Posted in Unexpected


I heard it first
the sound of a not young
not well car
rust acned
not sufficiently distinguished for restoration
too dilapidated for eBay.

It was the fisherman’s route
the old quarry road
below the cliff’s
a secret known to locals
rutted and vegetated
but good bones – a spine of granite
built for trucks half of a century before
hauling limestone from pockmarked slopes.
History now.

The motel owner told us about it
a couple of years before
after a few of coming each year
said we could get all the way round to the next bay
six hours return by foot.

Ocean + sky + cliffs + Islands
sun steepled
surf arched
cathedral wilderness.
Landscape as God intended.

Pencil thin
scruffy faced
baseball cap backwards
tattooed neck
leans out non pausing window
words travel on a ribbon of smoke
“best view in the world.”



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.

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