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.



I am the dot that ends all my written worries,
doubts and insecurities, in the palm of my diary,
many a time trapped between mottoes and ironies
like a burrow of ants in a field of peonies,
on a rainy day.

I am always right. I am always left.
Navigating between uncertainty of the unknown,
and certainty of my faith and opinions
tripping over a compass [of my life]
that doesn’t point
quite exact.

Like a feisty child, clinging at the tip
of a long-limbed leaf of a skirt of their mother,
I am tiny; a tiny drop of dew
insignificantly rebellious,
defying gravity
before merging with the endless
vastness of a pond.

I am no more than a statue,
or another ornament at an antique shop;
intricately fashioned, yet always,
pre-owned. Never mind I am not superstitious

I’m still hanging good-luck charms
at the doorstep of my dreams,
in hopes of becoming something,
you so wish to lionize.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon

Seraphina [The Stigma Of Your Eyes]


She came to me

like an apparition; white hot, clad in a wreath of lilies
and a girdle of pearls around her waist

a dream keeper that: meanders
among innumerable trees and valleys; straddles
between mountains and shabby railroads
as falling flakes of Jupiter’s moon

then float,

like a sprinkle of fireflies around her head.

With a mother-like godform, all curves and softness
do not be misled. Her stare,
hold powerful storms
and manipulating fire

the devil’s rock would crumble
the devil’s hole would collapse

she is a replica of an enchantress
whose rage, fiercer than death
whose resentment, greater
than the deadliest poison.

Do not fall asleep,
for she is the nightmare that stalks
your every slumber
your every dream.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon

Honor Song For James M. Swan


You think


Is civilization


Is only



Built on lies

Destined to crumble

Falling from sky

Ash like snow

Ailing forces

That twist like tornadoes

The way spirits

Travel in wind

We only fell victim

To our compassion

Went to war

Came home alone


Weary with loss

But not yet beaten

With no desire

To make you

Feel better

About your tragedies

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley. All Rights Reserved.

1:33 A.M.


I’m awake

Thinking about the

shape of

the feel of

building the need of

your tempting lips.

Would they be

hummingbirds hovering

the languid temptation

of a kiss

or slow

running sweet sap

thick in winter

August heat

an ice cube melting

against my skin

taste of honeysuckle

and spring rain

smell of peaches

afternoons making love

as the sun watches.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley. All Rights Reserved.



We are all broken bits

left over from some end,

doorways leading

to empty rooms.

We run while we wait

for something to move,

everyday a barter of

quench and thirst.

Sycophant you are,

I’m always giving in

to occasions

with too much

in my mouth

to speak.

No space for tongue

or meaning,

no room

for reason & rebuilding.

We are all broken bits

left over from flawed beginnings.

They said we never stood a chance.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley. All Rights Reserved.

Where Wild Violets Grow


There’s something nostalgic about
dimly-lit roads and faded footpaths,
rickety lamp posts and over-shadowing
tree trunks, as though, they exude familiarity
like the scent of monsoon winds before it rains.
But, my own heart, would only pronounce
me a treasonist, for, over many summers,
I learnt to love the peculiarities, the oddities,
and the nonsense of this land,
this foreign land… others call home.

Copyright (C) 2013 by EvanescentMoon