Posted in Rituals


Mine was the fortunate generation
or indulged.
No conscription to eyeball fascism in Europe
or contain communist dominoes in Asia.
Education was without invoice
our money stood back
the government picked up the tab.

Deprived of oppressors, we found oppression –
apartheid: South Africa – their team –
our national game,
when the 80’s were one year old.

Everybody said it would be different this time,
the nation had come of age
blood on the streets
yeah. Right.
The last day
police charge
fleeing protesters trip and fall
batons like sledgehammers
a sergeant shouting: “ make sure blows count.”

Three teenaged women
blue uniforms pursue
trapped in a driveway. Struck, with police issue
long handled, fibre glass coated, metal core batons.

The millennium is one year old
two decades since
people said it was the nation’s coming-of-age –
the end of a suburban country,
the beginning of a metropolitan one

The editor reads my story
electrons through sand
banish the ink and paper of university.
Cyber chat clarifies discrepancies
the story is proofed – set to run.
Just one question
by voice – today at 2:30 p.m.
“ Now – this all really did happen?”




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.