Posted in Greatest Hits


1960’s New Zealand – plump and complacent
independent in name
colonial by inclination
public holidays for visits by the sovereign
‘God Save the Queen’ played before any occasion
and performance – stage or celluloid.

The provinces reflected the cities
the cities mirrored the provinces
Placid, judgemental rhythms of certainty
trivia the conversation staple
the awkward avoided
or spoken in code – if not able to be.

In July of last year of the decade
Apollo 11
Neil Armstrong and one giant leap
satellite television yet to beam on lonely islands
on the radio
audio streaming I suppose.

It was the story of the year
and displaced one more sensational
heard immediately before
the thundering echo of Cape Canaveral.

A loose collective of cyclists
yet to know double-digits by age
pedalled to school
swapping stories of weekend sport
and weekday television.

One morning a tale incredible and unlikely
one of our number has seen his parents
“kissing… the nude.”

For the back 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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