Posted in Rituals


It was the end of the end of term
end of the year
if the gods were favourable, the end of university
and perhaps, the end of zero gravity.

The last class
of the last day.
He is good this professor
lively, interesting
free of pomposity
must have been doing this to 25 years – at least
but still presents with boyish enthusiam.

At the beginning of class
not the obligatory obituary for the year
but announcement
“ we should get finished in 15 to 20 minutes
if all goes well.”
Code: if all shut up, we’ll be out of here in double quick time.
Got it – loud and clear
exactly 15 minutes …..“ I think that’s all I’ve got.”

Books close
papers fold
bodies twist upwards.
Oh, oh … before you go … one more thing
I’m an old man
sometimes I get a little cantankerous
so humour me
please, answer the question I have asked,
not the one you preferred I’d asked.”





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.