Shadow Dancers

Sharing this poem from SaintCharlotte’s Sanctuary Blog.

Love reading other poetry blogs 😉


We dance with our souls
in the deepening shadows.
Pirouetting in gray places.
Gingerly entering, uncertainly
on preordained social stages —
surrounded by expectant faces.
Spinning around
with disembodied dreams,
in fragile unsynchronized themes.
Stepping into life
with toes pointed,
heels drawn like knives.
Perhaps in a poised attempt
to be indifferently different?
Trying to rework everything
we supposedly know.
Choreographing shades
into familiar beats
of accepted mortality,
and our own versions
of cathartic reality.

Photo. Web. AbuDhabi Week. “Dancing in the Dark”.

Featured Image: Photo. Web. Living a Creative Life with Melissa Dinwiddie. “Playing Big Instead of Dancing in the Shadows”.

View original post


What’s in a Name?

Photo – By June Perkins

The issue of names
would come up once again
when their child
still wriggled in the womb.

This unborn child
loved to kick to Opera.

She didn’t want to think about
the lost child
and had been avoiding opera lately.

But this man from the butterfly house
who she walked beside
what could his name be?

She had to read what his face said
open with dark eyes she couldn’t see into
but wanted to.

He was almost precisely her height
putting them on an equal footing.

He moved lightly
as she glided besides him.

What about names that went with

Could this be a test?

Could his name be Ferdinand?
What if his name was Caliban?

Could people really be matched by name
or astrology, or perhaps his name was something
to do with the birds he loved?


It would be so strange
to meet another who seemed to be
named just for her.

She opened her mouth and the name
she thought he should have tumbled out …

(c) June Perkins

Miranda wonders about names, could she have just met Ferdinand?

Our First Walk

2014-08-16 002
Rainbow on my Path – June Perkins

Our first walk
past the rainbow mosaics on the path
developed the beginning of
our short hand.

His short sentences about working as
a falconer
had me intrigued.

I had heard of this ancient art
but never before met a practitioner.

We could barely breathe words into the world
of our first meeting.

I didn’t know where his sentences
would end and he kept leaving me
wanting to know more

I would later discover he had a tendency to leave
them hanging …

like cliffhanger.

When I asked him his name
he countered me with a question.

What do you think it is?


Miranda discovers her true love is a falconer, but she still has to guess his name.

(c) June Perkins

What do you think Miranda’s true loves name should be?

Meeting Love

Image – June Perkins

I met him at the butterfly house
in the zoo.

I remember butterflies
settling all around him
drawing attention to his presence.

He was so still.

A small girl, with a rainbow hat,
watched the scene
but she giggled and jumped
– the butterflies scattered.

Delighted at their flight
she grabbed her mother’s hand
and they moved on to follow the butterflies
further into the enclosure.

But my eyes could not;
they remained on the still man
who seemed to remain in a sublime moment.

He blinked and then
looked straight towards me.

I blushed
to be captured staring
which was not something
I normally did so indiscreetly.

A smile settled in his face
and he said ‘Whenever I come here I remember home.’
this was our opening .

I would usually have brushed such a greeting away
as I liked to keep to myself
when out in public places
where everyone was a stranger
but something drew me in,

‘Where’s home?’


‘Ah you have great butterflies there,’ I ventured.

‘Yes, we do.’

I waited for more,
but he simply began to walk
and so did I.

Butterflies were our beginning.

(c) June Perkins

Image – June Perkins

Perhaps it is more poetic prose than poetry, but the adventures of Miranda continue.  Before we journey through her grief we meet her finding love in the butterfly house.

Miranda’s Loss

butterfly eat
June Perkins – Butterfly


In my skin
there’s a butterfly
forever captured
dancing to the beat of my sweat.

It’s dedicated to
the memory of my lost child.

At the moment I keep my weight constant to
keep her memory alive.

But if another child should arrive
and make my skin stretch
maybe it will be time to let go
so the tattoo can mark my
journey back from grief.

Maybe then I’ll have a new tattoo to
celebrate the child I
am finally able to have
perhaps another butterfly.

Am I lost,
to mark out my grief deep into my skin?
To feel the tattooist working the picture into my skin
that is nothing compared to grief.

The pain of losing my
child’s heart beating
inside of me
is too much to bear so

I had to bury it in
the butterfly tattoo that
perches on my back.

(c) June Perkins

This poem is written as a character, and not me personally.  I am thinking her name will be Miranda.

I wonder if she will name her lost child.  I walk through this character’s grief and recovery and will have her speak to people she knows about how she is feeling, or not, or maybe go find her favourite camping spot. 

I will concentrate on  her journey to see where it takes me.  I feel like writing poetry as fictional characters for a while.

Photography Art – June Perkins



Another beauty from Paul.

Poesy plus Polemics

"Crow's Eye 1" Sketch by Margaret Urban From “Crow’s Eye 1”
Sketch by Margaret Urban

the crow’s eye
can see me
in fact it sees
through me
to voices
once heard
in a hurricane
grim revelations
dark animate
echoes that still
haunt my hollows
where marrow
fled destiny
spilled itself
into chilled cups
of glass wind

I will not
be afraid
not again
will I shiver
at words
in my brain
I will not
black birds
are omens
not even this
creature with
lips speaking
under its breath
“I can see you”

View original post

Matters of Faith

I regularly visit Paul’s poetry blog. He has such wide ranging interests and a great love of language. Thanks for permission to reblog this Paul.

Poesy plus Polemics

"Heavy Sea Fog" Photo by Captain Brian Holaway From “Heavy Sea Fog”
Photo by Captain Brian Holaway

fog sits on my eyes
it obliterates truth
every place I can look
a miasma of gray
hides the blue of the sky
and the green of the sea
but I know they are there
the blue and the green
and the knowing makes
all of the difference

View original post

Ecology Quest – am I living a second childhood ?

2014-05-10 2014-05-10 001 051
Stories in the Stone, Land, and Songs – June Perkins

Whilst thinking about how to deepen my writing about place – a love for ecological writing, nature writing, and an idea for a new book of poetry and story has been born, or surfaced.  Looking back I see there are hints of it, that perhaps I didn’t take notice of at the time, even though artists like Sasi Victorie and a writer/philosopher Nell Arnold told me it was there.

Every new essay and book read has been triggering an outpouring of thought. I follow trails, that seem to connect and double back on each other. Connections I could never have forseen appear – opera, wandering men who make the land their home, crocodiles, and plants weeping flowers that want to be named,

Songs of birds and humans, layers of land, story, culture, – the power of names, and the biographies of ecologists have been adding themselves to my consciousness, and rather than confusing they are clarifying and deepening my love for understanding the world around me.

An adolescent love of biology, a delight in the many documentaries of David Attenborough, and a love of stars have been combining to take me on a new writing journey.  I find myself watching documentaries on the origin of black holes. I look up the stories of the places I live in to find out: what the street names mean, who the Original peoples and Indigenous language groups are, and what are my old and new suburbs current cultural  and age demographics.  

Art at the Goma – in Brisbane

In a picture book idea I find myself searching for a bird call I want to represent in language and following a trail of bird sites  This leads me to exploring side track after side track, but the time is not wasted. I am creatively gathering – building a nest, or is it wings.  I am asking questions like what did the birth of the moon cause?  I alternate between a nature essay and a notebook of ideas for poems, with snatches of yet to be fully formed verse.

Am I living a second childhood, or discovering this is a way I want to be more in the world?  Why is this way of being in the world, being more aware of its many layers, actually making me feel closer to my own soul?

Ah it seems something to unpack in poetry, that is for sure.

 (c) June Perkins, words and images