Posted in Unexpected

Pot Luck

Truth is shy announcing errors of self
more so when the mistake is not out loud.
Instinct had made one or two bad calls
ascribing awful as good and worthy as useless.
Still it was a pretty good forecaster
reliably predicting the weather of personality
always hedged against the dark side
building stopbanks to the flood of letdown.

With Robyn intuition met its match
database soundings indicated fraud
rodent cunning packaged in naiveté
ribboned with innocence.
Frustration yearned to trap
and expose subterfuge.

Resolution can have the most unlikely origin.
She had seen a photo of marijuana
and thought it a beautiful plant
one that would look good in her garden
a friend of her daughter offered seeds
“would the police mind? – it’s only for display.”
Innocence one. Intuition nil.



Most of my life has been spent on the bench, occasionally called into the game by extravagance or attenuation. Waiting has turned a loner into a recorder - nondescript and inconsequential, more not noticed than overlooked - the non-vantage point of children not yet considered old enough to understand. Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry is a lifetime of picking anecdotes up and not throwing them away. Stories collected like odds and ends placed in a box in the basement, the garage, the garden shed - uncertain as to what their use might be but knowing that one day there might be one.