Posted in Before the Rain


“ Peachy,”
infrequently heard as descriptor before
and never since.
I was on the curve of age where everywhere,
everyone was older – work no different.
Perhaps it was colloquialism briefly lived –
never becoming fashion –
carbon dating specific time, before my time.

I saw it and showed him –
the colleague with whom I felt most comfortable
and ally against conceit – and almost fifth columnist.
Spookily coincident
alone – no eavesdropping or witness
openness able to be open.
‘ we seek …..’

No Bluff. No strategy. The truth – self-preservation,

“ it’s easier  to get a job with a job –
now could be finite … this is permanent …..
what do you think? ”

Anticipation considered enquiry superfluous
had prefigured encouragement,
a wink,
an offer of assistance with marketing.

“ I think that’s really peachy.
Chilly and Bryan give a young guy a chance,
and you scarper at the first opportunity . …”



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.