Posted in Truth


Tall and blonde, the all Californian girl
men loved her, women were envious.
Always chosen
life was easy, grace or charm redundant
beauty gave automatic entry,
even when almost inaccessible.
Rejection, a distant image
badly focused and easily clicked away.

A cool look awarded intelligence
which may, or
may not have been
confirmation never asked
or required
scrutiny escaped with ease
her life the median – standard, no deviation.

Truth should be acknowledged
she sometimes induced envy
or disdain
perhaps because she belonged to a group I never had –
those who are always included
for whom chance is never slim.

Time has diluted venom and dilated eyes
compassion, slow to form, now understands
she never quite grew up
didn’t ever leave a child’s need to be liked.



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.