Posted in Lies


The phone call goes past three hours
into a new day, month and year
the last dark of December
a time of abandonment and resolution.

It was a resolution to abandon – marriage
he told her that night.
They had been ten years by then
a decade
the fault line along which relationships rupture.

Her words shaking and raw
rush from the earpiece
panic stricken rummaging for a lost heirloom
indiscriminate objects hurled from confused drawers
harmless paper and lethal paperweights.

Tears subside into ill-equipped optimism
a lifeboat can be launched.
Just the two of them
shore is some way off ….. but lights are visible.
Paradise can be regained – what are my thoughts?

Irony has its own malice
the listener for hope
speaks her mind
even when people would rather not hear
now she doesn’t. Truth or dare?

Their life together was a series of inadequate practises
reading from the script
not committing the lines.
Dress rehearsal forgives skipped passages
centre stage punishes.
I didn’t dare. It would have been suicidal.



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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