Posted in Antarctica


In the second month of spring
Every year for seven years
flight to the cold
heroes and memories. Mistakes and ghosts.

The aircraft – squat and huge
lands on frozen ocean.
at the bottom of the world
order is undemocratic.
Ice makes the rules.

Experienced old hands
saunter to waiting transport.
Newcomers scan the horizon
capturing for the first time
a sight seen many times
the historic peninsula
surrounded on three sides by water
and three dimensions by legend.
To the south the fabled landmark
object of the famous trek to immortality.

History is a subdued bystander
to drinking
to pool playing
to first year university high spirits
to looked away from reality.

Most come for the money and to escape
from cul de sac lives
unhappy apartments
rust belt unemployment.
Each year’s arrival will be the last
each year’s departure the penultimate.

For the story behind a story click Backstage



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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