Posted in Death


The classroom has another life at night.
Fire and dreams
hope, a clandestinely ignored lover by day
takes an unselfconscious seat.

Writing as with cooking
everybody thinks they can
know they have a magical creation within.

Feeding the need
stroking malignant ego
addicting the habit
taking the money
it’s what she does.

A writer teaching writing
who doesn’t any more
praising work that should be binned
soothing re-enrolment into the next class
bringing in the fees
a smile to the accountants
and another contract.

Complacent and torpid
It’s easy money
promising dreams
long after her own have died.



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.