Posted in Before the Rain


Auburn hair, not counterfeited from a bottle
natural creases of cascading ringlets
sparkling eyes, rescued waif smile
tight, short, shorts. Gypsy charm
and the perfume of availability. Perhaps.

Platters of small talk, individually presented
polished first lines, well timed extenders
generosity with conversation game time
and listening. Always willing to listen – talk.

The shine of gold and first love innocence
appeal to vicarious participation in her happiness.
Only here for the summer
work experience
study was finished.
“This was a lovely place – everybody so nice
she would love to stay
would be the happiest girl in the world if she could. If only she could.”

A diamond can cut in places
where steel is impotent
the glint of an idea.



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.