Posted in Chutzpah


I didn’t spot it –
the second cook, a wily old sheepdog
who had been on many a mustering
and worked for more than a few musterers, did.

We weren’t close, or even especially friendly
somewhere between acquaintance – and fellow PTA parents.
All the same, she seemed to know,
more understand the story keeper in me,
would appreciate her observation.

From the back row.

“ Watch the boss when the function starts.”

Siren and lights.

“ She will rush I with an important, but overlooked item.”

Line of sight.

“ Something she’s tucked away
not hidden – just shifted out of minds.”

Swallows and summer.

She knows how to look good.
Being good is looking good.



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.