Dawn McLachlan

They appeared to be
Peaches, but for the screeches
As one drew closer.
#MadMarch #peaches #haiku #senryu #poem #writing #writingcommunity
@daveashleypoet.bsky.social

Through salt-heavy seas Through salt-heavy seas navigates the emotional geography of displacement and belonging, weaving together the coastlines of Aotearoa New Zealand, the Scottish Highlands and Islands, and the mountains ...

Excited that my new #poetry collection, 'Through salt-heavy seas' is out! This book marks a milestone for me, so I'm delighted to see it in print! DM me if you'd like to review it!

Get it here: www.lulu.com/shop/andrew-...

#writingcommunity #poems #scottishpoetry #PublishingScotland #booksy

Really enjoying this new #poetry prompt hosted by @blackboughpoetry.bsky.social, challenging us to write a condensed poem of 18 words or fewer.

Here's my piece for week 3 of #fragmentsfriday

#blueskypoets #skypoets #poetsofbluesky
#micropoetry #poetrychallenge #poetrycommunity #poetrylovers

This is the kind of thing I almost never write... Leaning into less is more, for @victoriaspires.bsky.social #PoemsAbout #rupture

I love this. Short form poetry is so hard to write and this is elegant and expressive. Love it.

The woods held much of our joy, mossy artifacts spent by centuries of ruin; what was once a palace affected by the claims of nature and time, those merciful masters that offer sacred fulfillment in the return of green. But passions called our bluff and we veered off course; what once was a path became and improvised jaunt, a ramble of words and feet as you ask, “Is this Love?” “Can we find it again?” Can we find that oasis of flame: our garden inferno with rubies in leaves so brittle, yet yielding; not hot, but inflamed with whispered threats that the search may end. How we’d be would we dare stay there- in the woods unknown, in the garden ungrown, in the endless search for my treasured end. If we’d let the trees inside us bend. If we held what held us so true. If we dared to know we knew. How we’d be would we dare to know we knew.

Feb 27 #Poem from #Prompts

#bedroomeyesprompt is this love
#poemsabout spent
#emoetry affected
#2wordprompt artifact & threat
#ourpoetryx merciful
#BlueSkyPoetry #BSPP50 Veer
#retroartprompt search of my treasure
#firewords280 sacred fulfillment
#foxprose our garden inferno

#freeverse #poetry

Poem: Thoughts While Walking After the Death of My Sister Here comes the glowering sky—again sapphire to slate, no snow bells, only flakes pristine pretty for a sec-- but we’re over it, even the clouds seem spent, the planet is pooped, the predators still free, the privileged plutocrats swollen with greed—buying bodies, buildings, bullets, bullion as girls grown to womanhood wait for justice. I’m exhausted—this winter, this world— where despite everything, birds are starting to sing the future, blueberry skies, popcorn clouds, blossom-blizzards in pink and white. I look up at a chittering murmuration, watch as the starlings constellate, coordinate, conjoin, unite-- realize they’ve answered the questions I didn’t ask, not why. When.

Good morning! Some people know my older sister died on Monday. I didn't participate last week. It was a long week. I'll come back later to read this week's poems for #PoemsAbout #Spent Thank you as always to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and @thebrokenspine.co.uk for providing this poetry platform.

So sorry for your loss. Thank you for sharing this wonderful poem.

all the time spent on
liquored nights
unfulfilled promises
empty big beds
whiskey scented sinks;

love replaced by resentment
then by hate as the words
chosen drowned
the memories of good times,
where there good times?
the bed
says
no

#poemsabout @thebrokenspine.co.uk #poetry

Mother and Son Converse in an Ancient Crypt After Сон (“Dream”, 1910), Alexander Blok (1880-1921), Russian Symbolist I meet you in Dreams as a Matter of course. This night, We lie side by side in an Ancient crypt. Above us, Life rumbles on in Ever more voluble Boom-claps of Hubbub and Bedlam – Until the Last Day is upon us. Vague glimmer of Paschal Sunday; Far-flung Clamour of Swooning bugle. Our Catacomb is Copper-cast, but Pulsates within a Ruddy-gauzy Film of light. Wrapped in Vapours of Sunday-school Monotony and Incredulity - His Features surface, Clustered about with Swords and angels. Entombed with us, a Placid spouse shuns Rebirth, spurns Emancipation - Slumbers on in Oblivion. You whisper: In life, you were Sturdy and burly. Press harder on the Vault, and the Stone will Roll away. I answer: No, Mother - the Strength I once had has gone. I’ve suffocated in the tomb. Pray, both of you, for an angel to Come along and Roll away the Stone. Free adaptation from the Russian: ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025

@Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2024 Monochrome image of long shadow of photographer projected into the interior of a mausoleum.

🙏 @thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Spent

#adaptation #poem / #photography:
@Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025/2024

#Reading 👇 Out all day - will catch up

#Symbolism #PoetryInTranslation #PagingDrFreud #RussianPoetry #Blok #monochrome #tomb

Longshore Drift Yawl creaks tonight, fret lifts but the tide is so low. Crew, cobled to shore, drink in the snug. Keel wedges on the kansh, rocks cargo in its salty hold. Scullers check creel beyond the skerry. I scrat wrack for lava-bread, shack dark. Driftwood lies spitful, unsparked. Crab skaned for bait, I watch crates idle in spume, sure the tide will turn in my direction soon. Sarah O’ Grady Published Butcher’s Dog

@thebrokenspine.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Spent

Thanks Alan. One published a while back in the wonderful Butcher's Dog.

TWO FEET Shoveling two feet with my son, opening a single lane in the driveway from garage to impassable street and runs in the yard for the klee kai to pee and poop. I think I am pulling my weight, working from one end and meeting him midway, but just as I’m about to declare victory the neighbors appear at their stoop making no headway while their pup whines miserably behind them and my son unasked carves a swath between our yards, even inserting a cutout about halfway in. I find myself staring at his strong shoulders, imagining muscle flexing beneath flannel as he tosses full scoops of weighty fluff and wet hair streams across his brow until I guiltily realize he has been working alone and I can only fart around lifting little drifts that drop randomly in his wake.

#PoemsAbout #Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
I will put a reading in the comments…

To all those who never ever get to start the new toothpaste! 😊 #PoemsAbout #Spent
Thanks @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk Happy Friday!

#spent #poemsabout #rupture #promptcombo #inkmine #dreamy #madrigal #poem #love

#PoemsAbout #Spent #poem #writing #writingcommunity
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk

#poemsabout #spent

Banjaxed: a common Irish slang term meaning something is broken, ruined, severely damaged, or beyond repair.

attic sketches appear
unclaimed reels linger
as grey tinged captions
claim the passage
confounded and spent
my impulses proceed
through the fire and passion
stoking the burnt offerings
left scratching their way
through the ash and lust
where noted desires played

#PoemsAbout #Spent

Spent A match burned down to fingers. I have nothing left. So use the blackened stub to write messages on the pavement to be washed away by rain. A purse emptied of cash. The price paid rises each day. The reserve is empty, trading on credit I have no hope of repaying. A body utterly exhausted. Bed offers no respite. Lying there I am spent. Recovery takes longer than I have. One day what wakes will not be me.

I love Fridays, or #PoemsAbout day as I now call them.

Here is my offering, and I look forward to seeing all of yours 😁

#Spent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
#poetry

Can you share your crackers, because I’ve used all my words on this poem And plum’s out of season And it’s loud — keeping mum C. Oulens

Strangely, don’t have much to say for #PoemsAbout #Spent
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

…but just enough
for #fragmentsfriday #micropoem
@blackboughpoetry.bsky.social

#Oulens #BlueskyPoetry #micropoetry
#poetrycommunity

After the room is still the air heavy the floor damp with rain now the storm has ebbed away but you you sit with me you you hold my hand saying nothing just here here

Nice to be able to post a quick little poem for #poemsabout #spent after a bit of an enforced absence last week (bad cold). Thanks @alanparrywriter.co.uk / @thebrokenspine.co.uk for the prompt and to everyone contributing! #poems #poetry #writingcommunity #poetrycommunity #scottishpoetry

I’m taking a breather from #poemsabout because I’m spent working my new poetry book. However, I am still sharing the love (and the passion) and enjoying reading the works of others. Like, share, enjoy and support the #poetrycommunity

Satellite proposals threaten the night sky In the United States, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), the agency responsible for authorizing satellite launches and operations…

The FCC just opened public comments on SpaceX's plan to launch a million satellites to do AI compute in space. Under the current proposal, an environmental review won't be required. Please consider submitting a public comment to oppose this damaging plan.
darksky.org/news/two-sat...

Friends! If you know any primary school teachers, please share this offer with them:

A pile of handmade bookmarks printed with summer flowers and swallows in blue ink.

Because poetry books deserve bookmarks I’ve spent today making some. June Somewhere will be published on June 1st and available in the usual places but if you order direct from me I’ll pop in a bookmark.
#poetrybooks #poetryconmunity #poetsofbluesky #poets #poetrybook

A phone scribble from the steps of The Uffizi! It’s all that Botticelli that did it. 😊 Thanks for the #PoemsAbout #UnderTheSkin prompt @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk I might not get a chance to read and comment for a while! Happy Friday!

#poemsabout #undertheskin

Tectonic How your death shifted everything. Split me off from that part of myself once lithospheric with part of you – began the drift that would detach me from a continent of memories raised by the years of our colliding. I felt the deformation at once; registered the seismic crack of grief in the plates of my skull. No longer isostatic; landmass of our shared world cleaved yet cleaving. A natural event, but occurring out of time.

Typically oblique approach by me to this week's #poemsabout: this piece written over 11 years after my oldest childhood friend died, aged 35. It qualifies (I'd argue) because my grief for him felt like it got #undertheskin every day for more than a year. I do not recommend this as a healing process.

A short single stanza poem by Debbie Ross entitled Skin Tales You count your rosary of lumps and scars, praying to the twin gods of radio and chemotherapy, hoping the skin cancer is just under the skin, hasn’t gone too far…

Hello @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk for today’s #PoemsAbout #UnderTheSkin a wee experimental verse that I’m not sure about. A bit literal rather than oblique I’m afraid. Appointments today, but will check back over cuppas when I can Thanks #blueskypoetry pals look forward to reading.

Danger to Life the heat generated deep-laid internal friction beneath that luminous skin pressure points scraping burning scarring upwards and outwards mania gears grinding night-clenched teeth white knuckle addiction heat, ice, heat, speed opium acceleration dopamine panic speed a soul peeling away self-destruct initiated burnt out, you too falling, an ash cloud faint trace of something that was, now isn’t. © Glenn Barker February 2026

For this week's #PoemsAbout I attempted something more about the 'wanting that lingers' something softer, more vulnerable; but something else more urgent was #UnderTheSkin. My apologies in that it contains nothing uplifting. I've been snagged by a troubling zeitgeist.

SECOND SKINS (for Grace) clock watching peel myself from the claustrophobic pod and slide into a windbreaker shell in the queue for a New York lunch epidermis milking daybeams waiting for a skinless frank I nosh on a bench like a glacial erratic watching the reflections of the sidewalk stream around me behind a sleeve of steel and glass human hive mind hums a malignant drone under banks of fluorescent sun

#PoemsAbout #UnderTheSkin @thebrokenspine.co.uk
Took a little break from the polemical this week. Will put a reading in the comments.