Posted in Chutzpah


The first year at university,
so different from the regimented authority of High School –
the God instilling fear of a clergy directed education.
But now,
come to class – if you want,
do your assignments – if you feel like it,
skip a day – if you want to go to the cricket,
join a protest march …. there’s an idea.
A protest march,
my first, anti-nukes
American warship don’t come – or actually, fuck off.
I told my mother, she is wary
has some advice
people could do silly things,
others might push their luck,
things may get out of hand –
the media and the police will be there
so ….
“ whatever you do, don’t get on TV.”



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.