By June Perkins and Friends
My latest poem published by Australian Children’s Poetry in response to the prompt word association.
Grass Skirt
Kilt clan patterns
Mother’s hands twisting string for homemade
video to keep tradition strong
Once made from plants now plastic too
Scratching identity from legs to ankles
Calling out for head dress and for beads
Bare feet beating dance on earth
Sway and swish
Past, present and future steps
Given by my mother to say
You are grown
By June Perkins
I continue a journey through my journals and it is inspiring me to want to keep a detailed one again. I find lists of trips we made, parties we went to, wildlife parks we were at, names of all the people we spent a lot of time with, books I read and more.
These days I have scatty notes on facebook and the occassional writing session once a month and a letter to my children once a year, that’s not to say I haven’t been writing but then I journalled so many things.
I came across this piece (p.347) written for friends – I’ve removed their names though.
I don’t know if I ever gave it to them or if it only remained a thought bubble to develop.
Mother and child
Sand printing her spirit
into the imprint of her baby’s smile
taking a multicoloured blanket
and rippling it for his delight.
Teaching him early – we are all one
all the people blanketing the earth.
Hoping he’ll want to serve humanity
from an early age.
Father and child
Eternal didgeridoo player blows
love’s texture betwixt father and child
cradled by Baha’u’llah.
They rock back and forth
cocooned in the covenant
reaching for music and dance.
One day he’ll earn his name.
The child
Agoo, agoo, agoo
[translation love you, and you and you]
(c) June Perkins
(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.
.
Image Credit Creative Commons, some rights reserved Michael Scott
This wheel doesn’t turn
the way that it should
it just has a soul of its own.
Frustration is crawling
under my skin
wheeling all over my day.
This wheel doesn’t turn
the way that it should
left is right
right is left
how I wish it would burn.
This feral stray
ignores toddlers’ screaming dismay
This suburban dragon metal
Oh how I long it a kettle.
I want to escape
but not sure that I can
with a wheel that
don’t want to turn.
Time now I be a knight
train this disobedient trolley
left for left
right for right
but it’s an unruly
windy upturned brolley.
So now I use logic’s magic
take left for right
and right for left
to help us out through the maze.
I think we can, I think we can
ride our dragon
beyond this shopping malaise
reclaim our souls as our own
valiantly take the dreaded shopping home.
(c) June Perkins
Unfolding ripples of winter
whispers arrival’s soon
out come layered garments
wrapping around tender skin
every garment feels too thin
Bye bye butterflies
sunlight splash on takeaway cups
warm rim
(c) June Perkins, words and image
A very happy mother’s day to all the Mums, Grandmums, Aunties and relatives who stand in as or support mums and single Dads who do the same, may you be appreciated today and always. This was written especially for my mum.
I was a well groomed young lady because my mother always made it so.
She stressed ironed clothes, well brushed hair, and the best selection of hand-me-downs and St Vincent Wear, with the occasional new bargain thrown in.
Early photo albums always show her well dressed, but not conventionally so.
Sometimes she’s in saris, other times she’s in mini dresses with bee-hive hair.
Sometimes she’s in a grass skirt with a bikini top (because it’s Australia) ready for national dress events.
Make-up carefully applied, long lashes, now she looks like a Supreme.
Later there are leopard print clothes and bright vibrant purples and blues.
She’s usually slim, sometimes a little well- rounded, but only for a short time, then she’s slim again.
She moves (on a budget) with the times.
She moves with new geographies, Australia, not Papua New Guinea now.
She was generous with everything, including my time.
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