Posted in Truth

Twist of Fate

It was just luck she said.
Luck, never fully credited by the archivists of success
overshadowed by collaborators,
and sometime rivals – talent and application.

On this occasion, there could be no dispute
it was luck, and only luck –
no doubt
the doctors thought it a matter of seconds
perhaps as few as 10, or 20.

The hose passes no judgement
only the engine’s exhalation
oxides of carbon ….. promising calm
fading pain, from infinity, to possibility, to empty.

Memory takes hostage the riverside watercolour
trees of fleeing sunshine,
stones of cooled shadow.
Opportunity – recreation finished,
lovers yet to arrive
despair closes eyes …. and leaps.

The last waltz – unpartnered
resolution gathers speed, rushing to darkness
something slows, gravity shifts, balance overturns
a surfer flung from a board – carried by the waves.

It was just luck she said
oversight failed to lock the door
unconsciousness’s slump, thrust it open – to life
to profound neurological damage,
to 29 years old, forever six. “Bad luck,” she said. “Shit timing.”



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.