Posted in Love


The vitriol was unbelievable sometimes,
difficult to comprehend one human being could write that of another
anyone would have thought he was,
a rapist,
child murderer,
multiple killer.
Everybody has a right to trial, he said
to be judged by 12 of their peers –
the accused may have been fitted up
or truly innocent –
however foregone conclusions seemed.

He saw it as a prerogative of democracy
and a duty
would have made more money – “shit loads more,” in other law
but if they asked, he would defend them.
Only once did he reply to attack :
‘ you are sewerage.. ..a filthy, reprehensible, despicable little man.’

‘ Dear Sir
I take strong exception to the last –
I’m 6 foot three and 220 lbs,
I am not little.’



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.