Francis H Powell writer and poet 's Avatar

Francis H Powell writer and poet

@fhpowellwriter.bsky.social

I'm an artist, musician, poet, writer, a creative being. I live in France, but born in the UK. I have written anything from horror books to a children's book. Vegetarian, dog lover, anti war maybe a bit woke Follow me if you can. #vss365 #writingcommunity

6,960 Followers  |  7,625 Following  |  16,932 Posts  |  Joined: 13.11.2024
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Posts by Francis H Powell writer and poet (@fhpowellwriter.bsky.social)

There's no rest for the wicked
#7syllablesentence
#rest

03.03.2026 18:57 β€” πŸ‘ 2    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0

#7syllablesentence
#rest

too much rest makes you tired

03.03.2026 14:52 β€” πŸ‘ 6    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

wish we could regain that awe

box it up, wrap with ribbon

open it up every day

view it like prized possession

#7syllablesentence #awe

02.03.2026 15:24 β€” πŸ‘ 5    πŸ” 3    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

nectarines and peaches
scattered around the ground
beneath fragile-looking trees
giving free treats to the deer
while grandkids quietly watch

#MadMarch #peaches #poetry #writing #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity @daveashleypoet.bsky.social

03.03.2026 16:18 β€” πŸ‘ 10    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

This time last year, I
Turned a corner, joined this place,
And never looked back.
#Haikufeels #last #haiku #senryu #poem #writing #writingcommunity

03.03.2026 11:05 β€” πŸ‘ 21    πŸ” 3    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

Just to say, Happy
Birthday, a year gives way, as
Candles sway, wish made.
#MadMarch #birthday #haiku #senryu #poem #writing #writingcommunity
@daveashleypoet.bsky.social

03.03.2026 10:45 β€” πŸ‘ 20    πŸ” 3    πŸ’¬ 3    πŸ“Œ 0

Three hairs left on
His head, a cataract
Stare, brain dead she
Slips another Swedish
Fish past his lips to
His toothless maw, I
Watched, I saw no
Semblance of life or
Strife to care, nothing
Aware of the time now
Passed, I had to think
Fast, and hit him
With a boot

#vss365 #cataract
#poetry

03.03.2026 17:19 β€” πŸ‘ 9    πŸ” 4    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
Blurry

Blurry

there are some of us
with cataracts of the eye
everything's blurry
and there are those among us
with cataracts of the heart

#vss365 #cataracts #tanka

03.03.2026 17:17 β€” πŸ‘ 13    πŸ” 4    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0
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#RockinTuesday #TidesOutTuesday #Photography #EastCoastKin

03.03.2026 18:51 β€” πŸ‘ 1    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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#RockinTuesday #TidesOutTuesday #Photography #EastCoastKin

03.03.2026 18:50 β€” πŸ‘ 2    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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#RockinTuesday #TidesOutTuesday #Photography #EastCoastKin

03.03.2026 18:49 β€” πŸ‘ 1    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
it's just another day
peppered with extra confetti
in the form of hearts and likes
another year wiser
more memories made
new friends, maybe an end
the next year is unplanned and
hungry to be written, so
make this your best story
eat all the cake
fall in love, and
live like it's your last chapter
make your dreams
(the good ones) 
come to life

it's just another day peppered with extra confetti in the form of hearts and likes another year wiser more memories made new friends, maybe an end the next year is unplanned and hungry to be written, so make this your best story eat all the cake fall in love, and live like it's your last chapter make your dreams (the good ones) come to life

Happy birthday Dave! πŸ’œ

#MadMarch #birthday #poetry #writing #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #Moonmystic #dreams @daveashleypoet.bsky.social

The Ramones - I Don't Wanna Grow Up
youtu.be/1Tpu_XoNABA?...

03.03.2026 17:25 β€” πŸ‘ 13    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

Rambling old, open
Flowed too rusted to
Stop, another word
Dropped with dreams
To foster a syndrome
Imposter and then some
Left for confusion an
Illusion of talent was
Just what was meant
But too rusted to stop
Rambling old, still a
Philosophical crackpot

#weirdmicro #poetry
#PhilosophicalCrackpot

03.03.2026 17:56 β€” πŸ‘ 4    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0
Power cut

we sit in darkness
outside the storm breaks the bough
reach for the matches

Power cut we sit in darkness outside the storm breaks the bough reach for the matches

A slightly literal haiku for #PromptCombo #Powerless on this gloomy wet Monday. Thanks for the excellent prompt, @rfsmith.bsky.social #poems #poetry #writingcommunity

02.03.2026 17:25 β€” πŸ‘ 19    πŸ” 4    πŸ’¬ 1    πŸ“Œ 0

#16wordpoem

in a specimen jar

even though she has the gentlest hands

she might remove your wings

03.03.2026 18:01 β€” πŸ‘ 9    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 3    πŸ“Œ 0
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#vss365 #cataract

03.03.2026 15:23 β€” πŸ‘ 7    πŸ” 1    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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It was a perfect day for a long walk, but how was I to know. As I turned a corner, darkness fell, I heard the sound of urgent panting, to my horror stood before me was cerberus, a dog straight from hell.

#horrorprompt.

03.03.2026 15:17 β€” πŸ‘ 4    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
When I was young

the world moved in envelopes.
I would press my handwriting into paper
as if the ink itself could travel faster
if I wished hard enough.
I waited days, sometimes weeks,
for a reply to cross oceans,
to find its way through sorting rooms
and weather and chance.

Sometimes a letter arrived
with a grainy photograph tucked inside:
a friend’s face blurred at the edges,
a monument softened by distance,
a place I had never been
made real by the faint chemical smell
of developing fluid and fingerprints.

And then

the world shifted.
A quiet miracle.
The first instant conversation
felt like touching a star
and finding it warm.

Digital pictures crawled onto the screen
line by line,
as if the machine were shy
about revealing the future
all at once.

Now I sit at night
and speak freely to people
across continents,
voices exchanged without delay,
faces crisp and bright
as if they were leaning
just over my shoulder.

I take pictures without thinking,
send them without ceremony.
I scatter words like seeds
that bloom in seconds.

And yet I catch myself sighing
when the world at my fingertips
hesitates,
when a page takes a breath too long
to load.
I forget the miracle
because it has become as familiar
as the air in my lungs.

But sometimes,
in the moments between replies,
I remember the waiting,
the blurred faces,
the slow magic of distance,
and I feel the old wonder
stir again.

When I was young the world moved in envelopes. I would press my handwriting into paper as if the ink itself could travel faster if I wished hard enough. I waited days, sometimes weeks, for a reply to cross oceans, to find its way through sorting rooms and weather and chance. Sometimes a letter arrived with a grainy photograph tucked inside: a friend’s face blurred at the edges, a monument softened by distance, a place I had never been made real by the faint chemical smell of developing fluid and fingerprints. And then the world shifted. A quiet miracle. The first instant conversation felt like touching a star and finding it warm. Digital pictures crawled onto the screen line by line, as if the machine were shy about revealing the future all at once. Now I sit at night and speak freely to people across continents, voices exchanged without delay, faces crisp and bright as if they were leaning just over my shoulder. I take pictures without thinking, send them without ceremony. I scatter words like seeds that bloom in seconds. And yet I catch myself sighing when the world at my fingertips hesitates, when a page takes a breath too long to load. I forget the miracle because it has become as familiar as the air in my lungs. But sometimes, in the moments between replies, I remember the waiting, the blurred faces, the slow magic of distance, and I feel the old wonder stir again.

When I was young

the world moved in envelopes.
I would press my handwriting into paper
as if the ink itself could travel faster
if I wished hard enough.
I waited days, sometimes weeks,
for a reply to cross oceans,
to find its way through sorting rooms
and weather and chance.

Sometimes a letter arrived
with a grainy photograph tucked inside:
a friend’s face blurred at the edges,
a monument softened by distance,
a place I had never been
made real by the faint chemical smell
of developing fluid and fingerprints.

And then

the world shifted.
A quiet miracle.
The first instant conversation
felt like touching a star
and finding it warm.

Digital pictures crawled onto the screen
line by line,
as if the machine were shy
about revealing the future
all at once.

Now I sit at night
and speak freely to people
across continents,
voices exchanged without delay,
faces crisp and bright
as if they were leaning
just over my shoulder.

I take pictures without thinking,
send them without ceremony.
I scatter words like seeds
that bloom in seconds.

And yet I catch myself sighing
when the world at my fingertips
hesitates,
when a page takes a breath too long
to load.
I forget the miracle
because it has become as familiar
as the air in my lungs.

But sometimes,
in the moments between replies,
I remember the waiting,
the blurred faces,
the slow magic of distance,
and I feel the old wonder
stir again.

When I was young the world moved in envelopes. I would press my handwriting into paper as if the ink itself could travel faster if I wished hard enough. I waited days, sometimes weeks, for a reply to cross oceans, to find its way through sorting rooms and weather and chance. Sometimes a letter arrived with a grainy photograph tucked inside: a friend’s face blurred at the edges, a monument softened by distance, a place I had never been made real by the faint chemical smell of developing fluid and fingerprints. And then the world shifted. A quiet miracle. The first instant conversation felt like touching a star and finding it warm. Digital pictures crawled onto the screen line by line, as if the machine were shy about revealing the future all at once. Now I sit at night and speak freely to people across continents, voices exchanged without delay, faces crisp and bright as if they were leaning just over my shoulder. I take pictures without thinking, send them without ceremony. I scatter words like seeds that bloom in seconds. And yet I catch myself sighing when the world at my fingertips hesitates, when a page takes a breath too long to load. I forget the miracle because it has become as familiar as the air in my lungs. But sometimes, in the moments between replies, I remember the waiting, the blurred faces, the slow magic of distance, and I feel the old wonder stir again.

@madp03t.bsky.social

I am not sure I quite got this one right in terms of content, so I made it super-long to make up for it.

#AmpersandAfterDark #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #poetry

02.03.2026 21:48 β€” πŸ‘ 16    πŸ” 6    πŸ’¬ 5    πŸ“Œ 0

; she hid her scars; saw her
wounds

as flaws - yet his finger traced

each faded line in awe - of

her strength; her bravery - an

indelible map of how

she survived etched in her skin.

#7syllablesentence #awe #micropoetry #writing

02.03.2026 22:39 β€” πŸ‘ 9    πŸ” 5    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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#thicktrunktuesday #trees #woodland #treeclub

03.03.2026 11:07 β€” πŸ‘ 5    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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#thicktrunktuesday #trees #woodland #treeclub

03.03.2026 11:07 β€” πŸ‘ 25    πŸ” 3    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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WHITENESS
#swan
#naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:53 β€” πŸ‘ 3    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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LOG
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:46 β€” πŸ‘ 7    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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TANGERINE SKY
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:43 β€” πŸ‘ 11    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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ONE ON TOP OF ANOTHER
#photo Francis H Powell
#photoshare

03.03.2026 10:40 β€” πŸ‘ 5    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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PATTERNS
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #Paris #architecture

03.03.2026 10:35 β€” πŸ‘ 13    πŸ” 2    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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DROOPING DOWN
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:33 β€” πŸ‘ 4    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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PURPLE POWER
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare

03.03.2026 10:31 β€” πŸ‘ 7    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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PETAL POWER
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:30 β€” πŸ‘ 4    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0
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A SKY AT NIGHT
#photo Francis H Powell #photoshare #naturephoto

03.03.2026 10:28 β€” πŸ‘ 4    πŸ” 0    πŸ’¬ 0    πŸ“Œ 0