The Writing of Thane Zander
Philosophical Poetry Page One
The Hawg Series
General Poetry Six
General Poetry Seven
General Poetry Eight
General Poetry Nine
General Poetry Ten
General Poetry Eleven
General Poetry Twelve
General Poetry Thirteen
General Poetry Fourteen
General Poetry Fifteen
General Poetry Sixteen
General Poetry Seventeen
General Poetry Eighteen
General Poetry Nineteen
General Poetry Twenty
General Poetry Twenty One
General Poetry Twenty Two
General Poetry Twenty Three

Poetry of a philosophical nature 

A Moment of Reflection

I caught the look,

spied that which I haven't seen

for so long it seems


A moment of steely clarity

crispness of thought

the face looking back?


Who is it,

can it be me?

Why haven't I seen my imposing reality?


And then,

with a flick of the wrist

the hot tap running turns the reflection to mist.


Man, the Jellyfish

Swimming on the currents of time,
in shallows and deepish waters,
long tenticular arms and shortish ones too
reach out from the body and touch
whatever floats by.

Man'o'war, poisonous and a killer
like some men, long reach
but relies evermore on the tidal flow
only one place to go
but many things to kill and maim
yet a Jellyfish, just the same.

Little Bluebottle washed up on the beach
with a purpose so hard to gain
yet it reaches its victims when contact made
even in death, it can injure
and leave one short of breath.

Man, the Jellyfish, works the same errant way
floating on the currents, the body behaves
as if it is pushed along, the throng a mass,
and send tendrils of touch into the oceans depths
and caress all creatures, in some strange way.

One day, a beached jellyfish will no longer
affect those that should be stronger yet
it will happen, happenstance says,
Jellyfish though, acts without cares.


Soliloquy in C Minor

Ever had a poem in your head,
a song in the making
can't get it out
so frustrated
you bang the piano lid
down so hard it makes the wrong key
and you abandon
your soliloquy?



Green jungle
thirty years on
trees all gone
blown sand and bones
in a desert
so far from home.

Birds in the Bush
no longer sing
a happy song
Baghdad cuisine
rats and dogs
and the dying never stops
till the boys come home.

A Desert storm blows
only acrid dust
in the minds of fools
Policy demented
rocks in the head,
terrain fought and died
for nothing but a whim.

Organised terror
breeds disorganised chaos
who suffers most
not the suits
or the suffering
no, johnny citizen
and hard fought kids in
fatigues, fatigued.

Power moves
power dies
a new Vietnam
widows cry
thousands, millions
change their mind
the west sees, but is blind.


Sands of time

Camelot lays blowing,
in sands so scattered,
time spreads it's burgeoning wings,
wraps a legend in it's warm cloak
as if Arthur never spoke.

Swords of long since knights
ring on in masked memory
and tales of repeated lore,
yet rusted relics unearthed
speak a different tale.

The air of uncertainty
is mixed with the portents
of wizardry and truth,
yet it is said Merlin was eternal,
so where be he now?

A legend is a title of something.
What evokes The Tale Of Arthur,
truth or fantasy or a little of each?
The only certainty we have is sand
on a beach, and fanciful speech.

Watch concrete towers
mould, take shape and climb
mixed with portions of sand,
from that time gone by,
recreate that which was once made.


Bad Habits

Rosary beads clicked,
one, two, three, four, five
and boy childs made
a calculated dive 'neath the pews
as the Black cassock of belief
wandered by,

The type clicked into place
letter, epistle, epostle,
bearer of news
of little laddies constantly abused
for many years and mournful
tears of mothers reading the press,
God Bless.

And the Frocks hang
testament to times
when crimes were dealt with
in the Confessional,
no one clicked for ages
yet now it is professional
recourse to unseat the horse.

Click, click go the beads of sweat
in the Vatican where a Pope
measures out the hopes of change
and the dealings with the Boy Lovers
are hidden away
for another day
and still the crime rolls on.

That was some time ago now,
belief has been reinstalled
and Cassock lifters defrocked
humiliated for their habits
and turned into gaols
with males who like them,
basic instincts reversed!

Justice is in the hand of
the True power,
The power that reigns supreme,
in Humanity, and in God,
how odd!


Reap What Thoust Doth Sow.

Kauri, ancient, straight, elegant,
denizen of deep forest green,
hewn for furniture and
the pleasure of a room,
oft seen.

Pine, tall, youthful, stark,
ubiquitous in parkland surround,
dropping needles, sharp,
carpeting once green and
healthy ground, dead!

Man, miller, grower, hewer,
wise old trees, extinction!
replaced by things so ugly,
to feed desires and ease,
shun palatial distinction.

Homo Sapien screwing Mother Nature,
repeatedly, shafting her
with the sword she helped make,
when and how does she exact revenge
on the alien invader?


Kings of War

The figures stroll around about
the swirling desert storm
children in Baghdad
struggle hard to keep so warm,
The baby in the bombed out hospital
cries another breath
that reeks of the others about
who suffer till their death.

Make way for the Kings of War
they're from the States
kick in your door
and what are they really
looking for
another medal to hang.

See the Shi'ites and the Kurds
flexing muscle everywhere,
see the other minor tribes
running away in fear,
see the mess they make as they roll in
and try to claim control,
of the man the hunt,
the f*cking c**t
lays low in his foxhole.
Make way for the Kings of War
they're from a dream
kick in your door
and hear you scream
looking for another medal
to Clean.

On Tv sets throughout the homes
of those in the Land of the Free,
shouts of encouragement,
another killing spree,
make a coffee darling, make it quick
the war is coming on,
Oh look it there,
another dares,
the usless little prick.

Make way for the Kings of War
they're neighbours and your friends
kick in your door
just to see where this will end
looking for another shiny medal
for them to suspend.

And in the midst of this sham,
King George does hang
his head between his knees,
never once considering those that he
has obviously displeased,
his power grows,
heaven knows
through the tv set,
And ten years time the homeless
will be your Iraqi War Vet.

Make way for the Kings of War
they're from the States
kick in your door
and see if it really grates,
looking for another medal
to hang from chest beaten down


If I were a Muslim fundamentalist

If I was a muslim baddie
I wouldn't write a song
about all the rights
and all the fucking wrongs
I'd read a good book
on how to build a bomb
and send american wankers
into an eternal tomb.

If I was a muslim baddie
I wouldn't do a thing
to hurt my fellow muslim
I like the way they sing
but when I see that flag
my anger hits a peak
I'd kill a few americans
rather than try and speak.

If I was a Muslim terrorist
I'd kill for god and man
I'd make my point with violence
supposedly Allah's plan
I'd revolt against capitalism
that is born out of the west
and terrorise the fuckers
that's what I do best.

But I am not a muslim at all
I am a citizen of the free
I'd protest my protestions
and do it with absolute glee
I see why they hate us so
and like not what I observe
no wonder the muslim arabs
try to give us free the serve.

Live for the moment, and the future
unbury your head from the sand
fight for equality and fairness
in every foreign land
empower the people to glory
in their own solid beliefs
and all to soon terrorism
will be history, albeit brief.


Saw an Image on a TV screen.

Saw a bomb blast on the TV screen,

Seemed to be another bad dream,

The victims dead, eyes unseeing

and I cried for their mothers.


See the Bush man shout more heated spam

See his aides standing by stuffing clams

And another musician in a tirade jams

and thinks to himself "Oh brother".


But the babes in arms

who hide their charms

in the innocence of life

and the berated wife

turns off the set

and the husband gets irate!


See the screen blink back on,

and another life is soon gone

and the F1 drops another bomb,

and the soldier cries for his mother.


See the smoke rise on CNN

and the helter skelter begins again

and the dead were once all fine men

and they're sons of their father.


Wake up, world

the place is spoiled

the dying goes ever on

babies dead, dusty tomb

mothers cry, sons are lost

what is the paydirt, the cost

too much.


And the TV flickers, and suddenly dies

poor old man sits and wonders why

why there is so much death to buy,

and he dreams of his fellows.

In the end he dies with all of them

and the whole darn thing starts again

and boys are boys and men are men

and daughters grow up to be mothers.


The Army of None

They line up for miles, farfetched,

miles and miles they onwardly stretch,

and as is the case with the rule of thumb,

The army is just this, an Army of None.


The killing fields are barren and succinctly bare,

as if their was never anyone there,

The blood spilt was never done,

such is the legacy of the Army of None.


The tanks roll to a dying beat,

infantry march on silent feet,

artillery send over lifeless bombs,

The Army of None fills empty tombs.


As newshounds report the war in progress,

they find it hard to report, and digress

into areas barren, no sight of anyone,

except for the regimented Army of None.


City mourns hanged Priest

The sight was grotesque,
Victorian even.

Parisheners flocked to St Mary's
sermon given hanging in the air.

A Doctor wanders through,
I can save him, I think.

Then reality sinks in, Gods' chosen
suspended above the pulpit.

A woman and child cry relentlessly
their loss evident for all.

The suicide note reads I love you,
and my choir boys.

The city spews forth it's disgust
and cleans up the mess, as usual.


Cerebral Hemorrhage

Metamorphosis of thought,
a larvae idea
blooms into painted butterfly.

Bleeds incessantly on a canvas.

Psychosis rules the unruly,
melts metaphors in blue,
depression numbs the hue.

Scatters splotches to the wind.

Psychiatric examination
by an expert, book trained,
really has no ideas.

Sprays words with meanings to one who don't give a damn!

Dogs bark at the insane,
recognition amongst the species,
except the maniacs dont crap everywhere.

Faeces colours a brown and dark easel.

Paedophilia prostitutes ply their trade,
on plans their daddies made,
and mothers just watch and cry.

Sperm whales blow old air, women just blow.

Dementia runs in families
so it can get faster and faster,
until it explodes in cataclysmic chaos.

The picture crashes and burns here, as if a cerebral hemorhage ensued.


Revolution Blues

There's a revolution going on,

and the kids are singing songs,

while their parents follow the dictator,

who is cleverly dropping bombs,

and the bluesman wanfully plays

on tracks about faraway days

as a brand new Revolution rocks on.


To the peace we all seek

comes a voice that learns to speak

to the roar of those that know

is the sound that will grow

and the signs of the times change

as people rearrange

and the daring Revolution rocks on.


See a train carry wounded soldiers

hear an earthquake move large boulders

and the square they call Times

echos to protest chimes,

we the guardians, call to arms

and display our mighty charms

and the Revolution Blues sing out loud.


Hold your partner in your arms

and wonder at her awesome charms

and think the peace will one day

come along our way,

maybe children will all grow and wonder at the show

of the Revolution Rockers rocking on.


Hide behind the matrix of mind

hide too long, get left behind

make a stand that will last

and make sure that it's a blast

open up your trembling heart,

tear away that aching part

and climb aboard the snowballing Revolution Rock.


May we rock into eternity

do it with all sincerity

love each other for humanity yet to come,

hear the sound that starts to roar,

shuffling feet upon the floor

and the Revolution rocks to a new drum.


What price freedom?

Moses, that venerated Israelite,
opened a watery esplanade,
dogs walk ahead,
defacating and urinating
in the path of the followers,

what price freedom?

Thousands of years later
men stand and throw insults,
bombs and death,
dogs walk ahead from both sides,
shit mingles in the confusion,

Yes! the price is high.


Whats in a name?

Osama Bin Laden,
Saddam Hussein,
such nomenclature
easy off the tongue,
illicit in texture, take heed
God speed their demise
as a new twilight dawns,
civilisation survives.

Nostradamus missed here, folks
spoke nothing of them.

George Bush,
Tony Blair,
such poetical rhymes
and men of the times,
perspiration for those that care,
when these two dare
to save the universe,
watch out for their smiles!!

God failed to warn
of capitalism, the money locust.

Jennifer Lopez,
Ben Affleck,
real people in fantasyland,
Mickey does Minnie,
hands her a bouquet,
ears prick, tongues wag,
people pray loudly and long
to the TV hag.

Einstein created relativity,
yet couldn't see the distance ahead.


Metal Mickey

Hey little palestinian kid,

I am the Yiddish Tank sent to kill

your mum and dad and older brothers,

get off the road, I will squash you now

if not later when a weapon you yield,

yes I am the tank, from great uncle Yank

My guns are no match for your game of throw and catch

so stand aside, before you are the bride

at another palestinian burial, Yassar might cry

I rumble on into your town and drown

in a hail of bullets, the hope that you all hold

behold I am the Mighty Israel, slaughterer of you

so lay down your stones and step aside

as I roll on in and do my duty for Judaism.

No you can't kill me, boy,

I am bigger than you ever will be.


A Young Lust

Hey Israel, blood lust murderers of hope,

I am eight, and since my inception

I have been trained to hate your very existence

not because you are existing here

but you rub out ours, I am against you

all the way, and to my dying day, no matter how soon

I will throw you back with whatever it takes,

I will defend my freedoms, no matter how trivial

I will defend my lands, no matter how barren

I will defend my people, no matter how impoverished,

yes you made them all that way,

trivial, barren, and impoverished

but I live with hope, even at eight years old,

the hope you will go away and leave us alone,

and when that happens, we will leave you alone

and we will have no need to fight,

for we will have what we have

and you will have yours,

So Israel, I say begone!! or shoot me too

if I fight now, or later, I will always fight

until you have no choice but to kill me

or live beside me.


Telegram - Bush to Sharon

Ariel STOP
Money on its way COMMA
Missiles too COMMA


Wrong address COMMA
You Idiot STOP!!


Dark Side of the World or is the Earth flat?

I woke up this morning,
alarm clock ringing - nine a.m,
lifted the blinds,
it was still dark outside,
turned on the radio, talkback
and everyone was crying,
the world had stopped.

Looked in the mirror, I was still the same!

Lived on the Dark Side of the World now
wondered if brightside pioneers were curious
as to how we lived over here,
smiled laconically to myself,
a darky, like half the population
or would they move daily to equalise?

I lit a smoke, and shone for a minute.

People no longer called their kids Sunny,
or punched arms and said "hey there Sunshine"
no, we just wonder if the earth was flat out dying
and called ourselves darkies anyway,
I met a brightside on honeymoon,
he was amazed!

Electricity charges are higher now and there are always
two moons on the highway coming at you.

Skin cancer rates are down,
hospitals full of those with eye problems,
birth rates are up, bed time all the time,
yet we don't miss the sun excepting
for all the dead trees and plants, and yes
we have to import food from Brightside,
they don't mind, they understand.

The world stopped, yet life went on.

Did I tell you about the weather?
Next time maybe.


Spilt porridge on an earthen table

How to cut short,

a long weekend,

ended in Serendipity,

someplace I haven't yet discovered.


Burnt holes in taffeta,

see the world turn through

the fine membrane of thread,

make pasta with chinese tools.


Laughter rings out

but can't make a phone tinkle

the bell is brass, but only chimes

when someone adds a clock.


Fred Astaire mimics

Albert Einstein's discovery

holds Grace Kelly in the air and sings

E=mc2 to eminem on CD.


Concorde scorches air atoms,

both do their time,

waitress on a supersonic

thrusts harder in bed, Mach II.


And in the end everyone

admires James K Baxter,

Bethlehem home of two kiwi messiahs

nobody fucking reads anymore.


Pyramids and Originality

What makes you think,
and sink your teeth into the mire
of everyday shit,
What burns your desire to make up such stuff,
and get rough and pull the hoards through the
endless cesspits and board?.

Long words are engaging but send
others raging past the meaning
and into endless dreaming of
simpler things,
sweet life,
Bloody wits.

But you open your eyes, when
the words die and the poster
becomes one with the machine,
and buses drive by,
when you wait by the Y
and the small girl begins to scream.

Once you recover, your
hard earned composure and
start to believe in life itself,
you steer the car to the
right too far and swerve of the end of
your own self.

My daughter wakes up beside me
in terrible fright
and screams out the thing
that scares her to death,
with scintillating breath,
she disposes its sight and returns peacefully

To sleep, under my wing.

So what do I say and

why do I say

And how do you take my meaning,
I don't give a damn for I am the
man who wrote this original prose,
and up your nose if you think it is crap,
but it certainly aint RAP.

I see the Pyramid, standing alone
in the desert under Egyptian
sunrise, and sunset,
and would I not give a shilling or
two, you'd bet to see the smile
on everyone's face when we all
become a disgrace, to Roger.

But the day will come when long words have won
and simplicity dies of it's own
and the graveyard Thesaurus
echoes the chorus of the lecturers
of English past done,
and politicians become musicians
and Dave G becomes Pink and the whole PF thing
blows up in the stink of humanity
shot by its own gun.

So stuff all the sinners, and dirty do gooders
and peace to the hereditary slayers,
bugger all the original TV evangelists
and posters of shite,
and posters of good too,
'cause I'm challenging you.
To be original.

Break all the conventions, regularity
don't make sense, and head in a
completely new direction,
and leave both hands for the keyboard and one
for your head and not that building erection.


Is the Light going out?

She crawls out from the pulpit and
heads away from the vestibule,
and carries her burden on,
her ol' grey mule,
she runs for the darkness that seeps
and the ol' grey mule proclaims distress with
a shout,
and she asks to her God,
is the light going out?

Along streets littered with meters and lines,
she runs headlong into darkness,
where it once was fine,
and the ol' grey mule still carries it's burden
past cables and buildings,
housing componentry,
without a doubt,
and she looks to the heavens,
are the lights going out.

A bus with no lights on pulls up to the kerb,
and the hairy black driver,
passes her the herb,
but the ol' grey mule comes a-running,
with obvious delight,
and rushes into the bus,
as dark as night,
and she takes a deep drag and exhales with a pout,
looks to the sky with eyes closed tight,
hey God, are my lights going out.

She follows her carrier, of messages forlorn,
clambers on to the bus and plays with
her drivers horn,
and the behemoth takes off,
on its mindless flight
as the driver calls to no one,
I am Jesus, no doubt,
and she asks the dumb mule,
are my lights going out.

The darkened vehicle arrives at no place,
in particular,
she exits with Mule,
from the object vehicular,
and climbs the steep steps,
from which she escaped last night,
enters her house,
no one is about,
then she turns on the switch,
but her lights have gone out.

The mule is disgusted at last with his load,
and shits in the corner,
next to the cammode,
she turns on her computer,
to check out the sites,
and to see if her mail
was delivered last night,
and the megabytes roar across Fibre Optic Cable
from within and without,
then the fucking thing explodes,
and puts her lights out.

The mule is amused at the sudden demise,
of the bitch in the corner,
and her dark dark eyes,
then he shuffles his burden on to the floor,
and rubs defecation into pulsating sores,
but why is it that he delights
at the human's sad plight,
what you ask, is it all about,
who is the arse hole making
all the lights go out.


Plagiarism = Deja Vu = BarkingDogFox

The street peddler pedals his soul,
to all that care and don't,
with microphone and mini-amp he drones on
without staring his sheep in the face,
nor caring for who he converts or not,
I walk by and pity him, but for what?

The space between me and him grows,
for I know that I shan't preach,
nor waste shallow speech, on him nor his type,
for I keep myself to myself and
ride off on my bike, and converse with only my ilk.

But comes to pass when man can no longer, feel
weak when he knows he is stronger,
as jaded posturing street preacher,
spreads his makers words and not his to be heard,
in a site designed for free thought.

Bow down, bushy tailed one, look in the mirror,
what do you see that is such a horror,
yourself amplified in shards of light
blanketed by dark,
for your mind is clouded and interminably shrouded,
by someone who's not you. Oh Bark!

So you plagiarise to make your name,
where we free thinkers,
some good, some stinkers,
express our deepest, darkest, lightest,
prose for us and those,
who wish to share our minds and waters.

Well, Roger has spoken to us and for us
and the choking hoards who appreciate free
so expression is the recession, clouding your
mind, I ask you, implore to leave Gods works behind,
when you make your mark in this thread.

Psalming is calming, for you and your kith,
myth or legend for what, do I wonder,
as history says, that man shall not plunder
the riches of the mind but
seek to search for the sake of mankind,
the answers to questions not written.

Oh BarkingDogFox,
take your hand off your eyes, and see why we despise the darkness that lies within,
with your hands removed you can touch other books
and have a good look at others interpretation,
give your mind-eyes new sensations,
and marvel at what YOU can produce!


The Passenger

I am the passenger,

travelling the cyber lanes,
I am the miff,
the biff, the poster,
of personal creation,
creator of sensation,
I am the passenger.

I feel the breeze,

of megabytes and disease,
cruising the net,
faster than a jet,
flying the miles,
in awkward styles,
I am the Passenger.

I am free, to say

and think how I please,
to bring governments
to their knees,
be hackneyed and old,
and presumptuously bold,
I am the Passenger.

I feed the boards,

and talk to the hoards,
I don't pray,
Just write and say,
what I feel is mine,
like mouldy old wine,
I am the Passenger.

I have the power,

to kill and save,
and dig the grave,
of my absolution,
stamp out pollution
the final solution,
I am the passenger,
I ride.

My message streaks boundaries,

fuels foundries,
lights the fires
and peoples desires
creates conflict
and intellect,

artistic expression
and makes impressions,
I am the Passenger.

And one sad day,

when I leave the fray,
my connection broken
and words unspoken,
the worldly patience
exhausted in nations,
as the Passenger,
detrains at God's station,
I was the Passenger.
And I loved it


The Dozen Doyen of Doom

The TV in the corner of the empty rotten room,
plays a rerun of the show,
the one where no one goes,
And the door suddenly welcomes in the Dozen Doyen of Doom,
To enter in the space,
and to challenge the human race.

But the wastrels and the wankers, and wasted bloody critics,
have killed off all the life,
and created merry strife,
so the Prophet of new order calls them his aimless heretics,
and proposes a new course,
in human mind and life force.

To the sounds of trumpets blowing and banners held up high,
they settle into action,
no one giving them compassion,
And the makers of life's misery never asked to question why,
that the world without love,
is the place that's had enough.

The Dozen Doyen of Doom are called to fight the mighty cause,
and to change the way we think,
to climb out from the sink,
Then bit by bit the world is caught and to rapturous applause,
the disciples of the prophet,
start to engineer an impact.

The World is brought to action and made to change the way,
Love thy fellow man,
create a brand new plan,
Survival of the fittest, and atonement of olden days,
disregard life's fake pleasures,
In favour for human treasures.

And bit by bit the world is brought to make the change,
by the prophet in the room,
and the Dozen Doyen of Doom,
and the heretics and critics are vanquished out of range,
from the course of true peace,
with only love out on the streets.

And a man upon a stage with a bass in hand and some rope,
performs for the throng,
and belts out poignant songs,
and his message to his fans, and fellow man is hope,
put your thoughts way up to zoom
watch the Dozen Doyen of Doom.


Life is humanly possible.

Might, black as coal,
seeps into my tiny wee hole
and blasts the light of my pathetic existence
from society
Oh, where's my dogged resistance?

Peace, lonely as always,
gnaws at me in crowded dank hallways
and spreads it's wings round my kith and my kin,
my friends too,
Please, do I relinquish my sin?

Truth, I vainly seek,
in the Internet, out on the street,
where scoundrels and mongrels attack me with lies,
bereft is my soul,
How do my memories cry?

Envy, the mother of evil,
is on my shoulder seeking my peril,
as it readies to pounce on my slightest digression,
from the path of life
Do I submit to confession?

Faith, the strongest of ties,
is knotted to all until all dies,
and it's bond grows stronger the older I survive,
down the passing years,
Must I lose my drive?

Hate, the bringer of war,
stands proud by the door,
and invites me to action, my own dissatisfaction,
I shall not be caught,
Do I seek retroaction?

Love, the hardest of all,
to reach for and have, and give at the stall,
from all who surround me and give me their trust,
for their hearts of compassion,
Or is it shadowed as Lust?

Me, the one who rides,
which trait do I decide,
is the better option to take on as a responsible human,
to take one or all,
Or do I live and die, my feelings consuming.

My interpretations on the themes of human emotion.


Reaching out for.......?

Depression, in the pit of the soul, leaves a dark empty space

A hole,

Somewhere to creep, when your mood swings deep,

To hide

From the loneliness all around, pressing from outside.


The animal within, seeking a place from sin,

A church,

Somewhere to lurch, and to pray, is God within?


From what, to answer questions you haven't yet formed.


Sorrow for something lost, never gained, misery,


The feeling that depression is the extension of unglory,

The failures

Reaching out to hammer your victories to the tombstone.


Abasement as you cower down from the strong,


Your last cry as you think of death, removal from the throng,


Life and its complexities, without full grasp of the full truth.


Your mind warping at the information that bulges the world,

And assails

The thought processes, and clear thought clouded and spoiled,


Harder to reach, as you lie on the beach searching for God above.


A hand appears on your shoulder and offers you comfort and

Warm hope

As you lay with your feelings on the wet cold sand,

And strength

Envelopes your soul and being, coursing through your veins as love.


Depression, swims out of the deep, deep hole, to be replaced

By light,

Searing, awakening your hopes again, multiplying apace,

As your heart

Races for the need to keep yourself on the planet another day.


Are you done? Do you matter? Have you responsibility?

Reach for eternity,

And seek to pass on your newfound hope and love, your ability

To encompass

Others, as others have offered you the olive branch and the white dove of love.


Wrestling with your own Indecision's!


Can you make them take notice

Of your personal thoughts?

Can you change the world

And its terrible wrought?

Can you make a difference while you sit on your arse?


Is it too damned difficult?

Is it too much to ask?

Is the dream out of reach as you stammer your words?

Are the lost souls too lost?

Are you misunderstood?

Can you save all the trees? Do you think you should?


Have you dallied your time

In the interest of you?

Have you failed to match

The task set for the few?

Did you wake up one morning feeling utterly ashamed?

Is the world in trouble?

Has it nearly burst the bubble?


And have you sat back and noted your erudite phrases?

Is it too late to save it?

Are you ready for the grave yet?

Are you making a difference when youre stuck inside?

Do you sit at home wondering

If youve done nothing yet?


Do you put your dog down

When you visit the vet?

Have you spread your desire for a whole reawakening?

Have you opened your eyes?

Have you heeded the cries?

And are the free of this world willing to cede?


Is the power in force?

Are we still on course?

Can we redress the balance, and achieve the aim?

Do you frighten yourself

When you wake up in bed?

Do you pinch your cheek

To ensure youre not dead?


Will you make a commitment for the life of this planet?

Can you not drive your car?

Will you eat lettuce at the bar?

Will you pass on the word of enlightenment and hope?

Are you prepared for the game?

Can you remove their shame?


Do you raise merry hell, and tell all "the world is not well"?

Do you promote for mankind

The need for abortion?

Can you educate the populace

That were all out of proportion?


Is it too much to ask for your fellow mans help?

Can he give to the poor?

Are you keeping a score?

Why did you not hasten your throwaway life?

Did you hug your children?

Do you still love your wife?


Are you ridiculed daily for your sincerity and pain?

And do you push forward daily

Your message of love?

Do they then decry you

And spit from above?


Can they ever change the way that they live?

Do you continue the fight?

Can you see the light?

Are the questions too difficult and complex for this earth?


Has the battle been lost?

Is the worth not the cost?

Are we ready for the consequences of our ignorance tomorrow?

Why are we turning around?

What is the answer youve found?

How do we reclaim the ground?

Is this poem too damned profound?


When the child within, screams!

In the middle of the night

when you wake up with a fright,

And the childs screams delay your frightening dreams

Do listen with your ears shut?

When the scream begins to cut

across the conscience of your hopelessness next door.


Can you shake away the worry?

When you later feel so sorry,

That your only fatal crime was your time,

When the pathologists excuse

Is neglect and child abuse

Do you hold your aching head and cry your dread?


So sadly your wonder child,

Floats off out in the wild,

A thing your crazed mind has left behind,

Do you cry for your lost baby?

And think that one day, maybe,

Shell come back to your love cause youre so pure.


How can you wrestle to control,

Your utterly twisted soul,

With the horror of the guilt that you have built,

Will you suddenly one day realise,

That your baby no longer cries,

in the calamity of your newfound insanity.


Awakening your flagging spirit,

The judge said you didnt do it,

It was it seems, a cruel and twisted dream,

Do you sit up with a start,

Is that pounding just your heart,

Is the haze in your eyes that of the crazed.


Does your partner lie there sleeping

In the room that youve been keeping

In the hope maybe, that one day therell be a baby,

Is it them you really killed

Is your conscience feeling chilled

Why are you capable of thoughts so damned insufferable?


But as you replay the wretched dream,

And that lingering moanful scream,

Do you see your bright hopes falling flat on the ropes?

Does your good friend schizophrenia

And his buddy paranoia

bury your soul deeper into its spreading hole.


Watched Bob Dylan fool the world

Yeah, alright, great!!
Harmonies of a crooner, Lay Lady Lay,
and the bard plays on, guitar out of tune
and a voice that sounds like the moon,
patrons nod appreciatively,
recognising intermission.

I sip another pint, fifteenth since he started,
the sound reflects a herringbone shed
in full methane production,
the cowpats thrown out in disarray,
sprayed to a cement floor and lost,
washed away in another sip of beer.

I heard Jokerman, and the tune stuck,
reflected my own life, finally words I see,
his staccato crack eminates philosophy,
and my heraldic brainwaves hold the shield
of understanding high in my synapses,
yet one look and the vision is tossed asunder.

I walk home, Bob far behind, as are his songs,
I make up tunes and verses weaving along
and songs leap to my mind, lost though
in the clatter of other drunks falling over
trash cans left out for the trucks to empty.

Sometimes, I fool myself I am good,
not often though, the pictures of Jimi,
Bob, and other hasbeen rockers and crooners
stare back at me from my wall and glue me to
a chair that has seen bouts of crying and hopelessness.


Dead Certainties

Who knows non-life
a.k.a. the end of the known?
A day when thinking ceases
a thought disappears,
rationales bury with a cold corpse.

Sanity for those who remain
is bent, coming to terms with passing,
wonder, juxtaposed with fear.

The Maidment Theatre plays
Death of a Salesman
and other morbid double features,
the crowd applaud.

Sometimes, just sometimes
a body comes back and speaks
of tunnels and white lights,
a benevolent God.


A preacher calls the last rites
on a corpse in waiting,
understanding lost in fear, maybe
yet the look on the face speaks otherwise.

They spread ashes to the wind
and thoughts fly of a friend
passing into another realm,
yet flecks stick to clothing,
friend for life, 'til the next wash.

Life is a cycle,the worth
measured by the suds count.

Next time you read this;
maybe there will be no next time.


Flight of Humanity

Seven thousand feet above the ground,
humanity, States bound,
flies under the heaven,
silver bird, seven four seven.
All tucked in
very long flight,
humanity soars on an endless night.

The preacher stirs in his seat up front,
drunken git, pulls a stunt,
in the toilet,
did they feel it,
smoke roils out, alarms go off,
Hostess looks in, breathes his hacking cough.

Cholera spreads it's deathly wings,
Celine Dion starts to sing,
Death reaches out
kids start to shout,
Preacher offers Gods hand,
two hundred'll be dead ere they land.

The couple down the back, under blanket,
continue to go at it,
death all around,
she continues, up and down,
Old lady going to see her son,
shoots both heathen, with her gun.

Who's pulling the strings, making the plight,
of the passengers in endless flight,
a deathly trip,
no ones hip,
to the plague that rages,
even the bright and now dead sages.

If a dog wandered the lonely aisles,
and saw the deadly smiles,
would he take a piece to chew,
with nothing else to do,
the plane continues unabated,
God's will is terminally sated.

Is humanity trapped on its mindless mission?
can the change be moderated derision,
some mad smoker,
starting the choker,
killing the innocent
just as God wanted it, will he relent?

The fighters pull up alongside, peer inside,
yellow eyes of the Peoples Army deride,
the unwanted intrusion,
standby, nuclear fusion,
Flight one oh three
goes down in unrecorded history.

United American held to ultimate blame
for torching the flame,
setting the missiles on course,
no fate worse,
than a smoker with a hacking cough,
killing the world, wiping humanity off.

Apologies for formatting, Lotus Wordpro is deficient at at times.
All material this page Copyright of Thane Zander.  Any requests for reproduction to be emailed to me at