A Skylover Wordlist ~ Merciless

You ripped
open the sky
with your teeth
and all light escaped
as you passed through.
Now every day teeters
on the brink
of another holocaust:
we grind guilt
to dust
and dare not
recall the signs
we missed
without mercy.
We have inherited
your darkest hour,
enshrined your despair
beyond earthly hope
of reparation.


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This poem is written with words from my Skylover Wordlist for March and in reply to Joy Ann Jones' call for Flash 55  at Verse Escape, both of which have given me the structure to write down in words the raw emotion I am feeling after the tragic death of a student.

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This is also an open invitation to anyone who wants to join me in writing poetry from this list of words. If you would like me to read and comment on your post, please paste the link in the comments section below or you can tag me on Instagram.

Death of Ophelia

Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be.
Ophelia in Hamlet by William Shakespeare

Death of Ophelia
Kerry O'Connor
@skyloverpoetry

You believe you know all the essential things,
like a name, how long it has been since the first day;

Yes, you may know where you are, and how
you arrived at the shore, recognize even, the divide

But, you do not know the water’s depth;
you find yourself too cold to cross the river.

You do not understand how my soul streams
from the unseen world of infinite dreams

Drowning you in a vision of what may be,
what has already been and what exists now, always.



A poem, quote and illustration for Rommy's Challenge in The Imaginary Garden.

The Froward Tongue

The mouth of the just bringeth forth wisdom: but the froward tongue shall be cut out.
Proverbs 10:31

Gustave Dore: Death on the Pale Horse (1865)

I have been to the dream-world
and returned lucid with visionary dread.
There is nothing demure about Death,
who rides a slipshod horse, and fist pumps
when he gets it right –
tending the acreage of humankind,
willingly blind to carnage, deaf to hunger,
immune to disease in others –
There are signs, here, in this alternate realm
of hashtag messages momentarily
flickering across every hand-held screen
but the language of prophecy is arcane,
rendering young brains witless.
Believers are few. Wrist-bound, tongues
pulled, they have learned it is better not to pray.



A rather bleak, Blake vision bred of medieval torture, Biblical tracts, contemporary disinterest and Get Listed! with Fireblossom, whose words were altogether more promising than I have given them credit here!

Interred

Kerry O'Connor

We bury our lovers beneath the weight of days
thought to be so numberless and varied
until we have forgotten their names, until we

can no longer reach back through time to grasp
the hour, the breathless minute when we turned
old earth, threw clods upon remembrance too.

But I’m tired of this shallow grave; bury me deeper.

Epitaph

Dystopian Tarot Cards

© Kerry O'Connor

@skyloverpoetry

The Tuesday Platform is hosted by Vivian Zems.

Untitled (Life in itself is nothing)

Not only under ground are the brains of men 
Eaten by maggots. 
Life in itself 
Is nothing
Edna St Vincent Millay




A year ago, the ground cracked wide
beneath my feet –
darkness clutched my ankle
and I fell into my grave.

It is a lonely thing to live interred –
the smell of cold clay
sifts into your skin, an embrace
whispering of decomposition.

The sky is reduced to rectangle
devoid of the sun –
the rain finds your place in the night
and seeps through veins to heart.

Imperceptibly, your brain grows roots
fine as hairs, thick as fingers –
when it is time to rise, you find
you have grown attached to death.

A year ago, I went down to earth
but I did not die –
I returned to the land peeling off
tattered remains, a ghost of myself.




For Izy's Out of Standard prompt on day 26 of poetry writing month.

Also, for Margaret's Artistic Interpretations on day 27. I selected the picture entitled Bones by a 15 year old in the 10th grade.

Those who know me, will remember that I fell gravely ill in the first week of May, 2017. I received medical attention in the nick of time, but my recovery was a long, slow process and I will always bear the deep and painful scars, both physical and mental, as a lasting reminder of the experience.
Strangely enough, I made friends with death in the process - it was life I had to come to terms with.