Posted in Antarctica


The director was retiring
after a long almost benign dictatorship
not before time murmured closed palms.
His had been an old-fashioned reign.
he was a man’s man
and to him this was a man’s place
It often wore the air of a fraternity house
the order was changing, this he knew, but his resistance did not.

Women had been a reluctant addition a few years prior
for summer only
permission with a smirk
good for decoration
and hunting.
Now career’s long flight was landing
to succession
or legacy ?

Two decades of insignificant worthiness
solid and unspectacular
a heavy volume
holding open the door
permitting memory to escape.
One last hand. Immortality trumps prejudice.

A quickly written paperback
light and enlightened
might turn bestseller and acclaimed film
The polar winter about to fall
a woman added to the cast
his name in sharp focus
leading the dress march of credits.

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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