Pythian Games

put on your track shoes and write the miles

Posts Tagged ‘Gumbootspearlz

Leaf for the Past

with 6 comments

leaf girl

Leaf for the past

Leaf for the future

Delicate

Living on the branch

Falling to the ground

Learning and growing

From seed to sapling

Leaf girl

Girl of leaves

Grow strong.



(c)  June Perkins, images and words all rights reserved

More work on   World Citizen Dreaming

Written by June

August 16, 2009 at 10:19 am

Posted in A Poem a Day, Gumbootspearlz

Tagged with

Ocean

with 4 comments

water studies 1

Ocean

We dive deep into the

Blue swirl

Looking for a dew drop

Our hands

Swirl through the salt

Renunciation at our finger tips

Blue Swirl

Blue dew drop

To sprinkle like

Soul fragments becoming

Like glitters from glow worms

We light

Up the dark

With the

Blue swirl

End up seeking more pearls

Our hands

Reach out to turn the page

Swirl through the power of words

That come from some

Other world

We light up the dark

With the pearls

Hung around the borders

Of our soul

Renunciation not just on our lips

But deep in the soul swirl.

Inspired by 2 Ruhi section 1.

(c) June Perkins, all rights reserved on images and words

umbrella girl walks 2

For more poetry Unity’s Garden

Written by June

August 12, 2009 at 3:53 am

Posted in Gumbootspearlz

Tagged with

It begins with ….

with 10 comments

believe in the possibility - dream

It starts with the lap top, the voice of a girl and the rain. It begins with no distraction, a desk, a window, and ends up following the distraction of imagination. It beats down like the water from the boats travelling in the sky and cuts up the clouds.

The memory rains down and says, ‘they will give you a red typewriter and you will never stop writing. You are the girl with the red smiley stories.’ It says ‘Your life was a fairytale,’ to which you say, ‘I don’t know what you mean. How can that be so?’

Yet, looking back you see, the witches, the fairies, the birth of a dragon from the rainforest and you know there is a fairytale to be told. You still resist and in contempt fire back: ‘I haven’t done anything heroic, I haven’t survived a tragedy, climbed a super tall mountain, become a movie star, who would want to read my stories.’

‘Look again,’ says the memory rain. Now you see it, the mother who lets go of her children to send them out into the world with a shell song, the sister who hears messages from the soul garden as the Willy Wagtail comes to visit, the mother who must make sense of death and recover from an attempted home invasion, and a woman who has left the South to live in the North and in her attempt to leave is haunted by ghosts from the north who hide in her boot.

You can hear story ghosts singing out in the cane, smell pumpkin pie, transform rusty tin into gold coins- because you are a storyteller’s Godmother, you are memory and imagination dancing hand, in hand with constant change.

People can change, can transform, can write everyday just like breathing and they can change what they understand the past as I cannot cry for what I cannot predict, rather I hope for what I dream into being.
Is this your real life, or your past re-imagined- is it fiction, faction, myth or fantasy? Is this a dream from which the story is woken? Now you are off to be a ‘story catcher’ as Christina Baldwin describes.
It ends with the lap top, the woman, the rain and the opening of tub after tub of honey full of story.

believe in the possibility - dream

Image: believe in the possibility dream – by gumbootspearlz
(c) June Perkins all rights reserved —Excerpt from Work in progress Island Rock Girl

More of June’s work is at Unity’s garden

Written by June

July 16, 2009 at 1:59 am

Moon and Fire

with 3 comments

meditation on fire2

Look into the flame
What do you see?
Do you see stories
Of how the fire came to be?

Look up to the moon
What do you imagine?
The bush lemon
Looks so much bigger
From this angle
It could roll away the moon.

Dad has put some bush lemons
Into the fire
The moon has had the final laugh.

(c) Words and Images June Perkins

More of June’s work can be found at Unity’s Garden

Written by June

July 9, 2009 at 4:02 am

Cicada Hands

with 6 comments

This was written for a friend on flickr and is in response to his photo of his Dad’s hands.

Dad & the Cicadas 2004, originally uploaded by Mr. TRONA.

For Mr Trona and family

Father has changed now
But always I shall see his
Cicada hands
The gentle bend of their fingers
As beseeching time beckons.

His memory is not the sum of him
Nor is his skin
Not even the words that gurgle out of the
Brook of his mouth.

Father is here now as he was
Back then time beckoned him
To where he is now.

Outside of time is mother’s love
A Wife’s love,
My love, his love
Nestled in cicada hands.

((c) Image Mr Trona, (c) Words Gumbootspearlz

More of June’s Work can be found at World Citizen Dreaming

Written by June

September 7, 2008 at 3:39 am

Virtue Hands

with 2 comments

For Kerry’s prompt on hands- I wrote this a while ago but it seems to fit with your theme.
I love taking photographs of hands. I’ll post a collage when I find a chance to make it.

Virtues Hands

Virtues hands virtues hands

Palms that knead the bread that could feed us all.

Fingers you strum the heart of a guitar

Type the words of freedom’s song

Making daisy chains for him

It’s your homage to a king.

Hands that plant a tiny seed

Words becoming a mighty tree.

Virtues hands virtues hands

You dig and plant

You nurture you sow

You’re the handprints in the wind

And the angels put you there

You lead and you do

What the Hidden words say.

Virtues hands virtues hands

Palms that knead the bread that could feed us all

Fingers you strum the heart of a guitar

Type the words of freedom’s song

(c) words and image all rights reserved Gumbootspearlz, June Perkins. 2008

More of June’s Work can be found at World Citizen Dreaming

Written by June

September 3, 2008 at 11:58 pm

Let it Breathe …

with 7 comments

Let the story breathe. Take out all its clutter and carve its meaning into a single sentence. Then build that into a paragraph. From there a chapter and then another, another and another. Let your reader stop along the way to ponder, move them along with excitement and emotion, but always let them breathe.

I am back in a yoga class and I am pondering the breath. My son has come to the class with me and he too is pondering his rhythm. My son likes to pace, up and down, up and down. He is never still. “Can’t you be still and breathe in and out,” I ask. Perhaps though I need to let him pace. Pacing is a movement where he finds himself, ponders things, unlocks doors I can never really comprehend. He is like a clock ticking and tocking. I have always found a ticking tocking clock difficult to listen to when I am trying to find stillness.

My Mum used to be like a series of ticks and I wondered when she would tock. She was out of rhythm with me. She was a constant beating percussive instrument that I couldn’t find out how to relate to. Maybe it was the distance between us, generations, and cultures (she is Papua New Guinea, Bush Mekeo raised). I tried to understand her, and as time passed it became easier. I found though I had to move away and find a space to breathe. Maybe it was the clutter of three brothers and our Dad and the constant noise and hustle and bustle that is family that made it so hard.

Our instructor tells us its time to move into a cat pose. I move as gently as I can into the shape required. Yet I am waiting for my favourite part of the class. The cool down, the gentle breathe in and out and arms raise and head rolls. I am a relaxation princess. When we arrive at that time of the class I am so proud of myself, my inner karma is realigned. I have to shake my son awake and tell him it is time to go and wait for our lift. He has found a way to settle, and he doesn’t need to pace. He is a relaxation prince.

That was many years ago and my son has begun to pace again. Maybe we both need to go and find a local yoga class or maybe what we need is more space to breathe. More space to find ourselves. Yet also there were times I remember when my Mum gave me just a little too much space and all I wanted was for her to say she cared. I can still hear my mother ticking without tocking and I wonder if that is my problem too. Finally I really breathe out. I have found my stillness.

the thinker

More of June’s Work can be found at Unity’s Garden

Written by June

July 15, 2008 at 2:25 am

Sister Basket

with 5 comments

Sister Basket

For Tahirih – Poetess

My sister made me a basket

Woven in a rainbow garden

Where petals soft and warm

Didn’t want to fade in the sun.

She could enchant any carpet snake

Yellow or black

They’re still swaying to her music’s tack

Forward and back, forward and back.

Light sang of colours woven into a spirit kite

Skimming the river of rainbow sisters everywhere.

Her basket of poetry was tossed

Into the centre of the sun

There it burnt strong and true

Until red flames became blue.

The Faith in her basket

Said “Send me to the sky

I’ll come back like a Phoenix just you wait”

She danced around a square and found

She couldn’t really fit.

She found a circle and could not

Disappear.

But nine doors of a temple opened out

And she found a basket woven in a daisy,

Wrapped in a rose.

It was no time to pose

No time to fade in the sun.

She sang a song that spiralled out

Into her rainbow garden

Left petals soft and warm

On the path that she first laid there.

(c) words and image all rights reserved gumbootspearlz

Using Kerry’s prompt

http://www.squidoo.com/lemuriancrossroads

If you want to know who Tahirih was try these links- she was an awesome poetess and historical figure.

http://www.tahirih.org/tahirih/about/tahirih.html

basket2

More of June’s Work can be found at World Citizen Dreaming

Written by June

June 25, 2008 at 3:30 am

Bird of Paradise – the Animal that chooses you

with 6 comments

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Part 1. The Bestowed Spirit Animal

Someone said to me once that we choose our spirit animal and she chose the spirit of the kookaburra. Sometimes though our spirit animal choses us. It follows us, connects to us, or is even inherited.

My mother said that the Bird of Paradise is what we take care of because it is the totem we have been given by our village. Yet I think of the vain male Bird of Paradise and nothing speaks to my spirit. When I think of the plainer females who are watching the display of these male birds I reflect on cultures where the women serve in the background and their men do not appear to give them freedom. I don’t want this bird to be my spirit animal.

But then I think of the glorious feathers, the way another species of it is on the flag a yellow emblem placed on black and red, and how they are hunted down for their beauty and need to be protected I am sure there is a connection I have a responsibility to remember. More I think of women who say that even though on the surface it looks like the men have all the power it is not actually the case. They are changing the future. They are running their villages more and more.

I am sure that we can choose the animals we love regardless of what we have been given to take care of, but we need to remember those that choose us. Perhaps this is how some great conservationists feel drawn to lions or to gorillas. For my part I have never seen the Bird of Paradise that is my inherited totem. Yet I acknowledge it as a part of my identity- something that chooses me.

Part 2. The Embraced Spirit Animal- coming later.

Written by June

June 9, 2008 at 11:06 pm

Bird Song – Human Song

with 11 comments

earthcarving2

Image: A totem pole at Mission Beach.

This is my first post here as I am new to your creative community..  I think this was in part inspired by some of the soul food café links on dealing with grief and writing as therapy. I have been enjoying reading all your posts the last week and thought I’d contribute something.  I’ve posted an intro into the yahoo group.  In brief I love writing, songwriting, and creative arts in general and this year started work teaching writing to primary school children.

 

 

 

Bird Song – Human Song

Willy Wagtail tried very hard to make Kathy hear the song of her brother.  She had come into her garden to warm up as the house was like an icebox.  Willy perched on the silver tarpaulin that her husband had draped all over the yard while his pond, bonsai mountain project was in progress. Willy gave his most coy head cocked to one side, glinty bird eye gaze challenge.  He chirped, changed position and chirped again.  She didn’t seem to understand what he was trying to say, but then she nodded her head and began to talk to him. 

“I know he’s okay, much safer.  He’s playing Jimi Hendrix in his soul.  He’s really doing better and says sorry for chucking stones on the way to school that time.”

 Willy was impressed – this was indeed one of those who had listened to the old stories.  He wasn’t sure that there were many of the Eagle souls left but her brother had said she was one and had insisted Willy make the journey from the soul garden.  He nodded to her, and flew back to the soul garden in a blink, so that when she turned to continue their conversation he was no longer there.  She wondered when the messenger would arrive again. 

She preferred the wagtail of her brother’s soul bird to those curlews.  Curlews carried the songs of disaster victim and they had piercing cry that pulled her heart apart.  The 5 million Chinese earthquake victims had caused an awful weeping the last few nights.  They conjured up the images of the news as nothing else could for her Eagle soul.

 The problem with being an Eagle soul was that often you could hear the birds whether they were near or far.  Still this had meant that she had found the Nightingale very early in life.  Just thinking of that song made her feel warm.  She thought of the words of the Nightengale- “You are always free if your soul song hums away as involuntarily as a heart beat.  Then you walk with one foot here and one in the soul garden.”

She had strived to remember this when he mother had raised the curlew cry at the funeral of her brother.   She knew she did not want to outlive her children in this way and could have some understanding for her mother’s tears.  Still mourning was long and complicated for those whose soul song had an irregular heart beat.  Her mother really needed a bypass of some sort. 

 Willy Wagtail was wrong though, she did not know just of the old ways of the Eagle soul, she also knew of the new Nightingale song.  She could hear the birds of the soul garden through the Nightingale and knew her brother was but a heartbeat away.

 The clouds came over and she had to leave her garden.  She grabbed a few clothes and made her way back into the icebox, just a little bit warmer.

 Gumbootspearlz

 

 

awesome ripples

this image was taken naturally – no photoshopping

and came out like this…

Some of my blogs

Unity’s Garden
Pearlz Dreaming

Written by June

June 4, 2008 at 12:24 am

Posted in Gumbootspearlz

Tagged with