Archive for the ‘Melpomene’ Category



I can’t find you anymore
and there’s a landslide in there.
Our feet don’t touch the runway and
I never thought I’d say this but I miss
the three-hour plane rides between you
and home. I was a coffee drinker back
then, addicted to caffeine and your
fingertips. An amateur artist on flights
drawing compasses with hearts and
poems. I was the first blind mouse of
three, and I knew your culture loved
threes, three graces, three gorgons,
three furies. Signs of unity and trinity
but we lost these. You’ve been
consuming my metaphors lately and
I’m not sure when it happened but I
can see the Greek alphabet hand-drawn
on my bones. You are a skeleton
without a resting place and
I can’t find you anymore.



When death took you, you refused
to go quietly. Sirens echoed in the pit
of your stomach and poetry written
about you crumbled like your history
and architecture. We don’t see much of
your sunshine anymore;
we dig your grave and attend
your funeral but those around you
rarely mourn you. We have swallowed
everything you once were, the paradise
of our Grandfathers and now we
like no man who ever stood before you,
find solace in your decay.

There’s no peace here anymore, only
shopping trolleys in creeks, but to you
I give a bouquet of everything you
once were, the rainforest will
nip at your corners and shells
and bones will no longer hold you.
You will be filled with nature and
all it’s splendour. I will colour your skin
like your founders and with
flora and fauna I will no longer
grieve but rather
celebrate your life.

Unanderra = My hometown



I have written about loss like
my body is tomb for cupid arrows
plucked from my ancestors.
Small-scripted obituaries of
every lover onto my skin

erased and

My body is a mausoleum,
designed by a musician and
redesigned by an artist,

and if you asked one to describe
me he’d say I was the scent
of aging metal on his ring finger
and the numerals on his bones.

And I often wonder how he felt
when he made the music I write to,

when did he begin his grieving?
why were his instrumentals about me?
I know a lot of women would find that
romantic, but he, he used his titles
as a branding,

Why did I barter hips for love?
When did he know the “time had
passed for us”?

When did I start asking so many

Probably when my poetry began to
reflect his dishonesty. He knew I
would find absence in his

The last time I saw you, you
fed me at the airport, and I told you it
was the last time you would see me.

That was
two and a half years ago.



She reminds me of Autumn.

Leaves flushed in the
most beautiful ways,
cherry like her heart
– sweet and sometimes
sour, gold yet
always silver.

I’d paint her as a tree
artistic in all its

Bark fraying at her heels,
foliage dancing,
branches twirled into
a protective stance.

She is the August winds,
passionate in all she touches.

The calendar month
who would knock you down,
only to show
you can get back –

the zephyr that would
whisk away your umbrella
and let your skin
embrace the rain.

This is for the many times
she sat, speaking to me
of a half eaten moon and
how Autumn brings
-a certain death-

Yet to me
she shows winter fades
into spring days and
beauty will flourish
once again.

Nurtured Ears



I slumped ‘gainst
our door
-sipping coffee-

Your music
it settled me –

as though you had
taken a paint brush
to my spine and
danced a melody.

a cookie lay –
unattended, swamped
by ants and
sticky thoughts

yet still I sat,
a cooking disaster,

chin dusted
with cocoa and
the thought of a
messy kitchen
escaping my mind.

It was tonight,
I realized your music
was like my poetry

The snare
your own battlefield,

the bass –
your pulse and though
it had knotted my hair
too many times

I was calm.

Each time your finger
stumbled from a key
I was reminded of
how “ateleia einai i

and saw your heart
in the shape of a
16th note.

and I wished to
write my poetry ‘pon
your skin as
calligraphy but

I never dared
to touch you –

for you were painting
a treble clef against
my rib cage and

tangling yourself
within my scarf.

Greek Translation “ateleia einai i omorfia” – “Imperfection is beauty.”



When you write of
– pure silence –

devouring my lips.

..I stand

within naked flames

like —
Japanese lanterns;

Suspended and insecure

to each verse
you scrawl upon my palm.

I see no more than –
a nameless memory,
and hear you whisper

“Ise omorfi”

to bloomed cheek.

a warrior of sentiment
reading thoughts
like palmistry.

When you speak of;
ever-changing tides
slipping through fingers

I am no more than
sakura within your eyes

and sense no more than
petals upon my spine.

He an illusionist.

Yet I surrender only to
my conscience..
-an echo-


like petals upon flower.

“Ise omorfi”..
“Ise omorfi”…

Though he cradles I like
– crescent moons –

awaking me to;
eternal sunsets

and the sound of his voice..

a breeze over the horizon.

“Ise Omorfi …

S’ agapo.”

Translation from Greek:

Ise Omorfi = You’re beautiful

S’ agapo = I love you

Melas Oneiros


They tore my wings like zephyr
-and I; I sat upon that one
abstract oleander..


between the cold air
and a stale dream catcher;

whos webs antique
toward my thoughts of savior.

With each petal
to deteriorate ‘neath me
I wrote of unstoppable fires.
Never to move from
a single thorn

-only to feel somber-

and I held that stem for;
eighteen years
until dipped into an abyss

painting violent butterflies
-from memory-

worried they would re-appear

like the many nights
I curled ‘neath raindrops
frozen as stone;
detaching myself from
a trust I never knew.

and he, he thrashed
as if violent weather…

Slipping through cracks

to find myself spun
-unable to reach you-


*Melas oneiros also known as Epiales was the Greek spirit of nightmares. The term “Melas Oneiros” translates to “black dream”

Benighted Conscience


To the sun, I apologize;
for the moon, has my heart.

Like the porcelain leaves
‘neath you – I tumble.
Vulnerable to each mask
you gracefully drift my way..

..and I sensed the presence
of petals upon my spine;

delicate in moonlight

‘tween the verge of tragedy.

Like Kraken his arms were
– of subtle tentacles.
An endless knot to
bound eternity..

and I a lighthouse –
on the eve of tide
guiding his oragami heart
innoculously home.


My love is a ship
‘tween the verge of comedy

and I; like the porcelain leaves
‘neath you – tumble.

I find the night to be
of everlasting danger.

Should I be a lover – or
fight for my life?