Think Universe

For all my friends who’ve lost a baby

‘Think universe,’
said the tiny spider
as it climbed upon its web.

‘Think universe,’
said the river as it flowed
from the mountain
to the coast.

‘Think universe,’ said the star
as it looked on
down from space.

‘Think universe,’ cried the mother
as she danced the
memory of
their baby’s face.

The star died
so the spider cried then
cast a thin thread
from the mountain to the coast
made a cradle for their baby’s soul
as the mother’s tears zoomed
into the sky.

‘Breathe universe
from the small up to the large,’
sang the moon
removing grieving’s curse.

It reminded the mother
she could mend
a dying universe.

(c) June Perkins

We are made of tears

Bereavement Room

In a room to pretend
for a short time
we had a normal family life
our baby celebrating with us
but there’s no sound of her tears

what we would give for her cries.

In that space we discover
small gifts
from those who have lost their
loved tiny ones
only to be left with
little footprints
on cards.

The bed spread is covered in butterflies
so bright
so light
and we have time to take photographs
to treasure
as if she lived
before we must surrender
the one we love to lie on a bed
of our salt water.

The midwife, Clara,
is so strong
treating us as if we are
like any other parents
but our
hearts are made of tears.

She gives us just enough space
but not too much, catches our tears
as the butterflies fly off the bed
spread and around the room.

I remember the kicks
the time she lived
and danced
inside of me.

Jackson
remembers
playing her favourite music and
the way she would respond.

We must celebrate that she took a
few breaths
she did live for a few minutes.

Yet we are made of tears for her.
We long to dance with her not
for her.

We have to believe she is an angel
with butterfly wings now.

She flies through the clouds
of our tears.

(c) June Perkins

Jackson and Miranda in the bereavement room after the loss of their child. They are fictional characters but their emotions are real. I was watching a moving story about mid wives, and how some hospitals have a bereavement room where they take parents to, to give them time with their child before she or he must be buried. I am thinking of writing a piece from the perspective of the midwife. This documentary was so touching. I may rework this piece too, but this is the continuation of the poetic series. The plot is revealing itself.

Jackson Wheeler

Flying in the Wild — Flight – June Perkins

The day we lost our child
I had a dream
of her possible future
with us.

I wanted to comfort Miranda
to share her sorrow
to take our first steps
beyond
grief.

I couldn’t tell her about
the dream
of our future
lost.

I looked at her
unable to see
where to begin
except without words.

Our little one
lost her spin of life’s wheel
she would never
take first steps
with us.

Only in dreams
would we be together
life forever
unreal.

My heart like a brahminy kite
flew away to the calls of
our daughter and Miranda
wanting to land
somewhere
we could all take
flight
beyond
mortal frames
to be a family
once more.

I knew we would
have to settle on
a name for the one
who took her flight first.

(c) June Perkins

In this poem Jackson Wheeler speaks of the loss of their child. He wants to comfort Miranda. He wants to name their lost child.

Miranda’s Loss

butterfly eat — June Perkins – Butterfly

(I)

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.

flighthands-001 — Photography Art – June Perkins

Blue Bonnets

Funerals like rain
Fall from clouds
Young boys say ‘goodbye’
As father’s lowered to the ground

Mother stands alone
Tears become her shroud
Funeral goers utter not a sound.

She hears blue guitar strums
She’s pounding melancholy’s drums.

Texas and Tully are so far apart
Yet they share skies
Where hawks and heron fly

Storms and troubles rock both their shores
Warn their people to depart.

She tells her children
the legend of the Texas Blue Bonnet flower

A young girl gave up her warrior doll,
The last reminder of family,
To invoke a higher power.

She burnt her warrior doll
Its head dress of blue feathers
Offered up its ashes
To the North, South, East and West Winds
So hunger and loss it would tether.

She cried herself to sleep.
Let her memory weep.

When she awoke
Never before seen flowers,
Clambered the mountains
Birds made their bowers
People drank from hope’s fountains.

The mother with the shroud
Inside’s the little girl
Who’ll burn her own warrior doll
She knows what must be done

She’ll let her dreams unfurl.
She’ll wait till all sleep then
Pull out her favourite guitar
Take those blue cords
Burn them, banish them

Scatter their ashes,
North, South, East and West.

The dry season will begin
Floods have had their fun
A looking- to-the-future flower
will now begin to grow.

By June Perkins