Posted in Love


I always intended to look him up
but youth is careless with time
and when there was, I had to look down –
a headstone.
Legend said he was a lawyer in a former life
some rumours spoke of ejection …. others, of spectacular abdication.
“I’m a painter son ” – the reply to the teenaged question.

Paint. It’s what we did
while the sun holidayed south.
Bleached mansions in a faded suburb
a once star, off the bottle and thinking comeback.

Hard work,
and no occupational health and safety –
unscreened sun
un-dust masked lead paint
three tier scaffolding … “ Okay, time to shove the plank along.”
it was worthwhile for the money and entertainment value of the boss – Morrie
two syllables … nothing more ever needed.
At the hardware store. No invoice, only statement… “ For Morrie.”

Stories !!!!
Even if half, were half true!
With coffee, first-hand accounts of his battles –
with the town planning department
the resident’s association
the Heritage Society
the finance company,
his wives : past and present. All abominable aching hilarious.

Flippant about himself and his ambitions
he told me, when the time came to purchase a house, to consult him
and he would tell me which ones not to.

Not a painter, a property developer
wide awake to the wide boys
a wheeler dealer and rogue, who every Friday lunchtime
handed over a bundle of notes … then drove me to the bank
and made sure I did : for my education.

For the back story click Backstage



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.