Posted in Death


She had the most beautiful hair
a distinctive mark of unassisted perfection
blonde meets prairie wheat gold
an exquisite tiara atop
a dowdy scowling Queen Victoria.
Nicotine rasped features
barbed wire tongue
and quick sand humour completed the disillusion.

I was at the outer edge of youth
still not completely shaped
still a little unworldly
a hand that couldn’t quite reach to
someone thwarting obvious classification.
A neighbourhood cat crossing neutral territory
uncertain whether to exhibit trust – or suspicion.

One morning as Christmas looms
an unexpected fruit tart
for me.
thoughts locked in the traffic jam of the season
fail to recognize the bypass through gridlock
and decline with crushing indifference
her generosity of spirit a hand slapped away.
A mistake not realized until too late
never given the opportunity for redemption.

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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.