Posted in Before the Rain


I wait at the back
while the name speakers pour coffee
and select the biggest muffins.

The conference circuit crush –
my first – their zillionth.
…“haven’t seen you since.”
…..“ just about to be published”
………“ how is everything in The Bay.”

Name tagged and proud,
I am the man
in Elton John’s Candle in the Wind
overawed and from the 22nd row.

In a hotel ballroom
I listen to
forex dealers on currency hedging,
entomologists on biological control,
plant physiologists on nutrient uptake,
agricultural engineers on irrigation,
managers on funding.

At the third break
two luminaries are in deep conversation
over the, what did this cost carpet I creep
hoping to eavesdrop wisdom
or the future.

“We’re eating at the Rutherford
and going to Malone’s afterward.
hope the next bit doesn’t go on too long.”



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.