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Thane Zander
New Zealand

Thane Zander Thane is a 48yo Bipolar sufferer currently living in Feilding in the Manawatu.  He’s been semi retired for 7 years now due to the illness and has taken up poetry to pass the day.
As a result he is a director of a website for poetry, mainly with American Poets on the website Blueline Poetry.  He is co-director of a critique forum, director of the challenges forum, and writes a poem a day in the House of 30 (where a poet has to post a new poem each day for 30).
He has been published extensively in American ezines and had 5 poems selected for an print anthology, The Poet Pub.
Thane is basically a non-conformist shoot from the hip poet and delights in story poems, which get a warm reception at the Blueline website.

Ghost Trails of Silence.

You're aware of the sound,
stand in an empty room,
and one small move echoes,
bit like Cyclops hammering your head.

The room's not carpeted,
or for that matter walls covered,
barren to it's wooden core,
and still Cyclops resounds.

You change to a concrete bunker,
and the sound (if any) is muted beyond belief,
except the earthquake boom of Thor's Warhammer
heavily tapping on the roof.

Cracks appear in sound rooms
as force leads to decay,
been going on that way since before the Christians
boomed their way into others lives.

Christ it was loud!

Now I near my own silence,
when both voice and keyboard no longer sing,
and wonder if Thor, Cyclops,
or Jesus will take my noisy carcass.

Albert Einstein meets Stanley Kubrick for dinner

The dog under the table growled,
a kind of guttural wolf whistle
that echoed boisterously
amongst the gathered throng.

Albert scratched his scrotum
always did when guests came.

The carpet was stained red
from copious tinkling of champagne glasses
full to the brim with Pinot Noir.

The movie on the background TV
was a rerun - A Clockwork Orange,
I wanna be a Lighthouse Keeper
tinkles across the masses gathered
at another pre-eminent dinner group.

There were two empty chairs,
in 1997 there always was two missing
seemed to be the order of the day.

After dinner, Monty Python in all it's regalia
played lampoon games
just to see the resultant quizzical looks
and there were always many, right?

Albert's corpse sat stone still
while Kubrick thought up another massive blockbuster
about dead patrons and barking dogs;
Beethoven’s Ninth played on.

Opus in G, O, and E.

Stage centre

the spot illuminates

a figure - supine

drops rose petals to a stage azure

In the dress circle

a man gropes his girlfriend

in asylum darkness

moves her G major

to the pulse of the orchestral pit

The movement on the podium

switches to E

male swan floats into view

dogs howl in an alley nearby

drowned by violins

and a ladies moan

Pastel pink dashes


across a woodlands scene

the stage fills

with dancers swaying

to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake

the air is orgasm

behind a spotlight

a stage hand sees

the minuet of O Major

in the circle

sends a shard of white hot light

into the closed eyes

thine lovers -

the noise is horrendous now

viola scratching innuendo

the Cello strumming

the Kettle drum pounding out

the movement of a hand

between two parted thighs

dancers swirl white chiffon

cremation of love

burnt offerings of taffeta

to smooth

the passage

of lust.

Was that a dog barking?

or the gasp of an orgasm

cheated from the lead dancer

was it the audience applauding

the stage movement

or the circle climax -

was that a night of the opera

or Swan Lake

garnered with Purple fissures.

Love poetry is written

with a spotlight centred

stage left dress circle

stage right

dying swan

and in the curtain fall


for another night

where entertainment


is garnered.