Posted in Chutzpah


The difference between high school sport and grade cricket –
they were men,
with muscles and moustaches and
that wasn’t a ball,
it was a missile –
coming at ME.
Helmets – brand-new, no one used them then.
“ PUSSIES … scared of a bit of leather ?”
Jeff asked his old man,
who’d been a halfway decent cricketer himself back in the day,
back before helmets even thought of.
“ Do you wear a box?
well, if you’re protecting your balls, why not your brains?”



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.