Posted in Love


Weekday mornings+ full-time work
shower and radio news –
weather, traffic asphyxiation and major crisis – none today,
still somehow attention snagged.

The host was ex-drivetime commercial radio
recruited to add colour, edge and testosterone
BBC inheritance renounced with “ mornin’ to ya.”
“Good morning” replied the policeman
“a real mess this one,” sound gnashes the host
“parents out boozing, kids home alone, a fire, and two children dead
are you going to throw the book at them.”
The policeman paused ….
“I don’t think the law can punish them more, they know what they did. ”
Persisted the shock jock, “what’s the take-home message here.”
The policeman paused again,
“if you have kids, love them.”





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.