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@blackskhaiku.blacksky.app Oct 11, 2026, 9:18 PM

(sincere me)

fuscia fire golden
shimmer mesmerising glide
radiance unmatched

#micropoem #micropoetry #poetry #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity
#blueskypoetry #emoetry #haiku #dailyhaikuprompt #blackskycreativesinc
#creatorsofblacksky #blackskhaiku

@rock-rex.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 8:47 PM

Who Killed Cock Robin?"

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #poetsofdoom #murdermystery #whodoneit #blueskypoetry
@sonnetsmith.bsky.social
@jenthorne.bsky.social
@phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social
@daveashleypoet.bsky.social

The body’s found,
a limp and bloody ball of ragged down,
eyes dulled, claws torn.

Some choughs are sent
to make a beak-tip search around the scene,
but come up blank.

The victim was,
by all accounts, well liked, so suspects will
be hard to find.

A bluebottle
was witness to his fall, but didn’t see
the murderer.

We don’t know why
he died, then, nor who foully took his life,
but we know how:

a clothyard shaft
that pierced his heart, and sent him tumbling
from air to earth.

And now routine:
the trawling through of records and the like,
until success —

the killer’s found:
the sole toxophilite around the place,
and envious

of Robin’s fame
and fortune gained from Christmas cards and songs
and biscuit tins.

He tries to fly,
but Sparrow is no match for D.C. Hawk,
is brought to book.

Cock Robin’s mourned
by every bird that flies; with sighs and sobs
he’s laid to rest

while in a cage
his killer flutters helpless wings and rues
his jealous rage.

@robertemond.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 7:36 PM

sleeping peacefully
wandering subconscious toils
returns... sleep eludes

#poetryprompt #MPPrompt
#Haiku #Senryu #Poetry
#PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoetry
#BlueskyPoets #PoetsofBluesky

@rock-rex.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 7:31 PM

"Incident".

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #poetsofdoom #murdermystery #whodoneit #blueskypoetry
@sonnetsmith.bsky.social
@jenthorne.bsky.social
@phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social
@daveashleypoet.bsky.social

there is
above the high-tide mark

into a stain
that glistens darkly
holds its shape

where

has been blown
by the light north-easterly.

a roving Airedale

grasps a piece of driftwood
in its jaws

later
there will be

striped plastic tape
to ward off ghoulish eyes
blood on the beach

clumping the silicate
grains the microscopic
shards of shell

raised slightly
the drier
sand
around it
off

snuffles
at the patch
and sneezes

and runs away.

a white tent
covering the find

@alethianstrata.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 6:48 PM

We make believe
that we're all
on the ground,

but aren't we all
being peeled
and torn up
off of
the ceiling?

#Poetry #BlueskyPoetry

@breezyrea.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 6:06 PM

Here's a short one I wrote from today's Odle phrase, a seasonal one. I recommend you try the daily Odle. It's such a satisfying quick challenge, a fun constraint of using letters from the title only! Play at www.odle.app #writingcommunity #wordgames #blueskypoetry #micropoetry #WhimsicalWriters

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@wordwitchlife.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 6:04 PM

#New #Poem! Have a look.

#amwriting #writingcommunity #poetsofbluesky #skypoets #chronicillness #mentalhealth #writersofbluesky #bskypoets #blueskypoetry #writersky

buymeacoffee.com/wordwitchlif...

@toddwritespoetry.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 4:24 PM

the last stop
is the next stop,

traveling at speed
& feeling the breeze,

underground where
no one can see.

#micropoem #micropoetry #poetry #poetrycommunity #blueskypoetry #writing #writingcommunity #poem #poet #author #writer

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@catsbearsandme.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 4:12 PM

#Poetry
#BlueskyPoetry
#YorkshirePoets
#IanMcMillan

Tempest Avenue by Ian McMillan

It is 5am and I am standing
in the half light bedroom
holding our son. He is finally asleep

and I lay him gently in the cot,
trying not to rattle the toy bear
attached to the bars. Next door

Mr Lowe is having a dream about
the glassworks at Stairfoot. Look:
all the workers have turned to glass,

what a strange dream. Across
the road, Mr Ford is cycling
out of his drive to the pit. He

cycles during the week, takes the car
at weekends. Down the street
my mam is standing at the kitchen

window, looking at our house, thinking
'Our Ian will be asleep. I hope
Mr Ford's squeaky cycle doesn't wake him up.'

And I am being careful, so careful
with these words, laying them
gently into this poem, turning to the door.

@poetrader.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 2:58 PM

#Trilisy #Poetry #Blueskypoetry
#Birdoftheday #Ducks&GeeseinFlight

Migration

Rune strewn sky
Winged prayers
For fair winds

@jnmcmanus.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 1:12 PM

A SUNDAY HAIKU
俳句サンデー
`I never got to love you`

Autumn's reflections —
awakened rememberence
carried memories

— J N M
11 October 2026

#Poetry #Poem #PoetryCommunity #BlueskyPoetry #SkyPoet #PoetsOnBluesky
#jamesnmanus
#haiku #haikusunday

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@poetrader.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 9:45 AM

#Blueskypoetry #Haiku #Autumn #Birdoftheday #Ducks&GeeseinFlight

Grey paper sky
Scribbled signature
Geese write goodbye

@rock-rex.bsky.social Oct 11, 2026, 9:39 AM

"Post Mortem".

#poem #poetry #skypoets #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky #poetrycommunity #writingcommunity #poetsofdoom #murdermystery #whodoneit #blueskypoetry
@sonnetsmith.bsky.social
@jenthorne.bsky.social
@phylogeneticsteve.bsky.social
@daveashleypoet.bsky.social

When it is hauled – dissolving, hard to see
as what was once a human being –
out of the winter lake,
they gape in silence:
puffs of vapour stand for voices.

Brought to shore, it lies upon a canvas sheet;
the brightly painted rowing boat
is dragged up on the freezing mud,
and those with jobs to do leave in relief.
The rest look anywhere but at their dripping catch,
and wait until the surgeon comes
to certify the thing is dead.

It’s whisked away,
laid out upon a table, stainless steel —
and then the slicing and the sawing,
and the grim performance
of the modern haruspectic rite
that seeks for omens, not of things to come,
but of the past.

Here, trapped within the folds of grey,
a bullet’s found, striations mapped;
upon the wrists and ankles, barely visible,
abrasion marks.
The organs bottled, tissues laid on slides,
and dental work recorded...
finally the closing, crudely stitched.
The corpse is slid into a chilly drawer,
the table’s sluiced,
and there’s just time for sandwiches and tea
before the next one’s wheeled along.

Examining the entrails, though, brings no success;
the days drag past, then weeks,
and after months the clockwork of investigation
slows, winds down, and other cases
take its place.
The human jetsam – missing
certain bits and pieces – is reduced
to smoke and ash, unmourned, unmarked.
From water into air, then fire,
and finally it’s laid in earth.

published in Oatleaf Poetry Magazine, June 2025
(nominated for Pushcart Prize)