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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 02/10/2026

A Friday offering for #PoemsAbout #Rot. Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk for the prompt. I'm travelling a little further North for a weekend with friends and beach walks so will come back later to read everyone's contributions. This one was inspired by Steve Harley and life!

Blue eyes blues eyes,
Ice cold bright,
Lying and lying again
Cracked by the mirror rot,
Desilvered by fraud
Layer upon layer
A mist of deceit,
The steel that would not rot,

This rebel hit a floor of
Dogged dust and spiralling hair,
Ephemeral in the dusk light
Stifling the lies and life,
Gathered along ages
Tumbleweed in empty rooms,
Warm breezes whispering
Through cracks and crevasses
Nurturing spores of decay.

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John Chmura @johnchmura.bsky.social · 25/09/2026

#PoemsAbout #DeadLetters @thebrokenspine.co.uk It helps to know Bu Shi is a muse/alter ego I created in the early 2010s to post haiku/senryu, it also helps to know they don’t use the lettters L and T, but the poem uses all of the other letters. Our pseudo relationship is sometimes contentious.

DUBIOUS BU

bu emerges from a crack underground
open hand punch
hammering an arc of misshapen force

nor misspoken nor misheard

was a bad poem worsened
by jagged end rhymes
before even being conceived

weaned on my screams and misgivings

bad karma broken casino spinner
dopamine miser sucking my money sac
receiving receiving receiving never giving back

aces queens and princes join voracious jokers

oversized zippers sever
spewing sacred sera in free mason jars
examined by hydrographic surveyors

bu says form precedes usage

do you agree

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Mike O’Brien @zoomburst.substack.com · 25/09/2026

#poemsabout #deadletters I'm a little out of practice...

The usual guff about life after death - I reckon that I must have enough for a small pamphlet by now.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 27/09/2026

Late to this week's party but here is a short offering. One of us is eagerly awaiting the clock back after 6 months with the clock maker! Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk for another great prompt. #PoemsAbout #DeadLetters

Dead Letters
A postcard in a box
With the browned broken cuckoo clock,
Forty two dead letters
Written in a hand stamped by age
Broad black marker scribed
A promise made, unfulfilled By a grandmother now gone,
To pay for the repair of an ancient clock That belonged five generations ago
In an old man's house
On a wall.
And now she's gone, And I am left To fulfil the promise For my Sunshine, A grand love to give
A small boy who loves the clock, Much as his Dad did before,
Making the dead letters live again,
A legacy of sorts For another wall.

A small white postcard with a promise to pay for a repair of a cuckoo clock

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 18/09/2026

Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk - it's Friday again. This feels less like a poem and more like a tiny biography to recognise 30 years of an amazing organisation: Ben's Centre www.benscentre.org #PoemsAbout #Strays

Straying
A wet spring evening, ten years ago or so, With leaves taking a lashing, Boxed saplings twisting
Wind whistling through perimeter walls of late Victorian buildings
Under parasols in Leopold square
He recognised you,
In a corner sitting out the rain, watchful, cold, aware of Every movement from the door Of a forgotten Italian restaurant,
A youthful man with the dog end of a cigarette, Trying to belong, sitting with style,
Belying his worth with a stained shirt and trainers With trenches, where seams should have been.
Sock-less in an unfashionable way.
Divergent paths,
Though you sat together, learned together, Now my boy went to sit with you again, Offering a new cigarette,
Allowing you to stay out of the rain a little longer, Lessening the pressure or distain of the waiting staff.
You told a story of lost work, A family who cared less than they could Of dispute and disharmony,
Three months on the Sheffield streets
Nowhere to go, no one to love,
Medicating numbness and peace of mind, Not dry or clean enough for the Arches, Homeless, down, out and more,
My boy gave you his socks,
A Brave acceptance, despite your circumstances!
Ten pounds in cash, all we had And you left with a thank you, Not wishing to embarrass further, I hope you found Ben's Centre, eventually
A way home.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 11/09/2026

It's Friday and in the North, enjoying a few days with family in Edinburgh. Here's my contribution to #PoemsAbout #FaultLines. Thank you to @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk I'll read later after childcare duties!

$Under Pressure It started then, A tiny line, a rift, Hairline fracture, Imprint of a head Colliding with the hawthorn tree, A coming of age they said, Bruised and battered, Thorns and stitches, An audible crack, Broken skull, What a mistake I made Tying myself to you, That hairline craze, The first fault line Fragmenting, shattering A promise doomed as it fell Into a cataclysmic canyon, Of lies and smiles.$

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Mike O’Brien @zoomburst.substack.com · 28/08/2026

It’s 7am and I’m sitting in a swish sea view apartment in Scarborough. It’s raining outside and we go home today. So excuse me if this is a bit bleak in tone. #PoemsAbout #EndOfSummer

A sad “after the Lord Mayor’s Parade” poem.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 28/08/2026

It's a beautiful morning on this Swedish island. I've been busy on a sort of holiday and just penned a few lines about our misunderstanding around when summer ends! Here it ends on 15th August, we came later... Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Late August on Vinön
Lakes and trees, silver and sage,
Shimmering reflections on glass like straits, Lichen green, grey lingers on branches,
Punctured scarlet lingonberries,
Forests and reeds fringing A lowering northern sun,
Vast lake, deep and clear, mirroring all, In the silence of sounds a miasmic mist floats Around the lone late summer ferry, Meandering across the channel At a winter's pace,
Dreams of fetching
Fresh bread broken,
The oven is cold and the bakery gone, Local fish, artisan cheese, Coffee with cinnamon buns Off limits in the fall of the leaves, Empty roads, taciturn people Reticent birds, shy deer, Shutters up, blinds closed,
Scandi chic hidden from sight, Readying for a winter of sleep,
Mid August and summer ended, The herald of autumn beckoned
As the days darkened, And welcomed the night
That rids the island of incomers, And here we are at the end When only a few stay behind,
Uncertain intruders
On an island reclaimed By year rounders again.

A view from the shore of the lake, edged by trees and reeds

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 21/08/2026

It's Friday again and this is my week of fulltime grand parenting, but from somewhere, I found time to write! Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk, @thebrokenspine.co.uk for another great prompt. #PoemsAbout #DeepCuts

$Kodachrome captured imprint, Faded colour, sepia edged Blurred truths of a vintage era, Frayed borders of acrimony, Creased, carved from corner to corner, A picture of a picnic in a formal rose garden, Family posed on a tartan blanket In the sixties summer sun. Shadows cross their eyes Hinting of secrets untold, A respectable triumvirate alive To family connections, generations, Innocent eyes of childhood seeing, Needing no telling, Witnessing a father's confusion At unclaimed bewilderment, Deed box of death opened After his father's last breath, His mother's destitution, Documents drew the skeletons Of life long deception, Found a brother in blood Lost an uncle unknown, Betrayal enshrouded in the home, Factual grazes from a childhood When families feared disgrace, Deception crafted The deepest of cuts to his heart, Festering, fracturing a family apart Spinning into our world, Cutting, penetrating, Scarring beyond cure, A heart battered and broken By blood no thicker than water, Freely bleeding over all, And he knew not That his three still carry Scars of his pain, Across their hearts Remembering a good man.$

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 17/08/2026

Here's a quick attempt at #12Lines #PromptCombo Thank you @thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social for the opportunity to write this afternoon.

Eclipsed Again

Colander coloured
By the grey patina of age,
Printer ejects ivory A4
Ready for the diamond ring effect
And a corona bright,
No totality in sight
Just crescent shaped arcs
In gloomy half hearted monoscale,
The shadow of,
Whatever was there is
Rising, playing with clouds or waves,
Drowning.

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Mike O’Brien @zoomburst.substack.com · 14/08/2026

I’m in the South of France, but the pull of #poemsabout #mainstage is strong

Some bloody rock star who we have mostly forgotten about. I don’t actually know who… Put your suggestion of who it might be in the comments.

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Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 14/08/2026

Wishing everyone a good Friday. I have posted several funny poems this week, so my psyche decided to pile on extra angst for this one! #PoemsAbout #MainStage #Poetry With thanks to @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk

Mainstage

I drag myself through scenes,
a bit‑part actor trapped in a
script written by someone
who never cared if I could breathe.

Every line tastes like dust.
Every cue feels like a punishment.
This was never my main stage.
I know that now.

The boards beneath me groan
tired of holding up a body
that doesn’t belong in the light.

I held on to a promise
my moment would come.
Somewhere, a part waited
for me to be cast.

But hope is a rotting set
stale greasepaint clinging
to roles decided
before I ever opened my mouth.

A life spent hitting
someone else's marks,
while rehearsing
for a show that will never open.

I am typecast.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 14/08/2026

It's that time of the week again and this one is from the heart. #poemsAbout #MainStage

Unfathomable cruelty

Centre stage a blood red wound
Laceration of lace upon a burn,
Created by a cousin of jealousy,
A Costume to disguise the truth,

She highlights the principal star,
Followspot lighting the leading actor,
Hope hides the torturous truth
From this audience,

Supporting cast of hand and arm
Impressed with eight hundred degrees
Grey headed, fringed with white
Radiating red cloaks,
Crimson girdles
Of crinkled silk crinolines
Perfect circles of pain.

Do not speak of the scene before,
While others ignore such agony,
No applauding this performance
When the curtains close,

Returning to a rehearsal room,
Practicing fear and terror
Until it's time
For the main stage again.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 07/08/2026

In a rush and without inspiration I finally penned some words that need further editing. Inspired by the card on the mantel piece #PoemsAbout #ThriftStore Thank you to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk as always.

Charity Shop Charts
Shabby shoddy shoebox, Cardboard frayed, dented
As a scrapped car piled high On the detritus of others lives, Musky lingering scents drifting, Mingling aromas, incense, patchouli,
Undertones of earthy burnt ropes, Opium,
Music contained in perennial plastic, Blooming with forgotten magnetism, BASF cassettes in a row, Maxwell below, Recorded, named, dated,
Sounds from the seventies,
Saturday evening Countdown with Caroline, Sundays with Luxembourg,
Chaotic charts of the 60s and 70s, Hand written notes of date time and station, Rarely reviewed or listened too, Cohen, Lennon, Bolan and Bowie, All was Hunky Dory, Morrison, Joplin, Hendrix and Bonham, On a Stairway to Heaven,
Lost, unplayable requiems of their time Pop, Prog, Disco, Glam, Soul, Rock and Roll, A saved box on the shelf in the charity shop Teenage music, time and life,
Pencil in the box, a tape winding tool, Recreating a soft fussy sound,
Rounded bass and blunted high tones,
No Walkman today for old recorded charts,
No accompaniment from an unintended chorus Of sibilant effervescence,
Now available with the clean sharp clinical sound
Of Spotify tracks,
Is anyone listening anymore?

A photo of a cassette tape with a pencil. The text says: if you understand the relationship between these...
You're old

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 31/07/2026

Hurray it's Friday and time for #PoemsAbout #LastTrain Thank you to @alanparrywriter.co.uk, @thebrokenspine.co.uk for a great prompt. Sorry for the inaccurate references, but I had a great time remembering the play and the journey. I'm still in touch with the friends and we are still 'witchy'!

Old Vic 1973

Escape from the ancient theatre of magic
Darkened hills, mystical woods, desolate heaths,
We three sprinting along cobbled lanes, Racing, laughing, enacting, cackling,

Black patent platforms, Mary Quant miniskirts,
Smoky eyes, shimmering lips,
Modern day enchantresses of the age Weird sisters and witchy friends,

Darkness and torrents of cold spring rain
Anointing faces, recreating scenes,
Images of a man who silenced lambs Avenging woman, keen knife in hand,

Behind behind behind, breathless,
Hurling, whirling along a wooded Kingsway, Cutting through slithery streets,
Emboldened by what was just seen,

Shadows of gothic Saint Pancras tower, The blackened gateway of Battle Bridge Where chance determined Boudicca's resting place, And Kings are named,

Racing along a perpetual platform
An engine of the industrial age, steeled, Exhaling fog and diesel fumes,
Poised for the whistle,

Tumbling through closing doors,
Falling into shabby seats,
Heading home to the eastern fens
Quietly reflecting as the magic ends,

Stars hide your fires,
And before tomorrow comes,
High school girls again,
Travelling the last train.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 24/07/2026

Second post on behalf of Sunshine who is 8. He wrote these at school and inspired me to write the one I posted earlier. He asked me to post these for #PoemsAbout, #BadHabits. Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk for giving a young and aspiring poet an opportunity.

Plastic piles builds up.
Smashed bottles surround the beach.
Small turtles trapped in plastic.
The Earth asks for help.
The beach sleeps rubbish.
Plastic swims across the river.

Stevan

The smoke is like a blanket.
The beach is a rubbish dump.
The park is like a landfill.
The rubbish blows like storm.
The river is a dirty soup.
The donkeys are in a plastic prison.
By Stevan

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 24/07/2026

It's #PoemsAbout, here is my offering for #BadHabits. Inspired by an 8 year old who wrote a sparse poem about climate change at school. Thank you to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk I'll be back later to read all, after the dog's physio has been and said grandson is in bed!

Bad Choices
Leave the lights on when Hurrying out for a day,
No time for the darkness to come,
Heating too high it?
There's no one home to freeze, No thought for a cold tomorrow,
Tap running whilst?
The chat is flowing,
Ignorant of the dry eventuality,
Car idling waiting with?
Nowhere to go,
No time to exhaust on miles,
Flying across the Earth for?
Fantastic and frivolous reasons,
No cares for the world,
Two journeys instead of one when?
Time is of the essence, Not a flash of understanding,
Plastic in the pink bin why?
Wrong colour, wrong bin, Not a time for waste,
Unconcerned, shameless, Bad habits propelling Man Towards a dark future,
Lost time, lost love, Lost land, lost planet,
Lost Earth.

A photograph of a parched field in the Yorkshire countryside after two months of exceptionally high temperatures. Two spaniels are wandering around too.

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Brenda Blue @brendafromia.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

#poemsabout #exitwounds #RhopalicVerse no exit horrific wounds inflicted in a tragic war— like it’s a game now he’s bored f*ck you trump

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

Reposting, with thanks to @jenthorne.bsky.social who noticed my error, definitely 'more haste, less speed this morning! #PoemsAbout #ExitWounds

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Lin Hart @poetry-with-hart.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

I don't have explanation for this one. I nearly didn't post it, too brittle, a time we don't speak of in my family. Might be an impossible one to edit, but here's daylight on it for a moment. CW: childloss. @thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk #poemsabout #exitwound #poetry #5amwritersclub

It was way too early and the light was on
making bright truths, we were too young to prepare for.

I was the first one up to see them. My mom
in my dad's arms cradled crying clawing for peace.

She was home. She was home. She was home.
They said it'd be another week, they said a lot of things.

Our brother was in the NICU, and she would stay
in the hospital. I stood in the hallway, liminal space.

Not quite entering, not quite exiting, haunting
without acceptance of the sight of my mother in despair.

We would always have a guardian angel, they said
group-hugged with breath vacated by grief.

Tyler would always be there looking out for us
they tried to spin it like it was okay, accept it, it's life.

Loss left no visible mark on her. Still beautiful
still her, still soft warmth, still my mother.

I saw the wound that left no scar. I saw her and
wondered how close we came to losing her.

I chanted it in my mind like a prayer.
She's home. She's home. She's home.

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Fiftywords @fiftywords.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

Here’s my contribution for #PoemsAbout #ExitWounds Thanks as ever to @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Créacht na Staire
The Wound of History The empire sailed away, or so the history book said, a small engraving of ships
diminishing into weather. But it had already hidden
inside the mouth.
Our rivers answered
to names they had not chosen.
Mountains were corrected. Fields divided themselves
obediently on maps.
At school, we were given rulers. We learned to draw straight lines, to underline the subject, circle the object,
and call possession grammar. The old words survived
as contraband: in kitchens, at wakes, under the breath of women who knew a language could be beaten
without being killed Still, when we speak,
the wound opens: claim, clear, settle,
own. A conqueror's verbs, passed down
as ordinary speech.
The flag was lowered. The alphabet remained, some letters missing,
others drilled into order. And somewhere beneath each careful sentence, the tongue remembers
what was taken from it.

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Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

Yay it's #PoemsAbout day again. Here is my offering to @thebrokenspine.co.uk for #ExitWounds Have a good weekend everyone 😊 #Poetry #Home

Exit Wounds

We close the door on twelve years,
on a house that learned our footsteps,
moulded its walls around our living,
and sheltered us through every storm.

Now it stands
hollow,
echoing bedtime stories and laughter,
whispered fears,
the lives we lived inside it.

Scratches on the door jamb,
each one a celebration
of legs stretching longer.

The dent in the wall
where the sofa refused to turn the corner
still smiles at us,
a stubborn reminder
the furniture remembers too.

Nail holes pockmark the plaster
where photographs once clung.
Faded squares linger,
where smiling toddlers
in floppy hats once watched us.

We leave behind the marks
of having endured.

The house will heal.
Paint will cover.
New laughter will fill these rooms.
But these scars are ours.

We walk away knowing
a home is never just bricks.
It is every wound we made,
and every wound we mended,
inside its walls.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

This week I have written about garden ornaments and tomatoes, before finding time for a short sharp poem about #ExitWounds. As always thank you to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk for the prompt and to @zoomburst.substack.com for introducing me to the Friday ritual!

A poem:

Seen and Unseen

1. On Entry

First a stab of stolen identity,
Second a shot of betrayal,
Third the spatter of shot gun pellets
Quiet lies, unassuming arrogance.

2. On Exit

Grief and chaos in the blade,
Amid the mire and mud of a cold winter,
Family sprayed by cartridges of distress, Bullets of endless illness,
And sobbing from all around.

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John Chmura @johnchmura.bsky.social · 10/07/2026

#PoemsAbout #PowerCut @thebrokenspine.co.uk Will put a reading in the comments.

BYPASS

kissing goodbye at the service
elevator
as the doors collapse
her heart
powered down
for repairs

a book
brought to kill time
used as a coaster
nervous chatter
silenced by a code blue alert
as camaraderie dissolves
are cohorts psychic adversaries

visiting the intubated mummy
I don’t recognize
my wife
whisper wake up
over the chirping
monitor bank

protests of love
opioid fever drip dream
I honestly wish
it was a truth serum confession

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 10/07/2026

Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk for #PoemsAbout #Powercut I made hard work of this one and only started it last night after mulling over ideas for a few days. This is version 5, but maybe there should be more!

48 Hours Later

A quiet muted moment,
Forty eight hours on from a rollercoaster ride,
That ended with an end,
So a celebration of sorts,
An eulogy to a matriarch
On an icily dark and wet New Year's Eve,

Cataclysmic sleet falling on icy ground
Swirling down the lonely lane.
And then comes the bolt rocking the core,
A son doubling down with pain intense
Dread interrupting memories,
Bright pulsating blue lights and a swift trip,
Support and succour from his partner,
To a place of aid contained by patience,

Home alone apart from the faithful,
Warmth and reflections suspended,
Electricity failing this abandoned outpost,
Dark shadows pervading
Expanding maliciously from every crevasse
And corner of an aged room,
Sleet raging against the windows
Rattling in the rhythm of the storm,

Comfort dissipating, disappearing,
Darkness slowing attempts to live,
Watching the mantel of night from inside,
Reassuring stirring of dogs in a sofa like lair,
Occasional headlights crossing the window
Momentarily brightening space,
Contemplating the numbness of the loss
And death two days before,

A growling engine outside,
The metal Warrior appears from afar,
No livery, no lights above,
Beyond the window silence slips
Nothing moves as the torrent falls,
A fearful calm beyond the door,

Eons later a figure emerging, shapeless,
Heavy, encased, a costume for a storm,
Woden alighting his post modern chariot,
Manifesting an old Norse god in the night
With a weapon above his head,
Gleaming diamond blade facing skyward,
Screaming doom and destruction,
A tableau of horror on a storm laden night,

Then comes a terrifying knock on the door,
A hesitation, a pause before confronting fear,
Where the Northern Power linesman,
Soaked to the skin, smiling, dripping,
Announces there's no power for now,
Or for hours and hours,
He offers hot tea from a full thermos flask,
A hero bringing kindness, no villain after all.

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Jen Thorne @jenthorne.bsky.social · 03/07/2026

Not sure we have motels, but we do have some well dodgy Travelodges! Happy #PoemsAbout day everyone. Can't wait to read the different takes on #CheapMotels #poetry #poetrycommunity

Affordable Sanctuary

Trains scrape their metal teeth
against the night,
a few metres from my window.
I coax the air conditioner awake.
It coughs once,
then smothers every other sound.

Cold water needles my skin;
the hours for warmth
have long passed.

I don’t search the sheets.
Some truths are better left
unfound.

The kettle gets its ritual cleansing,
and the chair braces the door
like a tired sentinel.

On my floor,
soft‑eyed wanderers drift.
One lifts a can toward me,
a companionable offering
in the lift’s
flickering light.

I shake my head.

Their music thumps through the walls,
a rough lullaby braided
with train rumble
and the air con’s asthmatic wheeze.

Still,
this place cools the heat
pressing in from the city.
A pocket of noise
that isn’t the world’s noise.

I lie back,
the mattress sighing beneath me,
and slip into sleep
where dystopian skylines rise
from the hum of shabby machinery
and the thin breath
of borrowed sanctuary.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 26/06/2026

I tried something new - I'm sure it's unfinished but I have a busy day today... @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #TheLook

A poem about The Look, describing Nella and her life here

A photograph of Nella who is a black working cocker spaniel. The photo was taken by Andy Biggar.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 12/06/2026

This week's prompt from @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #WrongBody. So a testamentary piece of art, life changing surgery in the family and three generations in one home helped to frame this offering.

A poem written about the wrong body using the headings from a Paul Gaugin painting, entitled where do we come from

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 05/06/2026

It's a well deserved fallow week from @alanparrywriter.co.uk with no #PoemsAbout. Thanks to Mike, @zoomburst.substack.com for #OddFriday #PoemsOn #OpportunityKnocks Inspired by 'ob portum veniens' and veni vidi, vici. Just about all the Latin I remember from many decades ago!

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 29/05/2026

#PoemsAbout #EarnTheRight I'm on holiday in the place of my birth and thought there would be time for composition - I went for serious and philosophical but it did not earn the right.

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John Chmura @johnchmura.bsky.social · 29/05/2026

#PoemsAbout #EarnTheRight @thebrokenspine.co.uk I will put a reading or link in the comments.

BIRTHRIGHT

Cover your shaven head.
Chant the devil earthly secrets
in a mother’s tongue.

A guillotine basket
for craven conviction, paper crowned
lowly roller waiting to die.

Those who leap
and never land,
those who drown in flames.

On the last night
I tell her I am so sorry
and she says who are you again?

Like Travis the chimp high on tea and Xanax
stabbed and shot for a ticklish fit
in psychic free fall,

neither man nor child,
I read my own fear
in the lines on your first face

and I die beside my open cage, breathlessly
mouthing the words in human language,
why am I forsaken?

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Reposted by @patriciajvs.bsky.social

DrNaturegirl @drnaturegirl.debbiemross.co.uk · 29/05/2026

Good morning @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk thanks for this week’s #PoemsAbout prompt #EarningTheRight Inknew where I wanted to go without from the off but not really sure I got there. Enjoy the #poetry Bit of crisis management here today but will check in when I can. Thanks.

A poem by Debbie Ross
entitled Earn Your Stripes

text as follows

Earn Your Stripes

In this country
we were raised
on public school diplomacy -
‘new boy’ rites of passage,
working your way up.

Earning the right
to go wide
in rugby
and in life,
playing by the rules.

I’m not sure I agree
with all that stuff,
but doing the hard graft
is what get’s results.

Nowadays
there’s way too much
entitlement,
politicians buying
their way to power.

People who think
their ideas
should be accommodated
because they have money.

We over value ‘gifted’
ignore the grafter,
support the grifter
who’s never
earned his stripes.

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patriciajvs.bsky.social @patriciajvs.bsky.social · 23/05/2026

What to do on a Saturday morning but make a cover for my notebooks. I might go back to the workshop and make version two.

The next four images show a handmade cover for pocket notebooks

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Reposted by @patriciajvs.bsky.social

Jenevieve Carlyn @coastalpoet.bsky.social · 22/05/2026

#PoemsAbout #BearingWitness America has never been one entity except in myth, and democracy has always been the great experiment imperfectly tried, but these are my thoughts on my country. For now it's the only one I have. This was in the Poems for Protest anthology from Rough Diamond last winter.

Democracy
Jenevieve Carlyn

America, what would it mean now
to go on without you?

You with your purple mountains
and amber waves,

me with my spacious skies
and shining sea—

all my unspoken credos,
all your valleys in between;

to say I never really knew you
would be the truth. And yet,

my heart is still a small dog
who waits without food or water

even beside the grave of the fallen—
the only war we're still learning to fight.

*Words in italics from 'America, the Beautiful' (1895)

The Grand Canyon and sky in shades of peach, mauve, and blue.

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Reposted by @patriciajvs.bsky.social

DrNaturegirl @drnaturegirl.debbiemross.co.uk · 22/05/2026

Good morning #poetry people thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk for this Friday platform. Here’s my wee snippet for #PoemsAbout #BearingWitness I had a rather boring convoluted piece I ditched. Will enjoy reading the contributions. Have a great day.

A single stanza 6 line poem by Debbie Ross entitled

We See You

Text as follows:
Atrocity
recorded
forever in reels on phones in your bones.

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