Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

He had been christened Roger
everyone called him Mad Dog
not a derivative of his personality
but favourite drink
he was fond of it.

A large man
tall and solid
six foot three and 250 pounds.

He was the boss my first winter
affable . . . most of the time
with good taste in music
and not so good in humour.

Still, he had one endearing trick.
When something went against us
and
much did in food service
he would leap onto a table
a griddle
a chair
or in the absence of a platform
stand where he was
bend at the waist
hands slid down the back of his legs
head pitched into his knees
“ come on, “ he’d roar, like a conjugating lion
“ FUCK ME.”

It was hilarious – it wouldn’t have been if he’d been white.

For the back story click Backstage
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The rumours were swirling
heard by many ears
the source of more than one
one drink too many joke.
Unlike most it was true
a woman would be wintering over.

Her selection a triumph for ordinary women
not vivacious or pretty
homely
hard-working
next size up from medium
looking exactly what she was – small town New Zealand.

The local paper reported she felt lucky
she told the interviewer
the motor camp where she cleaned
had found winter no longer viable
was about to become summer only
work in her hometown hard to find in the hardest season
perfect timing she said.

An inspired choice she worked hard and fitted in well
romance was found which folded many faces with delight
marriage and emigration followed
a fairy story of sorts.
Her husband already one flight up the corporate stairwell.

A green card gave access to greenbacks and greener fields
we worked on the same programme for different employers
ours was an aberration
an historic émigré cameo that grew into bit part
now a supporting role
nationalisation had noticed and wanted it back.
It was a young person’s occupation and after seven years
my tolerance had grown impatient.

Still there was some grief to see it ending.
In the last week of my last time on the great southern continent
we spoke our farewells.
I told her of my sadness on behalf of others
for the loss of opportunity to earn good money
finance dreams
and visit a part of the world almost inaccessible.
Without a flicker of emotion she told me
there was a lot of unemployment in the United States.

For the back story click Backstage

The director was retiring
after a long almost benign dictatorship
not before time murmured closed palms.
His had been an old-fashioned reign.
he was a man’s man
and to him this was a man’s place
It often wore the air of a fraternity house
the order was changing, this he knew, but his resistance did not.

Women had been a reluctant addition a few years prior
for summer only
permission with a smirk
good for decoration
and hunting.
Now career’s long flight was landing
to succession
or legacy ?

Two decades of insignificant worthiness
solid and unspectacular
a heavy volume
holding open the door
permitting memory to escape.
One last hand. Immortality trumps prejudice.

A quickly written paperback
light and enlightened
might turn bestseller and acclaimed film
The polar winter about to fall
a woman added to the cast
his name in sharp focus
leading the dress march of credits.

For the back story click Backstage