Kite Girl


She looks at the kite small and bright

She wonders if she can make herself light

For the air and for the possibility of flight

She checks out the string and the physics of things

She follows the plastic rainbow streamers that will make it work

And she dreams of what life seems in the centre of rings

She is the kite girl who has found her inner bling

She will dance and take the breath out of the wasps sting

She is the kite and the kite is her.

At least that’s what she thinks as the world blinks.

(c) June Perkins

[Time to start making some poetry films I think – putting video, poetry, photography and performance together.]

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Fourteen Summers of Discontent

I have a Dream Wall – June Perkins and wall artist

It’s my first poetry festival and I’m about to take a risk and read a rebel poem about a fight with Mum, can I do it? What will Mum do?

I had to read it. Fourteen summers of discontent as the big sister came over me.

It was my first poetry festival. Mr Kidd, my English teacher had encouraged me to share some work.

The garden of faces looking back at me included: my short Mekeo Mum and tall Australian Dad, fellow poets looking kind of poetical, people who I assumed liked listening to poetry as well as a few of the town’s local English teachers.

For the rest of the story and to leave a comment please head over to ABC Open’s 500 Words.

Bark Telephone

Mere- Flickr Creative Commons –

Each clump of bark upon this tree is like a phone line to the past,
just place a piece against your ear. Oh! Wouldn’t that be such a blast?
What could this ancient gum reveal, where many tribes once freely walked,
I’d hear about the dreamtime age and learn from elders while they talked.

Then every scene I would relive just with the closing of my eyes,
and view our dreamtime animals beneath Australia’s clear skies.
I’d hear about the Ooyan man how, as a curlew why he cries,
or young Wayamba, changing to a turtle still with roving eyes.

Then, lands our young mate Captain Cook who claims our land as England’s own,
he raised old ‘Jack’ on virgin shore, a site where Sydney has now grown.
Our past was built on convict stock, for minor crimes they all were sent
to penal sites along our coast where life was cruel and years were spent.

I hold another piece of bark and hear new stories that were told,
about Eureka’s failed stockade or those caught in the search for gold.
Then learned about young Robert Burke who joined by Wills went to explore,
and perished on that trip to be the first to reach the northern shore.

I dream that there are rows of trees that store our history so clear,
and all one really has to do is hold some bark against one’s ear.
We have our heroes from the past, there’s been so many through the years
who forged their way on dusty tracks, and left behind their loved ones tears.

These grand trees from our vast outback or giants on our sprawling coast
have lived our growing history, I’m sure they’d keep us all engrossed.
I’m startled by a barking owl just as the campfire starts to fade,
now tucked inside my battered swag, I lie where once some tribes had stayed.

So as my eyes begin to close and, sheltered by this old gum tree,
I thank my lucky stars for my own time of wandering so free.
And wonder how my life would be, without the need of coin or quid
to travel through our changing land, and walk like pioneers once did.

(Courtesy) David Delaney

Flickr Creative Commons – OATSY40

David is an award winning poet resident in North Queensland. He has published three books of poems.
A big thanks for sharing his poetry here.
You can find out more about him at the following links:

A Baby Smiles

Kyaabo – Flickr Creative Commons

A baby smiles
she survived the rubble
in Japan

a writer smiles
she saw a rainbow

a walk with bright yellow umbrellas
in the rain

a feeling that life
will go on once again

sending off packages of illustrations
and words
to meet dignitaries

wondering if they
will hear our joy
as well as our sorrow

a walk with purple orchids
in the wind

true friends emerge
to give us

firm and staunch
hearing our sorrow
and our joy

turning myself inside out
and upside down
to walk with peace

harmonicas on a Sunday
show that birthdays
can be cool in
a Bob Dylan kind of moment
for the young

cyclone forged friendships
will go on

surviving all the loss
we cannot know

embracing all the human depths

By June Perkins

New Day Dawning

                                                     Taken by David Perkins

Sleeping beauties
now Tsunamis.

Waves of sleep
waves of ocean
weekend mornings
nightmare’s yawning.

The city’s parades’ loud raucous calls,
the country singers under the stars.

Morning papers
cuppa tea
quakes here and there
warnings come and go
some to higher ground
do flow.

Connecting and disconnecting,
people come and people go
people lonely,
people happy.

Waves of depression
cross the World
People need hope
hope seeks them.

Seek no building or bridge
seek the open arms
and cuppa tea.

Light entertainment
surrounds the news
waves of silliness
waves of laughter.

Ripples come
and ripples go.

Fashions come
fashions go.

Still the open arms
and cuppa tea
beckon across the sea.

New Day dawning?

By June Perkins

Like it or not: Golden Brown Skin and Frizzy Hair

I was born skin golden brown
hair thick and frizzy.
I used to think these were things to overcome.

Walking childhood bw1
Walking Childhood – By June Perkins

I’d do everything to hide my curly hair
put it under bandanas and scarves.
comb it a hundred times to try and make it straight
cut it, pull it out, twist it into ringlets,
ringlets are better than frizz, aren’t they?
pray somehow I’d wake up and it would be straight and easy to brush.

As for my skin, I didn’t change it, but sometimes it felt a burden.
Some people said, ‘You are so lucky you don’t need to tan.’
‘You have to work harder at school people will judge you by it,’ said my Dad who had seen so much prejudice and wanted to protect me.
I learnt that some people judge you by the colour of your skin & some don’t.

They accept you for who you are.
I learnt about ‘internal colonisation’
& read The Colour Purple.
A mother of a friend combed my frizzy hair.
She said ‘it’s so beautiful.’
I never forgot what she said.
It had more power than any unkindness after that.

Here I am now,
my skin has psoriasis
& it’s not just golden brown but full of pink patches that itch.

I have no control,
try everything to get rid of it
& people tell me everything they’ve heard to get rid of it

I listen patiently
I’ve heard it all before
but nothing cures it,
I wish it would.

I keep trying,
live in hope of managing it better,
have learnt detachment gives strength.

My hair is curly still,
it has white strands wound through dark curls.

I smile, laugh, write
nurture, dream,
no matter what my hair or skin are doing,
or changing into.

I have learnt I am not the sum of my external being
but a collection of experiences, including inner ones, moulding me into

My obstacles were a way of thinking
& that I can control.

By June Perkins

Sea Dragon

Sea Dragon, Birch aquarium
Asparrot – flickr Creative commons

I hear the wind
The sea dragon must be on its wingless flight
So far from its underwater palace.

Where are the places through which my
Footsteps wander without me?
Jeweled hearts are there.

The sea dragon is dining
Chewing away the past and future
Breathing out fire
Spreading through water

The sea dragon rises to the surface
The ocean surges as it flies to
The superior heavens.

I hear the rains descend
The sea dragon must be on its wingless flight.
Far from the feeding frenzy it hears
From its four sisters
Who wander through palaces of Jade and Jasper.

I see my house unrooved
Metal darting down the streets
It must be the breath of the Dragon King
Sending out his eternal din.

I hear the wind
The sea dragon must be on its wingless flight.

By June Perkins