Posted in Truth


I disappointed my mother
she carried that disappointment with her
Even when there were other disappointments
and despairs
mine was the one she fixed
as the origin
could never annul, or understand
was the one that chafed her
like new shoes
or scratchy clothing.
My betrayal was something she could put out of sight –
but never into storage
or discuss : “ you all mean the same to me.”

But history deals only in facts
she had produced the first grandchild: maternal and paternal.
I was her second
there were cousins by then.
No trophy
lightening, without thunder
Apollo 12 slashing down, to replication
it was very disappointing
The brackets had closed. They never reopened.



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.