Basket of Light

Not sure if this a poem or a meditation.

Gumboootspearlz

In the late afternoons baskets of light weave themselves into the branches.

They catch the sun and make it into petals and stars dancing through circles.

I love to watch  for these baskets of light. Click them into my camera and hold them in an image.

If only children could climb into them away from the world’s fights.

They could beam their future, their dreams, their innocent light into the hearts of all them that are too attached to land and ideals that separate and antagonise.

Oh for the baskets of light that give the human spirit might. If only they could capture hate and ignorance and burn them away.

The sky cannot be owned. The sun cannot be captured. The light shines on all, through the baskets of light.  

(c) June Perkins, words and image.

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Grey and White

Grey and white streaks
begin to lace themselves through my hair.

I embrace
the signs of wisdom
chasing through me there,

And all around me others dye
and tease their hair to conceal their age
but that is their affair.

I don’t mind that they want to do this
and hold onto their esteem
but why does one say to me
‘You should dye your hair
you look so ancient and so old’

I explain to her
when I was younger
I looked younger than my age
and am happy to embrace
the white and grey that now
dance through my life.

She cannot take a hint
and simply doesn’t understand
I don’t need a bottled colour
to conceal the process I’m now in
and now she wants to know the colour of my youth.

Why do so many worship forever staying young?

I am happy to see silver starlight
in my hair
it doesn’t make me blue
to become an ancient woman
with an ancient wisdom.

When did aging gracefully
become so easily scorned
and not needing a disguise
become so fervently despised?

I take the process of my life
and seek an inner dye
where my soul’s forever dancing
outside my body’s time.

(c) June Perkins
(c) Image Zedetta Art

Handle with Care

A poem for peace

Gumboootspearlz

the morning news unsettles
and reminds
for many there is no luxury
to look for daily balance

only the beginning of an end

lives blasted out of the sky
children bombed on the beach
apocalyptic movies due
at the cinema soon

and on the way to when healing arrives
the places where there is the

beginning of a beginning

every moment
is now handle with care

the places where tear drops
bomb the hope just out of reach

long for the time
visions of one world
might be in the real world soon

the temporary bandages we put on things
attempted treaties delicately achieved
are never enough

when will they make way for the time
when unity might
beam its sunlight
through leaves of green
to blind the apocalypse of now?

(c) June Perkins

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Ancient Ones

Identity Feet by June Perkins

Ancient ones watch unseen
I never see them but others do.

They take them to be spirits that protect
and wonder that I can’t see them
when to them they’re so clear.

Uncle Neville comes to stay
tells me
‘there’s an old man watching outside your door.’

Later an old woman is listening to my poetry
as I stand in New Zealand before Maori women’s writing group
as their guest

Are they my bubus or are they more ancient still?
Where do they come from to remain unseen?

Do I feel their breath whenever I sing
calling to me
words to unpack the unknown?

Ancient ones form
invisible threads of light
stitch the bird song
the stars and insight.

(c) June Perkins, words and image

The World is All Gates

Gumboootspearlz

The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

lined with red blooms announcing possibility
the road beyond calls out its journeys
to gardens of elsewhere

lined with mist dissolving
found light

cascading into filtered gold
on the fields of search

muddling with its metaphor
it is the surname
of a wealthy man named Bill
who gives for others journeys
to the opportunities of elsewhere

it opens for the returning soldier
and the new refugee

riddling with its structure
questioning its purpose
beyond open and shut

it is frozen in the
beauty of welcome

(c) June Perkins

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