Orphaned Islands will not post on Christmas Day. The period December 23 until mid January is the annual summer holiday for New Zealand. Most of the country goes to the beach, enjoys barbecues, watches the cricket and tries not to think about work. Unfortunately a website trying to attract and retain readers does not enjoy the same holiday dispensation. So how to produce work when not working?. Do what musicians do of course. When short of material or unable to find the productive spark, rock bands, crooners, songstresses, balladeers, resort to the gold standard filler: The Greatest Hits.
Orphaned Islands has now been publishing exactly 1 year. Over the next three weeks, beginning Monday, December 28, it will post what a selection committee (me) considers its best pieces. An effort will be made to present a range of writing – poignant, funny, quirky and just plain bizarre. Orphaned Islands wishes all its readers a merry Christmas and a safe and happy New Year.
Out of Character
The sheep pen
so called because it resembled the temporary cages
used to parcel sheep
Passengers corralled and watched by security
no air bridges for military aircraft
wait in the pen to be freighted
like sheep.
Our grandfather marked his flock with blue chalk
his neighbours with red, green and orange
escapees captured and returned at shearing.
Colour coded
human sheep also.
The military wore green
US contractors and scientists red
and the New Zealand Antarctic Programme yellow.
Our fellow citizens sometimes sniffed at us
hired help doing the Americans’ dirty work
but not Peter.
I first saw him in the sheep pen
wearing yellow
his overheard enthusiasm
endearing
without being earnest
even bringing generous envy
that I could be so uninhibitedly excited.
He seemed sweet
if permissible for a man to call another sweet.
I shouldn’t have been surprised
the New Zealand base often imitated a fraternity house
drinking and rituals
rituals and drinking.
Traditions.
In the winter months I would see Peter
wild haired
wild spirited
can or bottle, life raft clutched
chimpanzee grin of a wild colonial boy
having the best of times
but his eyes were of a ship in a bottle.
For the back story click Backstage
Timing
They used to be known as coloured
but now proudly called themselves Black.
Born in the Midwest and South
coming-of-age in towns with flat industries
and high unemployment.
Recruiters had it easy
promising paychecks, pensions and healthcare.
“The best of three man,” one explained
welfare and crime making up the trinity.
In the Navy they ceased to be individuals
“man you never been on a boat
sheeeeyit on the carrier there was 9000 of us ”
but never traded individuality.
During the down times
when flights were suspended
or no aircraft to be serviced
they would congregate in the mess
speaking patois and laughing – always laughter.
One grey day
when truculent cloud forbade flying
they came to the warm
sitting at tables redundant between meals
and spoke of tattoos.
Who
what
and where
prompting one to state Lemaster
pronounced Leeeemaarstir, “got one on da bone.”
“Oooooooeeeee.” Lemaster is the man.
“Hey Leeeemaarstir what it be?”
Reply seizes the potential for comic genius
“I’m not exactly sure.”
Incredulity
“it’s on da bone and you’re not sure?”
Timing – humour’s gift wrapping
“well
sometimes it be a fly
and sometimes it be an al….bat….tross.”
For the back story click Backstage
Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry 