Posted in Death


The school playground
hierarchical cool of talent and hip
for the fortunate, both
the outcasts, neither.
Sports like rock ‘n’ roll bands
number one for a fleeting year or two.
In high school it was cricket.
the age of obese moustaches
chest opened shirts of doormat hair and gold chains – Idols.

Boredom and consummation have their fill
the number diminishes to two
after 60 minutes and countless return throws
patience wants to end with the tangibility of the bat
Steven can go first
my turn.

Steven’s father has arrived early
he stands alongside requesting the bat.
Instinct expects advice on technique
parents do not seem to able to resist.
and betrayal.
We will bowl to him
and bowl
and bowl.

The ball skims off concrete
he doesn’t see adolescent pouting
doesn’t see outrage at queue jumping
doesn’t see resentment at opportunity denied.
Suit coat removed
tie loosened
he sees the horizon
a life without deadlines or mortgage
the hero of self conquered fields of dreams
once again he is young.



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.