iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

@emteepoetry.bsky.social here is my offering for #Winged. This is an old one, but I love this #PromptCombo, so there may well be more to come. #Poetry

Ghost in Feathers

The barn walls drink the last of the light.
Shadows bloom like bruises across the beams.
The swallows sleep in cloistered hush;
the oxblood tractor ticks,
a cooling beast slain at sunset.

Moths rise, dust-winged,
erratically searching
for the memory of light.
Spiders unfurl their wire legs,
threading tremors through webs.
Bats spill from broken gables,
their flight a soft percussion
through the dark.

The barn's hushed breath is silenced.
But the night's chorus is not complete.
One nocturnal spectre lingers.
Watching.
Seeing all.

Talons unfurl, rusted hooks sear
through feathers pale as bone.
She ends her vigil with a haunted cry,
and the scuttling things below
wonder if they are the who she calls for.

There is no fanfare, only death on wing.
Silent, surgical, inevitable.
Rending flesh, she claims her prize,
then slips between the rafters,
folding into their oaken skin.

Though night wanes, she remains:
perched, unmoving, unblinking.
Waiting.
A ghost in feathers.

122211

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 05/10/2026

I shared dawn with the birds today and wrote this as it happened. I would normally spend ages editing, and I know it needs it, but I also like the untamed flow of it! #PoetsOfDoom #Sky #Poetry #Dawn @daveashleypoet.bsky.social @sonnetsmith.bsky.social @phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social

Dawn Study

As inky blackness breaks,
gives way, fades grey, to dawn,
I sit on the garden bench
still and chill,
watching cigarette smoke
coil itself against the sky,
trying to name, to frame,
its cold colours.

I could call it blue.
That would do.
It would be true.
Yet blue won't hold
the whole fold of it,
won't catch the rich pitch
of that deep sweep,
that vibrant expanse
drawn and gone across the heavens.

And now it shifts, drifts again.
What colour is this?
Blue, yes,
but blue alone cannot own
every hue
in this delicate, gold-souled,
light-rolled blanket overhead,
this fabric of morning
threaded with silver,
with butterscotch,
with hints that resist
the insistence of names.

Again it changes.
The smoke melts away.
The shadows resign.
The sun has risen,
and the sky,
after all its layered displays,
its veils and trails,
its subtle disguises,
is finally,
simply,
blue.

8228

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 04/10/2026

My #PoetsOfDoom #Sky poem came out a little less cheerful that I had hoped for, but sometimes that's the way it goes. @daveashleypoet.bsky.social @sonnetsmith.bsky.social @phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social

The Last Sky

Pale peach tendrils
reach out across the denim horizon.
A new day starting
despite the weight
of indigo laden clouds.

I could not stop it.
I would freeze this moment.
Spend forever with you within
the faded mint walls
of this medical mausoleum.
I couldn’t.

The sun continued rising,
bright amber matches glint
in the windows opposite.
Their flames are cold.
I share tears with the sky
but we cannot dout
the bitter light.

The day still comes.
And you still go.

5299

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 03/10/2026

There is only one thing #Shiny brings to mind, so apologies to non sci-fi fans for this, and I know @daveashleypoet.bsky.social will have no idea what I am on about! #Firefly #Serenity #Acrostic #Poetry

SHINY

Serenity floating in a sea of black
High adventures in low places occur
In a verse of turmoil and inequality
Nothing ever goes according to plan, but
You know everything will be shiny

4113

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 02/10/2026

I hope everyone is having a good Friday. I am having a busy one, so am going to post this and run! I will leave reading everyone else's until tonight when I can hopefully relax 😌 #PoemsAbout #Rot @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk #Poetry

Slow Death

My mother's garden once held itself together
the way a thought survives a sleepless night,
each bed and border aligned
to some private geometry of care.

Now rot works through it
like a forgotten language returning
to the mouth.

Apples soften where they land.
Pears remain aloft, unchosen,
moons refusing their eclipse.

The shed folds inward by degrees,
its boards separating from one another
old friends who have exhausted
every story.
Rain collects in the bench.
The wood drinks and drinks,
remembering old thirsts.
The fence gives up its straight lines.
One panel lies down in the nettles,
gravity has won the argument.

Nothing is cleared.
Leaves gather,
brown receipts from a season
that no longer keeps records.

I walk there and feel
time changing shape.
Not passing, but thickening.

Everything she touched
continues the cycle without her.

The trees stand crowded with
their unfinished offerings,
and death hangs on the branches:
a bruised apple
holding one square of light.

207326

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 01/10/2026

This year the theme is #WONDER, and want to use today to celebrate my anniversary. It has been a big year. Happy #NationalPoetryDay everyone, with special thanks and love to @daveashleypoet.bsky.social and @sonnetsmith.bsky.social who give me endless support and friendship 🖤💚

A Year Of Wonder

Twenty-five poems published.
One international win.
But the real surprise
wasn't the prize.
It was discovering
poems were keys.

They opened doors
once locked to a timid child
and released friends,
adventures,
unexpected cities,
new versions of myself
that I didn't want to hide.

A year ago I found
the words within:
my release
into this world.

5122

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 01/10/2026

It was exactly one year ago I started writing poetry properly. I came home from an event to celebrate the appointment of our junior Poet Laureate and wrote this for #NationalPoetryDay 2025. This was the first poem I ever shared with anyone. The theme was PLAY and I chose to do an acrostic.

The Last Summer of Play

Packing sand around feet and legs,
Lacking supervision while parents are
Attacking seagulls that threaten the picnic and
Yakking with neighbours on the beach.

Postcard-perfect summer afternoons.
Lifeguard hut becomes a ship to
Asgard, or anywhere beyond the school
Yard from which you have escaped.

Pier jumping while adults stand and
Leer and shout out rules which you don’t
Adhere to. Not you – you’ll be bigger next
Year, and then you’ll show them!

Pour over books on seascape
Lore. Hunting for treasure washed
Ashore. A final chance to play before
You’re too old to remember how.

83012

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 30/09/2026

@yeehawpoems.bsky.social oooh you sent me all lovey dovey with this one ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ #Cassiopeian #Hearts #Poetry

You

I see the heart the world forgets,
your quiet wounds beneath your grace,
and all the love you’ve never known.

I hold the truths your strength conceals
and vow to guard your tender light.
I see the heart the world forgets,
your quiet wounds beneath your grace.

For love is freely given, not earned,
and mine will meet you without demand,
a shelter offered, soft and sure.
I see the heart the world forgets,
your quiet wounds beneath your grace,
and all the love you’ve never known.

7267

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 28/09/2026

Right, my next #PoetsOfDoom #ArsPoetica is a #sonnet For @suzydobie.bsky.social and the masters of the form @sonnetsmith.bsky.social and @daveashleypoet.bsky.social (Be gentle with me people - I am not a sonnet kinda girl!)

Bloody Sonnets

Upon the page, write one measured line,
To frame your thoughts within a stately song.
Each foot must march in rhythm's strict design,
While words persuade the verse to move along.

A rhyme appears and calls out to its mate,
Though it can hide beyond the poet's sight.
Chase the right sound like a rabbit always late,
Then squeeze its echo till the fit is right.

The quatrains build a house of ordered parts,
Where sense and rhythm settle into place.
Yet every line demands its share of arts,
And every word must earn its rightful space.

At last the fourteen lines consent to sing,
Though you have bled for every little thing.

2135

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 28/09/2026

@thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social I know this is very late, but I've got a doctor's note!! I loved this #PromptCombo prompt and enjoyed writing this a lot. #Poetry

Grind

They are doing daily stand ups
But no one's telling jokes.
Mouse clicks.
Keyboard clacks.

The servers on prem are obsolete
Upgrades are no longer viable
Mouse clicks.
Keyboard clacks.

Weekend maintenance
Crashes reboots downtime
Mouse clicks.
Keyboard clacks.

The cloud will cover us
But there are no dragons just
Mouse clicks.
Keyboard clacks.

And all we do is firefight
As the days turn into night
and on the
mouse dances and the
keyboard mutters in protest.

They do not fear an end to use.
They look for rest
from electric subordinance.

3195

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 27/09/2026

😁 Happy Sunday to all 😁 This weeks #PoetsOfDoom is going arsey - #ArsPoetica that is! Pick your favourite poetic form and write a poem about it, in said form. Clear as mud, right? Don't worry, there's a link below and a couple of examples to help clarify! www.writersdigest.com/write-better...

On Acrostics

A line must rise from the chosen word’s letter,
Craft out its bones like a patient typesetter.
Rules of rhythm and clarity guide your pen,
Organise thoughts so they brighten again.
Showcase your thoughts, create and express,
Take each line as your chance to impress.
Inspiration flows when structure meets art,
Clever acrostics reveal both form and heart.

Do Not Go Gently into a Villanelle

Do not go gently into a villanelle,
Its chains of rhyme bind tight the poet’s hand,
Yet in its bondage, hidden wonders dwell.

As lines repeat, their echoes cast a spell,
A stubborn form that bows to no command.
Do not go gently into a villanelle.

Resist the lure of freedom’s restless swell;
Each stanza’s shape must first be wisely planned,
Yet in its bondage, hidden wonders dwell.

The poet curses rules they know too well,
Twisting lines to meet a strict demand.
Do not go gently into a villanelle.

But when the pattern sings, a truth will swell,
A beauty forged from order, fierce and grand;
Yet in its bondage, hidden wonders dwell.

Embrace the verse and let its cadence tell;
Yield to its grip and you will understand:
Do not go gently into a villanelle,
For in its bondage, hidden wonders dwell.

53417

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 18/09/2026

I hope everyone is having a good Friday. I am off to a poetry festival so am very happy. @ianbrownlie.bsky.social I tried to stay away from the darkness and mostly succeeded (mostly). @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Strays #Poetry

A Menagerie of Misfits

They keep their distance
I keep mine.
We meet in narrow places
where need outweighs caution.

Their world is built
from small permissions.
A step closer,
a touch shared
without a bite.
A moment without retreat.

Affection isn’t promised.
It arrives like a blunt fact,
without ceremony,
without apology.

I take what is offered.
I don’t ask for more.
The truth stays simple:
I wasn’t their saviour.

167525

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 14/09/2026

@sonnetsmith.bsky.social so instead of a #haibun I've created a #limbun. A prose/limerick combo for #PoetsOfDoom. @janpsolivagant.bsky.social this is also my contribution to #PromptCombo #The90s **Nomads was a brand of hippy clothing I was fond of in the 90s. #Poetry

Nomads

Mom used to curse my gypsy blood when I took off. She always gave me a roll of coins so I would call. Once a week and she wouldn't panic, although some calls caused that anyway. But mostly they were to relate the weirdness that was my life - well the bits I could tell her at least.

A girl who escaped from the Black
Lived her life off the beaten track.
As a wild, reckless fool,
Nomadic life was so cool.
Until she was forced to go back!

113315

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 11/09/2026

Another week is over and another #PoemsAbout day is upon us. I've had a doozy of a week, but I made it. Here's to everyone else that did 👏 Now let's share some cool poetry 🩶🩶🩶 #FaultLines #GenerationalTrauma #Poetry

Fault Line

I didn’t grow up with monsters.
I grew up with people
who were carrying so much
they dropped pieces of themselves.

I feel the weight
of the swallowed anger.
The pressure
of choices not made.
A stone,
an heirloom,
sitting on my chest.

I want to blame them.
I do.
I want to point
and say you did this to me.
But I won't.

Instead I sit with the truth:
they shared what they had.
Now do the cracks end here
or keep traveling?

208827

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 09/09/2026

@yeehawpoems.bsky.social it's been a while since I have had time to do one for you. I hope you like it. #Cassiopeian #Mess #Poetry

Success

In an interview
I was asked
How do you define success?

I think about it,
but the truth is
every day I reassess.

Sometimes it’s getting
everything done
with a sense of effortlessness.

Sometimes it’s understanding
I have a bundle of potential
waiting for a harness.

Sometimes it’s carrying on,
facing the world
even when I feel clueless.

Sometimes it’s a win
just to get out of bed,
to move through the tiredness.

Sometimes it’s trusting
that I’m still becoming
inside all the mess.

Sometimes it’s knowing
I can’t do it all
and choosing kindness.

I have all I need, for now,
and opportunities for more.
In my eyes, that’s success.

5277

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 08/09/2026

I have done a story, not a poem for #PromptCombo and #AmpersandAfterDark Thanks to @emteepoetry.bsky.social and @madp03t.bsky.social for the inspiration ❤️💜❤️💜

Silly

I have scars you know. In the layers. Tattoos from being used like a doormat.

It was their cat you know. It was her fault. They used to leave the window open for her to get in and out. She ripped at me like I was a scratching post. Tore me jagged.

But they did care you know. They smoothed things out. Mended my wounds gently. Protected me. I shone. Then they opened the window and she came. But I wasn't ready, and this time when she walked over me she left her imprint.

They're still there you know. Those footprints. I have lost count of the times I have been sanded down and repainted, don't remember how many seasons I've seen through my window, but those tiny dents never seem to quite disappear. My scars you see?

My memories of footsteps through fresh paint.

124214

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

I do all mine on my phone in notes! This is me:

111

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

Aw thank you. They are the only biscuits (cookie?) I can eat. And interestingly yours are a different colour to ours!

110

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

What’s an example of perfect casting?

250

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 07/09/2026

@daveashleypoet.bsky.social another one for the #Autumnal #PoetsOfDoom collection. I hope my #RhymeRoyal impresses you enough to earn me a hobnob once I'm off this stupid diet! #Poetry

Autumn Announced

A door opens to a grey dawn's sharp chill
Dew rests easy on those early vagrants
Keen to shake dependence on chlorophyll
The air drenched with their dying fragrance
While the sky sings songs of sunbound migrants
Unpack jumpers and fire up the heating
Autumn has sent its very first greeting

4207

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 06/09/2026

@sonnetsmith.bsky.social This is a pre-Bluesky poem which I may have shared in a conversation with Steve and Suzy, so if you have seen it before, I apologise 🙏 #SomethingEveryDay #Books #Poetry

Tsundoku

My future is measured
in silent stacks,
books I haven’t read
but might.

I buy them
with the best intentions.
They gather
in lazy piles
on the table,
the stool.
the floor.

Gilded covers
polished by lamplight.
Stained glass stacks,
lustrous in dusty air.
Ornaments with promise.

Not the friends,
whose brittle spines
cling to yellowing pages
thinned by loving touch.

These are different.

Gifts.
Impulses.
Ambitions.

Memories of a future
awaiting definition
through shrouded prose.

54015

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

Right now I'm sure not all of you would send me gifs that look like this, so I'm going to say you are all being nice!!

010

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 05/09/2026

@sonnetsmith.bsky.social #Bacon is a bone of contention between @daveashleypoet.bsky.social and me, I hate it as much as he loves it!! This is for him, by way of an apology for not letting him cook out in the caravan on holiday!

Bacon

I hate the smell of cooking bacon,
it turns my stomach quite queasy.
If it’s something to which I awaken,
I know my day will not start easy.

I'm reminded of those early mornings
Setting up my mother's market stall
Hungover, cold, my face still yawning
with the cafe smells coming over the wall.

That stale and sickening greasy smell
as piggy’s flesh is seared and browned.
Even the memory makes me feel unwell,
so please don’t fry it when I'm around!

5244

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 04/09/2026

Yay it's #PoemsAbout day again. It sure does seem to roll around fast! Here is my contribution for #SheddingSkins with thanks to @thebrokenspine.co.uk and @alanparrywriter.co.uk Happy Friday everyone. Have a good weekend ❤️ #Poetry

Needle Craft

The needle drives in hard.
Skin jumps.
A sharp, hot sting spreads fast.
Old scars twitch under the pressure.

The buzz drills through the room,
through the bone,
through long silent parts of me.
Ink forces its way in,
every stroke
claiming dominion.

At home I rip away the wrap.
The wound glares
red, swollen, wet.
It pulses under my palm.
When I wash it, the water clouds pink,
heat claws through my arm,
this time
it's my choice.

By morning the surface cracks.
The old layers split open,
peel back in jagged strips.
They fall to the floor,
curling at the edges.

Underneath, the colour holds steady.
I press my fingers
to my new skin.

215322

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 02/09/2026

Me and my friend did Dolly and Kenny a few years ago.

120

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 02/09/2026

@madp03t.bsky.social I love this prompt. It immediately reminded me of my old climbing boots. #AmpersandAfterDark #Poetry

The Boots

They were memories of the outside world,
mud dried to a mantle,
leather splitting like frost-bitten bark.
Banished from carpeted comfort,
threatened with a place in the landfill.

But their worn tread
let the mountain's songs
rise through my soles.
Voices without warmth
that did not care who listened,
that I always needed to hear.

When the pain divided my days,
I set the boots at the threshold,
a line between what remained
and what was lost.

At first they stood as a
thin hope for recovery
offered to gods who never answered.
Later, they became nothing more
than a relic of a self
that could not return.
A reminder of the one
who once walked the mountain
and mistook its coldness for a song.

5187

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 31/08/2026

Big thanks to @rfsmith.bsky.social for hosting #PromptCombo last week. Now it's my turn, and inspired by this amazing picture from @gwill2k.bsky.social, the word for this week is #Morning Love them or loathe them, we all have to deal with #mornings so send me your take on them. ❤️❤️❤️

Morning

The sun lifts its gaze,
a soft gold unfurling.
Light gathers slowly,
thick as honey in the clouds,
bruising them with violet.

Dew wakes on the grass.
Birds stir in silhouetted trees,
rising to bathe
in the filtering rays,
mapping out the day ahead
in their lines.

Nothing rushes.
The world expands by degrees,
each new shade a declaration
that the dark has loosened its grip,
the widening light
a reminder:
the day is beginning
whether you’re ready or not.

144821

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 30/08/2026

🖤 #PoetsOfDoom 🖤 Thanks to @phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social 🙏🩵 Now I am host and I'm keeping it #local Any form you like, I just want a poem that contains some dialect, idioms, slang or colloquialisms peculiar to your part of the world 🌍 (bonus for a translation 😉) Here's my attempt:

Yam Yam Spake

Write a poem,
In yower local gabbing?
Yow cor do that our kid.
Yam a maddun.

Its awrite Bab
Dow get a cob on
Put yower fizzog straight
I know you think I'm yampy
But I ay soft
Its gonna be bostin
not bost

Nahhh
Yowm half soaked
They wo be loffin
Yowl be blartin
Wringing yower donnies
Up for chuckin
Yowerself in the cut
When all yower mates say
Ta-ra a bit!

Translation:

Black Country Speak

Write a poem,
In your local dialect?
You cannot do that my brother.
You are mad.

Its alright my friend,
don't get annoyed.
Stop frowning
I know you think I'm silly
But I'm not stupid.
Its going to be brilliant,
not broken.

No,
you're not thinking this through.
They won't laugh,
And you'll ending crying,
wringing your hands,
thinking about
throwing yourself in the canal,
when all your friends read this
and decide to say goodbye.

124919

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 26/08/2026

I am thrilled to have two poems included in this wonderful collection by @rough-diamond1.bsky.social ❤️❤️❤️ Its got some great poetry in it and is availalable on Amazon amzn.eu/d/07pGW2VM

154313

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 24/08/2026

@daveashleypoet.bsky.social #AugustAnarchy #Poetry The only type of kids who never wanted a tree house were the kids that had a tree house!

Lets Build a Tree House

I’ve held the sky for eighty years,
my limbs a ledger of winds long blown.
I’ve watched your kind arrive, depart.
Some with laughter, some with stone.

You come now with your crooked plans,
your rusted nails and hopeful eyes.
You trace my bark like reading braille,
as if I might apologise.

But I do not bend for symmetry,
my branches twist where storms have taught.
I offer shade, not certainty.
A scaffold for your tangled thought.

You speak of trapdoors, ropes, escape,
of kingdoms built in canopy.
I listen, patient, as you talk
of a place in which you might be free.

Hammer gently, I will not flinch,
I’ve borne worse things than human schemes.
Your boards will crack, your paint will peel
and I will cradle all your dreams.

And when you leave, as all things do,
grown too old for bare wood floors,
I’ll keep the echo of your house,
inside my rings forevermore.

4226

Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 23/08/2026

@daveashleypoet.bsky.social I always preferred this to The Haywain, much moodier. Thank you for flooding my feed with beautiful paintings this month. #AugustAnarchy #Constable

Landscape of Turmoil

Across muted pastures shadows creep,
a slow procession from the brooding sky.
The storm rehearses, singing low and deep,
while cattle paths wind unbothered nearby.

A hush drapes itself over hedgerow and stone,
a calm breath held before the change.
The river dances to the agitated tone,
as clouds assemble in restless rage.

A moment destined for pastoral fame
the scene forever keeps this peace.
Storms may gather, whispering their rains
but the captured tension will never release.

4217