Valley of rocks
reveal a playground
for the wedge-tailed pretender.
Legend tempts her
to find the air
with fruit bat wings.
Her mercurial feet
She mocks the air
brushes the rope
now super grips it.
Soft touch again
a tribute to the cherubs
throws away her training net
glides to the other side
to leave those chariots chanting
we’ll carry you home another day.
(c) June Perkins
Found some old poetry chap books I made for friends when I was in my twenties and thirties, so will be sharing some of the work from them but updating it just a little if necessary. This piece is an extract from Shadow Puppets p.1
“The companions of all who adore Thee are the tears they shed, and the comforters of such as seek Thee are the groans they utter, and the food of them who haste to meet Thee is the fragments of their broken hearts.” -Baha’u’llah, Epistle to the Son of the Wolf
I’ve been hard at work on the videos for during the kickstarter.
I decided to make a few short videos, and one that’s around 3 minutes.
This is partly due to people scanning through things so quickly on the internet you just need to make sure you have something that can say things in a catchy and short way.
It was interesting deciding the best way to show the images on film, and Helene sent me some videos of illustrator’s that she liked so I could study the editing style.
This was extremely helpful and gave me lots of inspiration to how to film her illustrations. So thanks so much for that Helene. One of the things I loved about the examples she sent me was how the camera pans and zooms could highlight the details within the picture and give the viewer an appreciation for the details in the…
I heard she made her kids promise to cremate her—
anything but anything not to go into that cold ground alone.
I remember…I was young, but old enough (and am now old,
but young enough) to know how transitory it all was, even then:
how hot it was and she in just her bra, her kids looking scared
(something I was not used to and still wonder about)
while she smoked her long thin menthols and asked me
for a glass of ice water.
I wouldn’t, today, know one of my cousins (twice removed)
if I met one, nor have a clue, life being what it is, as to
their scatterings and shatterings, or what they embrace
and what they cannot. But I recall how slippery that glass was
with the condensation running down my back
and how the ice didn’t rattle as I handed it to her,
although it was a near thing. Now I rather think it might,
not that I care where they bury me.
The photograph was taken at Benjamin Franklin’s grave in Philadelphia, PA. To see…