Posted in Truth


A little city on the hem off the world
beneath the Southern Cross
everything was looked up to.
Insular and complacent. Change – drying paint.
New families stayed three or five years
fathers arriving as senior clerks
leaving to become assistants, deputies, almosts.
the next rung more important than the present.

The men were brylcreemed and wore hats
women perms and never trousers.
Everybody was titled : Mr. Mrs. Miss. Dr.
to be used without fail.
Except two unmarried friends of my mother.
Rhonda and Margaret.

“Rhonda” and “Margaret” – just that – always
even when
21-year-old single men were compulsorily Mr
19 year old wives “Mrs” – to teenagers.



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.