Posted in Death


Friendship was almost a decade old
before we shared our dreams.
By then we had shared a house
tents, music, books and prejudices.
Chance broke the seal – an uncensored remark.

A ten day walk around an island
south of the world’s southernmost city.
A winter’s trip in the summer of our lives
expected beauty
and unexpected closeness – the perihelion of our friendship.
Conceived as distraction from careers
an opportunity to add to memory
what been a forgotten part of our country
before guidebooks and adventure tourists
turned wilderness into compulsion.

On the last day the circle is complete
a return to the starting point
finishing along a wind ruffled road
city reticence not yet reclaimed.

A sigh about returning to work
“ it means nothing to me.”
He is surprised. Me too – my employer highly regarded.
A pause
and “ you have someone to return to.”
It was his dream he said to have someone
to live in a loving partnership.
Unexpectedly he asked about mine.
to be a writer I confide.

When our dreams were visible
the comet of friendship had circled the sun.
Memory could plot its path
the eye could never find it.



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.