Posted in Love



In a small room
his hands seemed even larger
brought mind Kenny Rogers’ Lucille
big and calloused
from removing wool from sheep
shearing 300 day – that’s what he did before buying a farm.

The hands surround the cup
gathering words to speak obituary and eulogy.
That statue on the hill above the town?
It was to a local politician
a visionary,
who had enacted legislation which broke up England owned estates.

10 years later
recognized with a knighthood
by then the former politician too frail
too frail to travel to the capital
or even the local town
the future King to be was visiting the then colony
his train stopped at the local siding
the ailing politician shuffled on board
to kneel and receive the sword … and die six weeks later.

Eyes glistened
a tear formed
the former shearer said, “ It’s how I got my farm.”



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.