrating on the work at hand, the papers passed in for administering.  I feel a whole lot better (and not just because it’s another clean bus), the sights well passed and forgotten, the knowledge I won’t have to face that everyday of the campus year.  Extramurally for me all the way.


The lady with the pram,

needing my attention,

the pram heavy, I smile

lift it for her

and take it off the bus,

my good deed for the day,

now sit and wait for my bus,

the dirty bus,

Japanese Import bus,

I chat with an old Maori man

we share whakapapa,

seems we have a lot in common,

the bus arrives, stinking

I palm the bus driver

a couple of bucks

and sit back gasping

as truckloads of evil fumes

make their way

through the back windows,

I detrain at the Golf Course

wave the stinking bus away

his last laugh

to cough in my face,

I walk home

deeds done



The staff welcome me home, ask if I had a good day, I just smile and say “great thanks” and meander up to my room.  You’d think after a seriously testing day the internet would behave itself.  Nope, not a chance.  I sit here writing this as I can’t get access and when I do it’s slower than ten snails playing hopscotch.  Wish me luck.


I made Marmalade


I made marmalade

the desires of the Church ladies

ever wanting my specialty


they mill around

showing each other this

displaying that


the little children

pulling at apron strings

grabbing stockinged legs


a sweet little girl

tasting lemonade

for the first time


Father O’Reilly

passes judgement

on those who shy away


the Bloomingdale sun

echoes errant heat

on a party of the street


then salad tossers

display dexterity

as food disappears down throats


My marmalade sells well

the excess sent

to the needy orphanage.




Once princely guardians

of Rapa Nui domain,

chiselled from island rock,

placed in position

to guide or worship.


Standing like soporific statesmen

on guard for the advent of danger,

those heads ever watchful,

on the lookout for life’s mysteries,

devil worshippers the world over, cringe.


Some as heavy as seventy eight tons,

etched from rock with precision,

placed with unerring accuracy

on pads harbouring many of the ilk,

all looking inland in bemused contrasts.


Barren grasslands, trees all gone

used as rolling poles, then burnt

during the shortage, the end of the Moai

as little other engineering tools to accomplish,

these monoliths a measurement of time passing.



Tu Tangata


He sits alone on a canvass of choice,

the room depicting a Hermits cave,

well worn chairs, a threadbare carpet,

all signs family have forsaken him.


His office bureau complete with computer

his lifeline to a world passing him by,

the aroma of sweet smelling tobacco smoke

endless cups of coffee sweating brown ooze.


On Saturdays he changes his sheets, sweat stained,

his shoes spread around the unswept floor,

there are smudges on the carpet where tears drop,

the pain of loss too hard to bear for a once great man.


The walls are littered with the remnants of his life,

children’s photographs, self portraits, Tangaroa art,

a small table holds a malfunctioning alarm clock,

to remind him that life just passes by on a daily basis.


Rock of Ages


He sits still

dark grey basalt

summer algae a coat


the flow of water

a cape for eternity

races time by


beneath river life

sheltering from above

nymphs, flies, fishing fodder


until a huge size ten

steps and displaces

centuries old patience,


no way to right the ship

to reclaim a reason d’etre

flat side to a hot sun.


Opening the Item Box


It arrived today, cherie, mon ami, bonsoir

I kiss the lid to be near your scent


a peek inside, a hosting newspaper wrap

several CD’s of your choice, animated chocolate


smeared on a box the size of a cats paw

your gift, a web cam, so you shall see me,


It arrived today, another gift from far away,

a letter written in finest fountain pen,


scented with Opium I think, I know not my smells

the writing indicating you have time for such things,


just an epistle to let me know you are well, on the mend,

that your daily walks to the beach and swim


give you new life, new hope, new resolve

it arrived yesterday, you are but a memory.



Oblivion Oblongata


Someone shat on my shoe and made me walk a mile down the main street in town with stinky feet and a growing brown patch.  It escalated into a full blown fight with a parking meter, a bystanding Whiskey Barrel joined in, bashed me around the head and got me punch drunk, as state I most definitely didn’t need.


Eros killed with arrows

made people lose

their fucking heads

stopped commonsense,

the ruling classes of Bovver Boys

and Eye Wart Cream

ruining Love Poems

as if the flippin’ well deserve it.


Miracles of miracles, she (Dado) walked into St Stephens to hide from my rabid stare.  She thought I was stalking her.  Sure she’s a fucken hottie, man best bit of hot ass in town, and she gives me the time of day by avoiding me.  I daren’t walk into a church, she knows that, no not because I’m the AntiChrist reincarnated, more the fact I’m wary of what the Almighty will do if I disgraced his company premises.


The fuzz cruised past,

the geeky chic

in the passenger

waves a gun in my face

her position of power,

I flick her the bird

emotively jam a finger

up my arse and lick it

just so as she knows

I ain’t scared of the scum,

Dado comes out,

a half mile down,

I debate with myself

(yes I’m capable)

turn from her path

and think about going

down the Mile Road

smashing letterboxes.


It’s Saturday, lost five days there, the last thing I remember is running into Scatty down the Mile, and being passed a P laced joint.  I have some vague recollection of a party, with evil drugs and booze and more of each.  For days on end I was literally freaking out.  Oh yeah the red Mitsi across the road, what a mean fireworks that was.  Oh yeah, well all fucked off when the scum turned up, each running to our own directions and habitats.  I now hide in the squat, shit everywhere, rats crawling around the room, biting anything that stinks of food.


Hi, I’m Erroneous Rat,

I live with this fucking sick

excuse for a Human Being,

he’s in serious need of help,

if he don’t get off the drugs

and booze soon

someone will die.

This is a plea from King Rat

to the Human Race.


The rope slipped easily over the banister, the noose ready for a plunge into insanity.  The voices in his head were all yammering, asking to be shut up.  The drug induced psychosis just prayed for play.  He stood on the chair, the noose ready, no note, no one cared, and with a swift kick, ………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………


Post Mortem

There was none, the rats found the rope too tempting.



The Rafter Series 1.




You swung on by

the Seven Mile gate

your knapsack


on womanly hips.




Maturity is a ripening,

the ability to think

on feet shuffling

past the time clock

on Pendant Square.




Those footfalls in spring

sloshy footprints

on a thaw

taking a season

to mature.




Priests in St Mary’s

pray daily with feet

planted south,

the dialect commensurate

with godly intonations.





David stands minus penis

the church declaration

censorship in olden times,

the work of an Artiste

ruined through divinity.


The Rafter Series 2




She wades through

ankle deep tarseal

molten and clingy

her stiletto heels

guiding a steady path.




Teenage love

the ever ready cell

a quick brush

of freshly dyed hair,

tonal acquaintance





Three boys,

jeans around their butts

showing boxers

to little girls giggling,

a rabbit in a hat

lost on generations.




Today the elderly fought back

the old crone in the gingham dress

flails a rude young man

with handbag and brolly,

He kind of giggles, raises his arms

to protest youthful innocence.




I’m listening to Schubert,

just before a Beethoven classic,

soon the dial will wonder

up to The Rock, beat sounds

summers late grip personifies.


Did you hear the News today?


An article about Iraq

how the war is being won,

who by I ask, what war?

What have I missed

these past five decades.


I remember Viet Nam

that war was won too

but who by?

The Name escapes me now

I still have my anti Vietnam badge.


I see the streets of downtown Los Angeles

littered with graffiti and tags

the sign some youth

will fight for their neighbourhood

and not their country.


I heard the News today,

a lady in Alabama choked

by her endearing Boa Constrictor

the snake escaped and according to police

is making a dash for the Amazon jungle.


I also saw on the Nightly Wrap

some scientist has discovered a gene

that holds mentally ill families to account

passed from mother or father

self medication a key, drugs or alcohol.


I spent a minute listening to the radio

a newsflash, major car accident up north

Police reluctant to say how many.

How many I here you ask is Iraq?

How many is the graves of absolution.


This afternoon I got caught by a newsflash

Obama and Hillary both triumphing

the return of the forgotten soldiers,

Peace in Iraq a distinct possibility

without an American or British army to target.


Did you hear on the News today,

I was carted off to prison for stating

truth and untruth, lies and deception

their eyes shadowed by treason

their assertions woolly and light.


The Ribbonwood Lane Reprise.


Down Ribbonwood Lane, the ladies did stray

the children and buses on their way

the cloudless sky joins the fray

the days when love abounds.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the Jesuits do ply,

their daily trade as cars whiz by,

parishioners set to live and die

days when life resounds.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the cattle do chew

pastures of chaff and Ribbonwood stew,

the children just don’t know what to do,

days when longing is bound.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the cars drive past,

the longer the laughter the bigger the blast,

the food at McDonalds exorbitantly fast,

days when rogues are found.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the cycle of life

the lonely vagabond causing strife

a butcher waves his cutting knife

days when ladies are profound.


Down Ribbonwood Lane a painting is born

the hunter puffs on his Hunting Horn,

the lost children all forlorn

days when babies compound.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the skies are Black

the welcome sign says welcome back,

the herding chains sag so slack,

days when basketballs rebound.


Down Ribbonwood Lane the lights shine bright,

such is the feeling deep in the night,

the cars turn left, then right,

days when night sounds.




A pass in a mountain range

echoes impassive

on a resounding course


They came to an impasse

a passion eking nullification

the days lost when climbers cry,


a glass boats surpasses the end line

seen through like Dali to Art,

a passive intonation elicits joy.


The Double Bass beats the sound

as people laying on grass

pass each other in a daily fair.


I take a passage to the new boat landing

Mass being held on the wharf,

the mast of the boat swaying in the breeze,


The Pass for the concert says stage left,

yet your passionate inclination

is to lay down and take in the music.



Why Don’t God Speak to Me


Mummy, why don’t God talk to me?

I mean I pray, and beseech him

and I never hear him answer,


yet Daddy and you and I go to church

and we sing and praise and pray

yet still God don’t wanna talk to me.


Daddy, does God talk to you at all,

I mean you’re a man of God, like Mummy

you both have a good time glory hallelujah,


and both have good lives, has God ever talked to you?


Dear God, I’m praying to you still

I’m no longer 8, now a stoic 17

but you knew that, now didn’t you,


I’m getting paranoid all the time

wondering when you will answer

whether I’m worthy of your kingdom


if such a kingdom exists!!


Dear Old Fella Up Top, I’m 49 now

I think I heard you when I went mad

such a sad time to be the ambulance

stuck well and truly at the bottom of the cliff.


A Mirror in a Window


The flyer on the window says

“Peer into the Magic Mirror

to see things you’ve never seen”


Children congregate and wave

jump and shake in front of that window

the images distorted in reflection


then occasionally a clown will appear

shake his booty, smile woefully

and the children would scream with laughter,


they duck and dive, chase shadows

the reflection now a rainbow

a kaleidoscope of possibilities.


Sanchez the young kid from the cantina

stands lonely watching nothing happening

see his possibilities faltering in belief


the other children shun him for his disability

on leg a wooden replica, hopping along

the other strong from years of practice,


still he sees a wry smile form, tantalising

the clown rubs his shoulders, gives him a pat

points to the mirror, surprise, happy times,


the ladies who are mothers stand back chatting

see the by play and smile, mothers alike

they won’t look in the Magic Mirror for fear,


fear of seeing a totally childlike reality

where husbands are off to work or the pub

working off their frustrations, their hardships


not seeing what their children see, too busy,

even on the way home past this magic store,

their shadows flick the image maker, gone


All the children are tucked up in bed

the Google monsters silently asleep

a reminder of a clown and magic mirror

to ease their journey into Lala land.


Hole in a Fine Wig


Someone stole my hole, bereft I be

it’s wholesale slaughter of epic proportions

as I loll neath the bole in my favourite tree.

Darkness draws coal in a fire hole

where flames leap and dance

sort of hyperbole of the cakehole.


Someone rigged my wig with fine hair

a wiggle here and there, I don’t give a fig

to sate myself, I take a swig of Twigs fine brew

there is a fine Brig holding drunk sailors

who think it’s big of them to be there

I rig myself with the days distrust and swig again.


Someone stole my fine line, a beauty to be sure

the wine in the casket echoes my attire finery,

a refined gentleman I be, that’s thine stance,

it’s doubly difficult the tine on the fork says

as romantics dine on salad and tuna, sublime

the refinery pumps out more juice for thirsty workers.



What’s wrong with being one hundred


I sip a dram of whiskey a night

puff on my corn cob pipe,

toes tapping to Gene Pitney

full bore on my stereogram


the Chandallah Rest Home’s great

the ladies hitting ninety plus

chase me in my motorized wheelchair

giggle in old persons ways at catching,


my children come visit, now retired

to play Scrabble and Draughts

to reminisce about their mother,

the tears well up and dry eyes cry,


I had as party last week, one hundred

everyone celebrated, though most in bed

before the staff locked the doors,

a new alarm clock echoes past endeavours


No one asks me when I’m going

to tell the truth, I can’t see death

the foreseeable future is celebration

on reaching one hundred and ten.


I sip another dram, raise my glass

the salute to the love of my life

ere I meet her again wherever that may be,

the hot liquid breaths new fire (and resolve)


Movement in E minor




Friday morning

staked to the wall

Jesus hangs




An archipelago quartet

movements in E Minor

dust storm scurries.




Painted ladies dance

ancient mariners avail

the clock ticks by.




Salubrious connotations

a duck weaves drunk

plastered walls flake.




The Hallelujah Choir entreats

David stands immobile

pigeon shit paints.




May the weather settle

doctors dosage too high

light fancies dance.




Gondolas rock and roll

Venetian seaways

Verdi sings through windows.




The American Scheme

the dollar measures wealth

Vietnam a distant reminder.


Taste of Bitterness


I hunt the Dark Tigress,

the deep cut Sabre Tooth of old,

a headache the size of Colossus

mend rainbows with a sharp wit.


I trawl the deep oceans

food for the masses, extinction

like a dead Whale on the surface

at the whim of nature, decay.


I fix things, it’s my way

the large lamp in the lounge

now suspended from the ceiling

the light shines up, scurrilously.


Like feather tendrils in an opaque sky,

my walking feats matched by Jehoshaphat,

the clowns on the Evermore Show

reminiscent of David Lange at full flight.


A cup of tea sour from curdled milk,

awaits all participants with wet feet,

the medalists reaching for gold falter,

the winning of a heart so hard to do.


Merryweather, a lame Tigress smiles

yes that special cat smile, before pouncing,

the ducks in the pond waddle for fare

unaware they’re today’s menu.



The Resounding Success of one A.L.Literration


They push past the lines end

a metaphor and simile

encouraging each other

to be as of Dickens best foray.


The Chit and Chat, cousins

of the ephemeral Chatter

to talk like Bob Hope

to enunciate with rhyme and rhythm,


not to be confused with Chitlins

bare arsed Babes on linoleum floors

they goo goo to their mothers content

who chastise and with chagrined looks


dive for the cover of the latest North and South,

more verbiage for the middle men to discern

a crossword puzzle springing metaphors

intelligentsia swimming in cryptic lines.


Today, they cried when the Newsreader got it wrong.



Harry Potter’s Cerebral Breakdown


T’is not a poem about some goony kid

nor black magic and doomsday witches


t’is a poem about the relationship between

seventy three octogenarians on heat

and five thirty something’s chasing tail


t’is the story of Gertrude Gummerstance

and her happenstance delivery of self

the time clock on the factory wall counting

as time flies by in a poem about jack shit


t’is a faithful rendition of Dickens and poorness

the relativity generated by Einstein in a complete

moment of utter clarity, the theory that stunned,

here’s Gertrude again to interject, to meddle

as octogenarians are want to do, old witch,


t’is a tale of the Black Flamingo’s left hanging

on walls painted pink to provide aftertaste

on a floor covered in brown detritus, black goo

a witch stirring her marbles, marbling her stirs

the grotty rendition of How Great Thou Art

beating out on an Old Age Home’s stereo, sound


t’is a faithful facsimile of seven men in the Arctic

running from reality, facing the truth of devil worship,

the printed warnings on their sleeping bags missing

a dire threat to their safety, if they’d only seen,

then perhaps the octogenarians and Harry Potter

wouldn’t have hiked a ride to score reality, hopeful

the day they all met on the Streets of London, Soho


t’is a stark recording of miniscule endeavours alight

the sky painted purple by dexterous ball point pens,

many children staring out windows looking for Santa

the Auld Bearded One stuck in a December Time Warp

the proliferation of Reindeer shit on windscreens

blown out by the devil wind from the North, seasons

reaching out for the aged and young to bury new ones

the light of day surveying scenes of melancholy tales


t’is a comprehension of the world as we know it, round

unlike the cheerful faces of the thirty something’s

square gaited for horseracing and the Deer Industry,

take Gertrude for instance, she uses horsehair whips

in her daily S and M sessions, horse haired violin bows

for Bach’s Symphony in E Flat, the music enticing

children drawn to her house, to her parlour, to her self

destructive measures, poisoning minds, bodies

the remnants of youth wasted by her aging processes,


T’is a shame, the end, I have run out of pages for a 10 liner.


The Rafter Series 3




The Hallelujah Choir sings

love melodies written

by Beethoven in his deaf state

mind blowing work.




Footpaths the night before

covered in confetti and roses

a wedding leaves by the back door

painted ladies ply their trade.




A marksmen goes hunting

deer and pig his prey

a lone child with access to guns

shoots ‘em up at school.




September is spring here

the leaves pop out

after a mild winter

Daisy the cow chews on.




A heinous crime, President

Leader, Politician, Master

yet the lies flow

like lolly water

into a drain that is society.



A 300 – 600 word Poetry Critique


Well, into the nuts and bolts of the course

a review as the title says

from a man who finds it difficult

writing 50 words in a poem.


The really dumb thing about it

I have to write it for an amateurs poem

and frankly I find it difficult

writing a critique for a really bad poem

when I don’t want to totally gut that persons words


But I have to do it, tonight I will trawl

and find that which I seek

and be ruthlessly efficient

no apologies, just gut it to pieces.


Tonight I am Lucifer and The Grim Reaper.


The Rafter Series 4




The Cerebral Palsy girl

limps the streets

looking for love



a place to call home.




Lions on the High Veldt

lounge the eons away

man claims

lion maims

life is a banana

there to be peeled

and eaten.




Erroneous readings

on the Geiger Counter

means radiation

may not be leaking

from the USS Arizona.




My children give me most pleasure

it’s been four long years

since I had a cuddle

a peck on the cheek

a chance to see them grow.




I saw her yesterday

blonde as a sheep in high spring

as tall as the Eiffel Tower

as sleek as a Cheetah

as womanly as Katherine Hepburn

as a lover par excellence.


Life at the End of the Road


There is a sign at the end of the road.  It says “God’s Waiting Station – Please Queue Here”.  I can see the sign now, clear as mud, even though I’m 49/62’s of the way down that road.  Yes I have my life mapped, I’ll happily shuffle off this planet aged 62 jam packed years.  I fear not the God part, but queuing displeases me, it’s a rather onerous task.


The Jelly Beans counted

children at party games

reminisce about yesterdays play

the tightwad husbands

play drinky poos with Beer

whilst their wives dish food up.


A lizard scurries across the ceiling,

I’m stuck in a hotel room

in Singapore, the rain relentless

the monsoons bucketing down

and flooding a pool so inviting

it’s a sacrilege no one is out.


I made a pact with God once, if I should be considered worthy I’ll pass on the 62 years and go for 70 ish, just so I can see children blossom, their lives mapped by happenstance and planning, their mother ripe and healthy at that age too, to see all I need to see.  The get out clause at 62 suggests I have options.  Plus I still have a novel to write, and a few children’s stories to invent.


Jimmy Rasmussen at number 42

(yes the key to Life)

plays with Sandy from 18

their games Doctors and Nurses

their belief that one day they will

most assuredly be Married

and having babies of their own,

all this at 9 years old, such revelations.


The displaced children of Mumbai

chase tourists for a rupee or two

money they find so hard to earn

in a country where outcastes

is the norm.


Yes, 49/62nds down that road.  I look back in wonder, how 49 years have slipped past.  I’m eagerly awaiting 50, is that possible?  At my age I should be counting back.  I did once, when I was manic, thought I was 24 when in fact I was 42, yeah, dyslexia. Not to mention dysrhythmia!  Today, I melted in a bucket of snow and became a circumspect cluster of non reality.


Heavens Lovely Creatures


We see all around us

the depictions of angels

and devils in red wings


we touch our reality

with paintings of the great masters

statues too, solidified


we smile when a child

the size of a small dog

is blessed with Holy Water


we live our lives

touched by Christianity

yet some are not


some (well a lot really)

bide their time with no images

scamper from place to place


searching for monetary wealth

the next four wheel drive

a house on Hopping Hill


searching for the next big paycheck

the house full of gadgets

material wealth over hope


some lead lives in the gutter

clutching a weather torn Bible

with no way of reading it


some scrape for pennies

food from a waste bin outside Subways

live lives unsullied by life


some, like little babes

clutch at new understanding

whilst many others chase the old


today is Sunday

God’s day of rest

dare we rest too?


Dark Humour


Riddle me one

the sky and the sun

the answer being



Riddle me two

the foot and the shoe

the answer does be

a poo


Riddle me three

to dog and the tree

the answer of course

to pee


Riddle me four

the wall and the door

the answer for now

the floor


Riddle me five

the jitterbug and the jive

the answer my friends

being alive


Riddle me six

the ball and the sticks

the answer kind people

a quick fix


Riddle me seven

Downunder and Heaven

the answer true friends

is Riddle me eleven.


Riddle me eight

the fence and the gate

an answer to this

we’re always late.


Riddle me nine

Messer’s Calvin and Klein

the answer good buddies

a piece quite fine


Riddle me ten

let us do it over again

the answer dear comrades

elevens a pain.


The Rafter Series 5




Dressed as a nun

the mind of a sailor

collective melodies

eschew from a mouth

long lost in love.




Errata, what is that word?

I’d Google,

but my mind likes the role play

of ignorance and mystery.




Kids kick a ball

adults watch from the safety

of socializing

a game for both

lost in the annuls

of disregard

and not knowing.




Police cars convert

the Nunnery

under attack

from godless heathens

the Goths

dark eye make up

and bovver boots

dressed uniformly

in black, piercings.




Arthur beat Ira

at pavement chess

the English King

versus the Jewish demagogue

the pavement coated in sweat,

pawns in the game of life.

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