Posted in Truth


The doors slide open
to a hushed compartment
and another set of doors.
One will not open, until the other is closed
defying the second law of thermodynamics
heat will not become cold
noise, forbidden to pass.

Staff wear screen saver smiles
trolleys of food glide past
the carpet, mindful of traffic, is carefully expensive
tasteful paintings watch quietly from faultless walls.
Subdued speakers play thoughtful music.
A basket of sweets tempt
and quieten children.
In one corner, deep armchairs
surround a large screen and satellite channels.

Discretion is well mannered
polite enquiry
verifies right to admission.
Authentication approved, nothing is trouble
an invitation to feel comfortable and enjoy hospitality.

A trio cluster in close proximity
oasis chatter
desert silence
one listener occupying alternate time zones
of wakefulness and sleep.
It is the Saturday following Thanksgiving
a nurse steps into a pause.
Will he see Christmas?



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.