Posted in Chutzpah

Heart to Heart

She met him after the war,
the war to end all wars the leaders and Generals said.
Vietnam, Afghanistan –
they lived them all,
I wonder if they lived the irony as well.
I didn’t know, they never mentioned it.

It was a dance to celebrate,
and thank the soldiers returning from the war to end all wars.
He knew where she lived –
probably he asked, possibly she told.
Her mother saw him off
and forbade.
But reckoned without her daughter,
a daughter not quite exited from her teens.
On authority of will,
body followed heart, with him, by boat and train
to the far end of the country –
finding a sympathetic priest and marrying en route.
In the new lands they became farm labourers
then owners
four children and greater than six decades of marriage.

Elope – run away – scarper – flipping the bird
no money, no jobs, no security –
a big call. A good call. The right call.



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.