Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Butter up before the sauce was the advice
they did
chowing down big time at Saturday supper
before serious drinking.

Sunday morning
in the men’s
cat stench urinals
and locker room warscape
of championship win – or heavy defeat.

Breakfast 7 a.m.- 8 a.m.
shot gun discharge safe.
Brunch 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.
returnees from the front
red eyed
hungover
and hungry.
Ham, eggs, omelettes, pancakes,
French toast, grilled sausage
buttering up, after the sauce.

And for Sunday brunch
cinnamon rolls
3000
soft, yeasty, warm, and sweet.
Removed from the oven at 10:15 a.m.
delivered to the serving line at 10.30.
A highlight. And essential.

The chief is angry – incandescent
he wants to know what happened
and somebody’s ass.
“ I’m sorry Chief ”
the baker points at the unset timer
and 3000 charcoaled shells
“ I just fucked up.”
Fury deflates to empathy
“ get something from the freezer…”

For the back story click Backstage

We lived in tents
those first summers.
Quonset Hut shaped
double skinned canvas
comfortable and warm
but no privacy or secrets.

Antarctica is a desert
snow swaps places with sand
cold for heat
dry – extremely. And windy
fire : a match, a butt, a spark – the lurking enemy.

The Fire Department was omniscient
and ubiquitous
nothing permitted which enhanced flammability.
At the beginning of each year
petitions for partitions
the people versus The Fire Department.
Every year, not back down
but wink – the Nelsonian eye.

But this year “no,” was NO
screens went up
fire officers ordered them down
nonnegotiable. Suck it up.

But they reckoned without our boss
a man to whom life was a chess game
peristaltically strategising and infinitely patient.
He factorised the quadratic
the authorities challenged
or disgruntled workers
Solution. Laws circumvented better than productivity lost.
He confers with one of the women

At the next room inspection
she arrives from the shower
towel almost slipping
caught desperately
    “We have no privacy, no one is supposed to be here now
      I thought it was safe at this time
      last night a couple were making love.  I could see their movements.”
then burst into tears. Spectacularly

Everybody is aghast
I don’t know what to do said The Captain
let us have partitions wails the towelled dripping one.
We are allowed screens. Immediately.

For the back story click Backstage

Antarctica enshrined by treaty
signed in 1959 by 12 nations
the 12 Apostles
well-placed for the afterlife.
By Article 9
resources must be protected and conserved.

In the mid-1980s
the ninth article was like sometimes faith
or road speed limit
observed when convenient
or display required.

Rubbish terminally useless
bodies with nothing to sell or exchange
pyramided on frozen ocean
vehicles, refrigerators, transformers.
The close sun flexes new found muscles
the cold is stared down
ice returns to water
the debris falling from sight – and mind.

Bill was larger than life
figuratively and literally
always good for a drink and story
homeward from the bar
he waved an arm at the horizon
“ it wouldn’t worry me
if this whole place was wall-to-wall oil rigs.”

A stern reprimand
and lecture on environmentalism.
“ Well,” a nose nodding toward piles
of soon-to-be submarine rubbish
“ could it be any worse than that.”

For the back story click Backstage