Moon in Virgo

@skyloverpoetry

Did we mean anything to each other
the day before Earth swallowed Sun?
And did you say my name, either to curse
or pray, before Virgo Moon burned black?
Easier to forget if your hand reached out for mine
or had already let me go, now we have hidden
ourselves under these stranger, colder ashes.



A poem for the Virgo New Moon, 30 August 2019, and
Micro Poetry ~ Fill the Empty Parts

Shadows

Blackbird
Kerry O'Connor
Copyright Reserved

Restless after dark
A blackbird flies alone
Where no torch burns the shadows ~
Cupping the moon in my palm
I am the eclipse



For Sherry, after a month of poetry writing, the toads are Celebrating Ordinary Things.
I am on a break from poetry, and have turned again to my inks to illustrate a micro-poem from the Skylover archives.

Śaśaŋka

When the blackbird flew out of sight, 
It marked the edge 
Of one of many circles. 
Wallace Stevens

StarGazing Rabbit ~ Jason Limberg
Used with Permission

Here it is always April. Let us join hands, dance
a circle with the gossamer hare of the moon.

If you exist in the dream while sleeping reality,
let your coverlet be the cambric rabbit of the moon.

Because I lost my lover in the poppy fields,
I returned to the wild, jade hare of the moon.

The artist dips his pen in night’s fluid realm,
out slips the ephemeral rabbit of the moon.

As it was, so it is and it will be again…only stars
timeless, and the gracious hare of the moon.




Day 6 ~ GRACIOUS

I am the host of this day's prompt in The Imaginary Garden, where I introduce the artist, Jason Limberg, who so graciously allowed us to be inspired by his pen and ink.
Further examples of Jason's work can be found on Instagram @jasonlimberg or visit his website: HERE.


A Wee Note:
My poem is written in the form of a Ghazal, and is inspired by the many myths and legends of the rabbit in the moon.

śaśaŋka
One of the Sanskrit words for the Moon: शशाङ्क   
meaning ‘The one whose mark is a hare’

After the Moon

@skyloverpoetry
Kerry O'Connor

The moon is hunting tonight stalking
the dark culverts a white lion prowling
the margins of extinction knows well
the barren  pathways of its narrowing orbit
despite a billion stars now born upon the hour
what is one less rock polished by its lone
rotation around a planet slowly sinking into
its own sea one less lion in a random universe
where life itself is a thing unregarded



This poem is a tribute to the life and work of W.S. Merwin, who passed away on March 15 2019.
I was inspired by the style of his poem After the Spring, and by Margaret's Artistic Interpretations Challenge on Real Toads.

As I began to write about this month's full moon, my youngest daughter sent me this photo of three white lions she photographed in the town of Reitz, on the road to Johannesburg. All these sources came together in the few lines of my poem.

White Lions
Reitz, South Africa

Strange News

@skyloverpoetry

I remember your name, but have forgotten
who you are, and if I ever loved you

as if the faithful moon forgot to rise,
or I recalled it vaguely, from another time

but could not place it: I’d ask, Whatever
happened to that funny old moon?

It has been gone so long, I can’t picture
its face at all… But this is your face,

your voice that has faded from memory,
not the sliver of moon dwindling into blue.


A belated response to Magaly's Weekend Challenge: Strange News.

Scarab Blood Moon

Copyright
@skyloverpoetry
Kerry O'Connor

The eye of a god has been stolen
and blind, he turns from our world –
Behold as the Scarab Moon begins to bleed.

What has come into being?
Something arises out of nothing
Khepri at break of this day already dying –

A pharaoh resurrected
shrugging off the carapace cerements
begin to feed on our self-extinction.



Written on the day of the Super Wolf Blood Moon, 20 -1- 19.
Shared with Magaly's Mustn't be Fancy Weekend Challenge (though Mary Oliver might not have approved of my nihilism.)

The Astronomer

Detail from
Georges Méliès, Man in The Moon, 1902

Once, my kind were mages.
We followed the star,
read omens of a black moon,
divined, sought godhead
in the timeless abyss –
now we are bred
without questions.
Space is the frontier
of the trillionaire techbots
and we, their slaves of input,
must keep minds blank
while guileless engines
pick apart the theory
of relativity.

An astronomical poem in 55 words for Physics with Bjorn in The Imaginary Garden. Another chapter in my Dystopia series. 

If anyone would like to link up a Flash 55, please do so in the comments below, and have a Kick-Ass Weekend.