Posted in Truth


We made love a second time
three weeks after the first
we had been housemates several months by then
shared chores, cooking and common threads.
Time was generous, the future patient
late night stay ups, talking,
music, issues and courses
of expectations, dreams, hopes and excitements –
of what lay waiting
countries to visit
careers to be fashioned, conquered, applauded.

It was almost inevitable thoughts would
turn to what was, almost inevitable….
…. It didn’t quite work
imagination was surprised
but lapel flicked it away – just one of those things –
better luck next time.

Three weeks later, a repeat screening
magic accepted an invitation
but didn’t attend.
Imagination, often approximated, seldom equalled.



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.