Kite Girl

Pearlz Dreaming

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.]

View original post

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