Losing Parents

Sometimes when I can’t find the words for someones loss
I send leaves, flowers and hearts
a poetry of stickers
for them to interpret how they wish

If I know them well I might
share a special memory of the person
lost and how that will always be
like gold.

But when stickers, and flowers, and
everything just don’t seem to fit
I scroll past silently and think of them
and write this to send.

For anyone of my friends and readers who has lost a parent

To all my friends losing parents this week
I don’t know your parents except
through anything you do that is inspired by them,
and anything you build in their legacy,

Or anything you do opposite to them (because you need to),
but you still loved them because
they made you see yourself clearly.

To all the friends losing parents
in the last few years,
who still feel that loss, maybe you
hear their wisdoms, jokes, and
see again funny things at
the oddest moments.

Perhaps you look forward to
seeing them again one day and
catching up.

Or maybe they are reincarnated
in someone else you know
in some way
in the shape of face
or character
or some other way

Celebrating all the positives in our parents,
living and present, gone but still present, and
future parents too,
about to join this fold.

All who have this blessing,
could well ask,
what will our children write of us?

(I will keep reflecting on this theme and go searching for a poem or story that might express
it more eloquently)

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.

Requiem

Skeleton lights shine
On Aphrodite’s chorus
Forcing us to bow down
And start exploring her library on love.

Feverish bones fly
Towards Mount Olympus
Trying to unearth
From the library cemetery
Your mythical- emotions.

Perseus persuades you
To consider me
An impossibility,

While Hades calls
For your rejection of my heart.

Buried in your
Pencil coloured sea
You write your requiem mass.

A hundred syllables,
A hundred notes on
And you are gone.

A legend
I leave you in
The skeleton light.

(I wrote this poem when I was 17. I was reading a lot of mythology at the time. I was sitting in a library too! I published an excerpt of it before
but here is the whole poem)
(c) June Perkins

Requiem

Perseus persuades you
to consider me
an impossibility,
while Hades calls
for your rejection of my heart.

Buried in your
pencil coloured sea
you write your requiem mass.

A hundred notes on
and you are gone
a legend
I leave you in
the skeleton light.

By June Perkins

Fragment of a poem I wrote when I was a teenager. Not sure if I can find the rest of the poem
Love the artist who has many intriguing and symbolic works featured on his flickr pages –hKoppdelaney

Teaspoons in the Garden

Tea In The Park — Paradise Circus -Flickr Creative Commons

One less teaspoon in the drawer
one more in the garden beds
one more beneath
my children’s favourite tree.

I know this for sure
they’re not anywhere near
my beloved teapot
& searching’s become a daily chore.

One more time I say,
“Can you return them to the drawer?
We need them to spoon
sugar into tea.”

& then I think sugar cubes might
avoid this never ending battle
or perhaps giving up sugar altogether
is the key
it’s probably about time
with my expanding waistline.

There’s teaspoons all over the garden
pity they can’t sprout like seeds
& grow up to the kitchen drawer
then I’d have teaspoons by the dozen
to stir my lemon zinger tea.

They could be like flowers
all sorts of pretty colours
with different kinds of handles
matching garden floral cups.

Games of make believe
won’t make this dream come true
but time will grow
children who borrow teaspoons
into teenagers who
ask for car keys & head for open doors.

Perhaps then
I’ll long for precious days
searching for teaspoons
in their garden trails

But now
it might be time to call them
& embrace
the joys of treasure hunts.

By June Perkins