Passenger Moon

@skyloverpoetry
on Instagram

Whoever you are, and however lonely,
look to the Passenger Moon
with her iridescent bronze feathers
and black-spotted wings, captured
on camera a century ago, and know:
none of us was built to last the famine.
You long for a hand to hold, don’t you?
No-one wants to be the last of their kind.


A Friday 55 for the old year in its death throes.

Ink, Pen & Paintbrush Illustration

Sonnet 27

@skyloverpoetry

This sonnet is from my archives, written in ink for my Instagram page. I shared 3 sonnets for the festive season.
My collection of sonnets, Tangled Gardens, can be read on my Skylover Blog.

Visit our Tuesday Platform, hosted by Pat on Christmas Day.

Thylacine Moon

(1861)

With the Thylacine Moon on the rise,
we weigh what remains of Earth’s depleted heart,
design charts, petition god on t-shirts
to save our soulless selves
from the acres of waste product in which we burrow;
hiding our eyes from the smog-blotted heavens,
we crouch like moth-eaten tigers
on the brink of extinction,
teeth bared.



A poem in 55 words.
I have doubled up on this week's prompts: Fireblossom Friday (Lament for the Thylacine) and Moonstruck, the weekend prompt hosted by Toni Spencer.

Poems for the Summer Solistice

Extracts from Love Poems

Notebook Poetry

Copyright
Kerry O'Connor

Copyright
Kerry O'Connor

Copyright
Kerry O'Connor

Three recent posts to my @skyloverpoetry Instagram page, shared on The Tuesday Platform hosted by Vivian Zems.

Gephyrophobia

or Fear of Crossing Bridges

in Three Parts

A poem I wrote back in 2010, reworked in ink for The Tuesday Platform, hosted by Sanaa.

Bridging

We hide much of our grief
under bridges, in the dark space
between stones, or weighted

--let it sink beneath the silt—

We hope for the shadows
to consume our untold woe,
all bridges being built for crossing.


For Marian's Fussy Little Forms: Puente

The Wheel

@skyloverpoetry

The wheel is no measure
of civilised thinking:
not much of a leap from rolling rocks
downhill bemused by momentum
when fear persists, turning
quickly to blood
but we learn to wake
and sleep,
count the days,
scratch our names on stone
while fine philosophy burns out
against a murky backdrop
of human history.

This is a rewrite of an older piece, which I cut down considerably. 

Singularity

This black hole eyelet
absorbs light ~
All gravitates towards
the event horizon ~
Vision narrows to particles
of black and white ~
This is the point of no return
nothing survives beyond singularity ~
To gasp for air
would be pointless now
but time for one last smile ~
Keep your finger on the trigger
ready to squeeze ~




For Camera FLASH! 55, which features a vintage photo of Jessie Tarbox Beals.