I tried writing μαντινάδες
In English not in Greek
I struggled with the words
The metaphors were not neat
For English felt too ugly
With lumps in the wrong places
Its flow was unfamiliar
Its beauty merely traces
I dug through all the words
And wrote them down on paper
They read back technically
Of man but not of nature
English remains useful
Sturdy like a house
For life it is a lion
To live it is a mouse
I picked up the λύρα
I practiced alone
With company of only a memory
Of a life I never lived
And of a vision of a future
I know can never happen
I lost my poems
in the pages of my notebook
I flicked through the pages
and found only emptiness
Water from the sky
The river’s great source
Will reach its destination
With unstoppable force
The river and mountain
Move water together
Water on flat land
Is a lake not a river
Past weeds, stones and trees
The water will flow
Sometimes it goes fast
Sometimes it goes slow
When the world changes
The rivers change paths
They think not of their future
They care not of their past
The path can change slowly
Moves great earth away
Nothing can stop it
It will find a way
The paths and earth change
The water has patience
The animals and trees
Will find a new balance
Source to destination
Flow fast and flow slow
Paths ever changing
Life seems to know
But even the river
Can freeze or can dry
For the snow, sun and water
Are the will of the sky
I hope I never find out
Just how bad it can be
Ignorance is bliss
Some things I don’t want to see
The paper bleeds
My pen a blade
Through both of my eyes
My heart feels the pain
When poetry lives between
dreams and reality
Sleep deprivation
Is the mother of my creation
It is idyllic
Books floor to ceiling
A worn crimson carpet
The aroma of paper and adhesive
Of new and old books
The silence is only broken
By the slowly opened door
The bell chiming as patrons enter
Hushed questions at the counter
And polite recommendations
The shelves snake around the store
More colourful around each corner
Travel to Politics
History to Philosophy
Fiction to Poetry
As the books change
I slip into the dream
Of the store which consumes me
And I find myself
Surrounded by myths
There is a one seat
By the poetry section
The only section worthy
Of protection from the foot traffic
For deep contemplation after sampling
It’s a small section
And confronts me with unknown names
A needle in a haystack
Is easier to find
Than a relevant book of poetry
I searched the names
For something familiar
For a Greek name
I sat and searched with my eyes
My other senses surrender to the store’s spell
At the counter
I overhead a recommendation for a book
From a Swedish poet
It was made abundantly clear
The poet was Swedish
I turned back to the shelf
There were no Greek poets
But there were Greek poems
I looked back to the fiction
There were no Greek authors
But there were Greek narratives
I looked back to the philosophy
There was no Greek language
But there were Greek collections
I looked back to the history
There were no Greek publishers
But there were Greek stories
I looked back to the politics
There was no Greek writers
But there was a Greek Crisis
I looked back to the travel
There was a Greek Island guide
But there were no Greek contributors
Turning back to poems
The realisation was rough
A story or poem alone
Simply isn’t enough
Off of the chair
I unwound myself of the store
Back away from the fiction
and towards the front door
The book store became
A little less than ideal
Not quite literary oasis
Somewhat more real
I suppose it shouldn’t bother me
To see others share the culture
To transform and interpret it
Treat it with respect and honour
But it feels a little odd
And strange to confront
That for all those Greek stories
No Greek voices not one
There’s something big missing
In these book collections
Evergreen stories
Second hand recollections
There’s more to a book
Than words on its pages
Which voice passes these stories
Down through the ages?
We have learnt our lesson
We waited a million times
In the past the food was cold
But now the food is fine
The social club is busy
Just as its always been
The kitchen is still chaos
No system can be seen
The fans wait near to order
And then they wait for food
By the time it comes to them
The game’s already resumed
We have learnt our lesson
We don’t wait any more
We don’t pregame in the Social Club
We eat on Clarendon Street before
The home of Postecoglou
And all that he represents
Is still the home of winners
It strives to be the best
The mens team makes the finals
The womens team does too
The juniors develop superstars
Well, at least they say they do
I recently went to Lakeside
Watched the players live their dream
They won the game but looked more like
A Graham Arnold team
Why am I consumed by writing
I should be working
I check emails wryly
As my productivity wanes
When days pass by with worry
And boredom comes in waves
I pass the time wearily
Better to write as I wait
They can write and speak
About something valuable
But they are hungry
How can so many people
be triggered by a single account
if they all agree it is invalid
and it’s opinions do not count
How can so many people
change they minds about another
based on one of their fans
who shows only one colour
How can so many people
complain they are blocked
by an account they don’t like
one they think should be stopped
How can so many people
React angry by default
In reaction to tweets
Consumed without salt
His tweets are extreme
No need for a sleuth
They’re clearly one sided
Even when they hold truth
Facts are just facts
Until they are not
Facts used for agendas
Can be flipped on the spot
In the extreme
The agendas are clear
Two angry sides
Neither sincere
They each cry greater good
But their real intentions
Are not bettering their the world
Just their own situations
Rather than build
They throw rocks at the other
For when their rivals are hurt
The seem to feel better
Building is hard
And so is reflection
Mean tweets and memes
Are easier than lessons
The NSL is dead
The A-League is struggling
The Herald Sun just sits back
And watches while laughing
The problems are real
Solutions won’t happen
As long all parties
Maintain toxic division
The self-interest is not
Contained to your rival
Everyone has it
All fan can be vile
The noise that is created
By relentless accounts
Is best just ignored
We should know when to log out
Two Chicken Breasts
Eggs, Feta, Yogurt, Olives
Oregano, Salt, Pepper, Olive Oil, Balsamic Vinegar
Bread, Chickpeas, Potatoes, Rice
Cucumber, Tomatoes, Red Onion, Garlic, Lemon
My Great Great Grandparents
told my Grandparents the stories
My Great Grandparents
never met my Parents
My Grandparents
Couldn’t speak my language
My parents will speak to my children
In a language they understand
I will speak to my grandchildren
If I am lucky enough to meet them
But the chain is broken
The stories lost between Greece and Australia
ehhere 
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