Posted in Rituals


Boys squeezed into testes lifting trousers
wore three button undone shirts,
styled big hair
and Brut or Old Spice
slouched and acted cool, or tried to.

Abba chirped Dancing Queen

Girls wore dresses to the knees
their best bra
pantyhose as the first line of defence
and, as a hedge against boldness – sensible briefs.

Peter Frampton loved his baby’s way

The already coupled took the floor
look …. no waiting or asking or begging
then cool boys, the footballers and athletes with,
the popular, pretty and hot.

Queen, Bohemian Rhapsodised

The median and mediocre
self-conscious, in their no spare cash spared best,
shuffle timidly hoping to be asked …… or not declined.

The Eagles took it to the limit

Eyes and small talk
oops – sorry
“would you like to…”

Led Zepplin stairway-ed to heaven

light spun from strobe globes
dark corners
kisses, fumbling’s, clutched breasts
hands pushed away
allowed to linger
or explore.



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.