Posted in Chutzpah


Kiss and tell –
perhaps there had been kisses, but,
the memoir was more tell
and tell
as the actress said to the bishop
or rather the actress said of the politician.

An affair,
clandestine, frequent, long-lived
and oh so sensual and torrid.
Clues scattered through the pages
scents for the pursuing media hounds
trails and elimination
the quarry trapped at the last page –
they are sure
forensics – it has to be him –
description, dates, locations.

He opens the elegant door to
straining, unleashed, questions and cameras,
flashbulbs and shouting
“Did You? Is It You? It Has To Be You!
“No. It Wasn’t. It Isn’t, but
I wish it had been.”



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.