Posted in Love


It was an old joke
if the hills were visible
rain was likely
if the hills were not visible, it was raining.

South West New Zealand,
a 500 km asphalt ribbon,
look left, water from the equator
look right, snow from Antarctica,
clouds on the run
from Africa, Asia and Australia
spawning against the mountain axis
rain – 1 inch per day
400 per year
one day without = 2 inches with.

Six or eight inches fell that day,
even Noah would have stayed indoors,
the motor camp, at last –
a biking holiday
young and poor
a tent for two site, please.
“No,” said the manger
words and tone disagreeing
I’m not letting you stay in a tent in this
you’re going inside.”

“We … we..”
she has anticipated.
“What did you pay last night?
Ten dollars.
Then ten dollars it is.”



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.