Sinking stone

We farewelled with a hug
after a lazy beach day
I complained about
your sweaty hot skin on mine
your breath burned my earlobe
I dived straight back in the sea
to cool off

When the police kicked down
your apartment door
you laid on the warm floor tiles
bathed in the hot afternoon sun

The coroner released you
in a numbered bag to the holding room
1-5°C was ideal for you

I stood staring at you
in front of the open casket
You looked cold and distant
took no notice of the flush pink
plastered on your face

All the eulogy givers tried so hard
to warm up the service with dead jokes
to comfort the mouners with inconsolable stories
to celebrate your life with cruel death’s doing

You are now a chill stone
tied around my ankle
sinking me forever into the deep blue
withholding your hot sweat
and burning breaths


she was a sunflower
turned her back to below zero
gave her all to the sun
whenever she bloomed
she radiated life and enthusiasm

the relentless frost
finally defeated her
a scrunched up sunflower
hung by a noose
her spirit was crushed
with no mercy

– In loving memory of A who lost her fight with PTSD on 25 October 2019


(Two Sunflowers – Painting by Van Gogh 1887)


Many times I had dreamt that
I held your callous hands
tugged myself under your hem
where you shielded me from the sudden rain

Many times I had convinced myself that
I was strong enough to fend for myself
from all the accusing fingers
which you would had crushed them without hesitation

Many times I had wished you were still here
to share the weather worn swing
sipping lemon tea together while
recounting our childhood mischiefs

I didn’t know that I had lost you
until so many times I had misplaced
my memory of your presence
They snugged up on me
in my most vulnerable state
where I had no tomb to crawl into
no means to make my way to you


woman sitting on wooden planks
Photo by Keenan Constance on


She walks straight into the industrial loft showroom, searching for the rustic vintage teak study desk. The dark shaded timber furniture on display blend in with the red and burgundy floor rugs. They float on the dark metallic painted floor. It makes her feel claustrophobic and reminds her of the wake room at the funeral. Halfway into the showroom, she spots her desk standing next to a red Victorian Tiffany-Style floor lamp.

She races towards it ignoring the other shoppers and the enticing aroma from the coffee cart two metres to her right. The long drape of her moss skirt brushes the heels of her bare feet. She leans on the short edge of the desk, closes her eyes and breathes in slowly, then out. She tries to block the chattering customers, the professional tone of the friendly salespeople and the whining of coffee grinder. She lays her slender tanned hands on the rough surface of the rustic teak. Her half-moon shaped fingers are tracing the grains in delicate circles. She smells the sandalwood incense and hears the trickles of the Feng Shui water fountain. Then the void hits her and brings a lump to her throat.

An Angel

To our Baby Danielle on 6th September 2015

Surprisingly you came and surprisingly you went.
We didn’t get to meet you in the sunlight.

It’s comforting to know
our Heavenly Father keeps you
close to Himself as a gift which
He freely gives and freely takes away.

We love you Baby Danielle!
You are always safe in the palm of His hand.


I would never thought to
miss the kookaburra
woke me up at 5am
but I do today
along with other things

watching the fish swimming
in the water hyancinth filled
inground pond

reading by the crackling fire
under the shade cloth

the smell of lavender, rosemary,
basil and sage from the garden

Sunday roast
and the laughter
once a family gathering brought

they are not the things
made me feel like home
but today
just today
I do miss


grieving is a process

I wish
it was a project
with limited scopes
budgeted emotional investment
realistic deliverables
mitigable mental health risk
achievable in a foreseeable future

grieving is being powerless
of letting go
of the loss


She is beautiful!
wearing an indigo aura
velvet moss and lime green coat
carrying an agile fiery tangerine hemline
Her palace cannot contain her magnificence
People from near and afar visiting her
admiring her royal and divine elegance
enchanted by her allure.

She is lonely!
For the pleasure of many
she is destined to the palace
watching the world fading away
grieving her once soaring freedom

Nobody knows her entrapment
Few expressed their fervent love
and went away buried in sorrow
accusing her of cold and aloof

No one knows
she is dying brokenhearted
in desolation..


( painting by Remigiusz Dobrowolski )

I am sitting in my worn cane chair

at my grainy raw timber desk

facing this window of lost youth

hoping to glimpse the scenery

before the dusk sinking into the night.

My hair is wiry and thin

salt and pepper without the spice.

My trembling, scaly hands raising to my skull.

My strawly fingers running along the scrawny sockets

to the elongated pointed nose

to the cold shrivaled lips.

They are the same track your hands and lips travelled.

Your faces are haunting me outside the window,

one by one, your faces of disappointment, hatred, wailing, brokenhearted, unforgiving…

playing screen by screen as the scenery of

my only connection to the outside world.

Here I am, in confinement

where I confessed all my wrongdoings, misbehaving, betrayals, poisonous venom.

I repaid all these with my youth, my solitary, my self inflicted torment

until I become a bag of bones, dust to dust, ashes to ashes…