Posted in Death


The funeral is two decades gone now
fragments of memory when hope was still rising
and waistlines could wear denim.
When everything was possible . . . no probable.

His life finished as his 20’s began
so much must have remained unvisited.
Did he know love
or only a dark corner and tangle of the back seat?

The world was the country of birth
not for him anticipation of the departure lounge
and long flight over empty ocean
no running with the bulls or Munich beer.

Or slow ragged march home
camping at friends or parents on return
shaking off memories of abandonment
folding youth away
pulling on the sober clothes of career.

We were the same age
almost the same letter
each school year began with rigid alphabetic proximity.
On the day age 40 arrived – a lone circling thought
he had been dead as many years as alive.

He didn’t see phones become clever
never knew flat screens and high-definition
or redundancy
or divorce.

For the back story click Backstage
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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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