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A minimalist still life shows a frosted glass tumbler on a glossy black surface beside a small pile of melting ice cubes. Water pools around the base, reflecting light. The Broken Spine fountain pen logo appears in the top left corner. “@thebrokenspine.co.uk” is written in white at the top right. Bold white text in the lower right reads: “Read Repost Reply #POEMSABOUT #MELT”.

A minimalist still life shows a frosted glass tumbler on a glossy black surface beside a small pile of melting ice cubes. Water pools around the base, reflecting light. The Broken Spine fountain pen logo appears in the top left corner. “@thebrokenspine.co.uk” is written in white at the top right. Bold white text in the lower right reads: “Read Repost Reply #POEMSABOUT #MELT”.

#PoemsAbout #Melt starts Friday.

Write the slow undoing.
The body warming under attention.
The structure that fails quietly, beautifully.

Nothing dramatic.
Just inevitable.

Draft now.
Share from Friday.
Tag your post.
Use Alt Text.

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Thank you so much Paul. I changed the title after its outing on Friday- I hope it works better! 😬

will you put down your phone for me #PoemsAbout #consent

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Hospitality

So, fired with lust, they beat his door
Demanding that he hand them over,
Though they were his precious guests:
Two messengers with shining eyes.

We want our way with them! they cried,
Who are you to interfere?
You are alien in our town.
He begged them, Please, don’t wrong them, friends.

I am their host; you’d bring me shame.
Look, take my daughters in their stead—
They are both virgins, I believe.
But they insisted on the men.

At this the messengers came out,
And, summoning their special powers,
They struck them with bright burning rays,
Rendering the whole mob blind.

Next day, they brought him out the town	
In time to see it bombarded
By mighty fires from out the sky,
So, with his daughters, he fled far

Until they found a mountain cave,
Where they laced him with alcohol
And carried on the human race
By freely taking while he slept.

Paul Rapley 2026	        #Consent

Hospitality So, fired with lust, they beat his door Demanding that he hand them over, Though they were his precious guests: Two messengers with shining eyes. We want our way with them! they cried, Who are you to interfere? You are alien in our town. He begged them, Please, don’t wrong them, friends. I am their host; you’d bring me shame. Look, take my daughters in their stead— They are both virgins, I believe. But they insisted on the men. At this the messengers came out, And, summoning their special powers, They struck them with bright burning rays, Rendering the whole mob blind. Next day, they brought him out the town In time to see it bombarded By mighty fires from out the sky, So, with his daughters, he fled far Until they found a mountain cave, Where they laced him with alcohol And carried on the human race By freely taking while he slept. Paul Rapley 2026 #Consent

#PoemsAbout #Consent
Thank you @alanparrywriter.co.uk & @thebrokenspine.co.uk
#poets #poetrycommunity #poetry #poems #blueskypoets #blueskypoetry #blueskypoets #poetsofbluesky

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I tried it again. Went from no poems to all the poems by clicking on #poemsabout again.

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Valley Girl (8/12) Movie CLIP - I Melt With You (1983) HD
Valley Girl (8/12) Movie CLIP - I Melt With You (1983) HD YouTube video by Movieclips

To all the #PoemsAbout poets writing #Melt poems, I hope the future’s open wide and there’s probably nothing you and I won’t do.

youtu.be/FcEchaH6EJk?...

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Black-and-white graphic of a vintage typewriter seen from above. Torn paper strips sit in the typewriter reading “£1200 RAISED” and “WIN CASH” in bold lettering. Below, the hashtags “#TheBrokenSpineAward” and “#ByPoetsForPoets” are printed. The overall style is gritty, high-contrast, and zine-like.

Black-and-white graphic of a vintage typewriter seen from above. Torn paper strips sit in the typewriter reading “£1200 RAISED” and “WIN CASH” in bold lettering. Below, the hashtags “#TheBrokenSpineAward” and “#ByPoetsForPoets” are printed. The overall style is gritty, high-contrast, and zine-like.

No authority claimed.
No neutrality pretended.
One editor’s favourites, funded by peers.
You raised the pot with us. That’s the story.
#TheBrokenSpineAward #ByPoetsForPoets #PoemsAbout #LiftToTheSky

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On the Exhibition
of Mr. Houdini
Dale Tudge
Most people were eager to witness Harry Houdini at the London Hippodrome. But I’m not most people, nor even some people, least of all any people you would know.
If I learned anything from P.T. Barnum, it was unwise to call him Peter. Also that a lollipop is born every minute. I was not prepared to be a lollipop at this minute or any other.
A shilling to watch a man struggle in handcuffs behind a shabby little cabinet*? I could go to Margate most weekdays and see it done properly for a ha’penny. (ap·dt)
* This was billed as Houdini’s “Ghost Cabinet.” Not “The Cabinet of Eternal Suffering.” Not even “The Slightly Uncomfortable Cabinet.” I had expected rather more from a man who charged a shilling.

On the Exhibition of Mr. Houdini Dale Tudge Most people were eager to witness Harry Houdini at the London Hippodrome. But I’m not most people, nor even some people, least of all any people you would know. If I learned anything from P.T. Barnum, it was unwise to call him Peter. Also that a lollipop is born every minute. I was not prepared to be a lollipop at this minute or any other. A shilling to watch a man struggle in handcuffs behind a shabby little cabinet*? I could go to Margate most weekdays and see it done properly for a ha’penny. (ap·dt) * This was billed as Houdini’s “Ghost Cabinet.” Not “The Cabinet of Eternal Suffering.” Not even “The Slightly Uncomfortable Cabinet.” I had expected rather more from a man who charged a shilling.

The Houdini spectacle, I beg my own pardon, "Mirror Challenge", was a promotion by The Daily Mirror, to whom I did not offer financial #consent for an act barely worth a farthing, and #surpassed by any Monday morning at a magistrates' court in Kent.

#prose #poemsabout #writing #vss365 #poem #vss

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#MPPrompt
#PoemsAbout
#WildWalkPrompt
#vss365
#WeirdMicro
#emoetry
#haibun

I #assure you: water's freezing point is #regaled in #pretty poetry, whereas ice's melt is cursed in the #final_submissions of boots' muddy muck.

Two states of matter:
molecules #crossing_borders
without boundaries.

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Taint

She returns to what has assumed
the name of home. Stray light, 
the bedroom devoid
of him. She undresses, de-leaves
like an autumnal tree. All the layers
and what they have to hide. 
The bare bones underneath, quivering.
Longing for birds. She dreams the wood
infested with bugs, their mandibles
sawing up the sun-shy soft
flesh beneath the bark. Maggots 
in her shoes. Worms in her hair.
No space left unviolated. 
Irreverence and sacrilege. 
She did not choose that storm.

All that has been touched has turned
itself wrong and inside out, has filled 
itself with the immeasurable weight 
of disgust, dirt, and days
piling up like stones. 

The body counted in stretch marks
trying to cover all that ache. 

The bathroom. The sink. The holy water. 
Things can be so clean and white 
and yet so stained with empty. 
She scrubs her hands ‘til sunset sings 
because blood is the best disinfectant. 
The sterile speech of razor blades 
listing immutable facts. You are soiled.
You are nothing. The limbs of a doll
that go slack in an angry child’s grasp. 
Maybe under the raw
red flesh, some splinter of you
remains. 

Fingers draw lines in ink and shame
on a girl that did not want them.
The stains that are sins without a chance
of repentance or redemption or grace.
The smudges that never
come off again, the things that rot 
underground. 

She had never known how the morning dew
could become the sweat of fear
or how all the stardust in the world
could clot into dust and filth.

Taint She returns to what has assumed the name of home. Stray light, the bedroom devoid of him. She undresses, de-leaves like an autumnal tree. All the layers and what they have to hide. The bare bones underneath, quivering. Longing for birds. She dreams the wood infested with bugs, their mandibles sawing up the sun-shy soft flesh beneath the bark. Maggots in her shoes. Worms in her hair. No space left unviolated. Irreverence and sacrilege. She did not choose that storm. All that has been touched has turned itself wrong and inside out, has filled itself with the immeasurable weight of disgust, dirt, and days piling up like stones. The body counted in stretch marks trying to cover all that ache. The bathroom. The sink. The holy water. Things can be so clean and white and yet so stained with empty. She scrubs her hands ‘til sunset sings because blood is the best disinfectant. The sterile speech of razor blades listing immutable facts. You are soiled. You are nothing. The limbs of a doll that go slack in an angry child’s grasp. Maybe under the raw red flesh, some splinter of you remains. Fingers draw lines in ink and shame on a girl that did not want them. The stains that are sins without a chance of repentance or redemption or grace. The smudges that never come off again, the things that rot underground. She had never known how the morning dew could become the sweat of fear or how all the stardust in the world could clot into dust and filth.

Late (again) but here is one for #PoemsAbout #Consent

for @thebrokenspine.co.uk
& @alanparrywriter.co.uk

The things you did not consent to and the marks they’ve made. This is about a very dear friend.

Thank you to paulrapley.bsky.social for inspiring me to try writing in 3rd person 🫶🏻

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A poem about consent sparking a conversation about permission is almost unintentionally perfect. #PoemsAbout #FragmentsFriday

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Video

a little of what happened next:

the shape of yes,
becoming music

#poemsabout #consent #poetrycommunity

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A minimalist still life shows a frosted glass tumbler on a glossy black surface beside a small pile of melting ice cubes. Water pools around the base, reflecting light. The Broken Spine fountain pen logo appears in the top left corner. “@thebrokenspine.co.uk” is written in white at the top right. Bold white text in the lower right reads: “Read Repost Reply #POEMSABOUT #MELT”.

A minimalist still life shows a frosted glass tumbler on a glossy black surface beside a small pile of melting ice cubes. Water pools around the base, reflecting light. The Broken Spine fountain pen logo appears in the top left corner. “@thebrokenspine.co.uk” is written in white at the top right. Bold white text in the lower right reads: “Read Repost Reply #POEMSABOUT #MELT”.

Last week named the yes.
This week: #Melt.

Control loosening.
Edges softening.
The moment holding shape becomes impossible.

Write what gives way.
What pools.
What can’t be held once warmth arrives.

New theme opens Friday.
Don’t post early.
Use Alt Text.
Tag #PoemsAbout to be found.

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Thank you. Friday #poemsabout are such a great writing challenge.

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I have the handful that were posted today, all the rest from Friday have gone. Whenever I look for the #poemsabout during the week I get a message saying, this feed is empty, do another search.

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word problems

had a dream
that you killed me.

which is common
for a woman
of a certain age.

all ages.

strange
we are called
bad at math.

it's not prophecy.
we're no witches.

just arithmetic.

how we calculate
what we carry

each day

loving
so many things

that might
destroy us.

word problems had a dream that you killed me. which is common for a woman of a certain age. all ages. strange we are called bad at math. it's not prophecy. we're no witches. just arithmetic. how we calculate what we carry each day loving so many things that might destroy us.

For this week's #PoemsAbout, I'm thinking about #consent as risk calculation.

Thank you to the host @alanparrywriter.co.uk
and @thebrokenspine.co.uk and to all of the other writers.

#poetry #poem #writing #PoetryCommunity #BlueSkyPoets #writingcommunity

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Best is to have a tab for #PoemsAbout Jane to have them all in one place. I can find them instantly this way.

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It' a shame that all the #PoemsAbout disappear after a few hours. Why is that?

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Red box with black shading and words of a poem in white: 


bombs


I’m sorry
we can’t hear your voices
over the sound of the bombs –
louder
than a hundred thousand wolves baying at the blood moon
than the volcano eruption-roar of release
than the ferocious unappeasable anger of Zeus –
the bombs scream
scream and hurtle
towards their target
unerring –
they do not ask consent
for where they land
for when they shatter
the world

Red box with black shading and words of a poem in white: bombs I’m sorry we can’t hear your voices over the sound of the bombs – louder than a hundred thousand wolves baying at the blood moon than the volcano eruption-roar of release than the ferocious unappeasable anger of Zeus – the bombs scream scream and hurtle towards their target unerring – they do not ask consent for where they land for when they shatter the world

A day late with my response to the #PoemsAbout #Consent prompt (am involved in local elections happening on Sunday so I have a good excuse!). Can't wait to read the other responses, happy weekend poets! 💜
@thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk

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A thought #PoemsAbout #consent
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

Consent

one of those small murmured words
light as a leaf in the wind
with as little weight as a falling feather
a theory
something we have to give or withhold
in theory
in reality
a little weightless thing
the powerful simply take.

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#fragmentsfriday is separate from #poemsabout - it’s 18 words or less. Different initiatives. Thank you

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#fragmentsfriday is separate from #poemsabout - it’s 18 words or less. Different initiatives. Thank you

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#MadMarch #WildWalkPrompt #PoemsAbout
#EVERYTHING #CLOVE #CONSENT

Sì! I consent, to the scent
Of the clove on the stove;
Penne aglio e olio
by turgescent lips rent;
Its allium accent recrudescent
upon our breaths in each kiss.
In my consent, everything is meant.
Salsiccia, toum, cloves-
stakes.

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Gwisges I yr flodau'r haf
A'r adar a yr gwenyn y gwanwyn
A gwisges I yr dail'r hydref
A rhew'r gaeaf, feudal ac yn wyn 

Daeth y tymhorau yn ffrog I mi
Dw i'n eu gwisgo bob blwyddyn
Ond bob blwyddyn eu lliwiau'n pylu
Ac wedi torri'n fwy nag o'r blaen 

Mae fy nillad yn wedi rhwygo
Heb I mi roi caniatad o gwbl




I wore the flowers of the summer
And the birds and bees of the spring
I wore the leaves of the autumn
And the winter's frost so soft and white 

The seasons became a dress for me
I wear them every year
But every year their colours fade
And are more broken than before 

My clothes are torn 
without my consent

Gwisges I yr flodau'r haf A'r adar a yr gwenyn y gwanwyn A gwisges I yr dail'r hydref A rhew'r gaeaf, feudal ac yn wyn Daeth y tymhorau yn ffrog I mi Dw i'n eu gwisgo bob blwyddyn Ond bob blwyddyn eu lliwiau'n pylu Ac wedi torri'n fwy nag o'r blaen Mae fy nillad yn wedi rhwygo Heb I mi roi caniatad o gwbl I wore the flowers of the summer And the birds and bees of the spring I wore the leaves of the autumn And the winter's frost so soft and white The seasons became a dress for me I wear them every year But every year their colours fade And are more broken than before My clothes are torn without my consent

My offering to #PoemsAbout #consent
Is a particularly nerve wracking piece for me. It's the first time I have shared a piece written in Welsh.
My grammar is atrocious...
But I hope to one day improve.

#poetry #blueskypoet #poem #Welsh #Welshlanguage

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For this week's #PoemsAbout #consent I found myself thinking about whose running things.

@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
#poetrycommunity #poetry #poem #poems #skypoets #blueskypoets #blueskypoetry #poetsofbluesky #skypoet

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Beulah

A mother gathers white yarrow.
The roadside sings with passing semis.
Her skirt longs after them, sighs when left behind. 
She picks  the tallest 
stems, the ones 
not tangled in vines.

Her child tugs at her skirt.  I’m hungry.
I really am.  The yarrow nod their heads.
She picks the ones whirled with vines. 
No you're not.
She picks the yarrow 
because as a girl 

she picked yarrow and the vines 
hold around some stems
the way a boy once wrapped his hands
around her neck,
his mouth pressing hard,
green cloved leaves, 

but that was when she was a child, 
knew nothing about resistance and the kissing
like clucking a pony, 
urging, and the boy, insistent, 
a hungry child, 
I really am,  

and she rose from the ground,
dirt and leaves pressed to the backs
of her thighs, 
her neck hot, 
not tangled in vines.

Beulah A mother gathers white yarrow. The roadside sings with passing semis. Her skirt longs after them, sighs when left behind. She picks the tallest stems, the ones not tangled in vines. Her child tugs at her skirt. I’m hungry. I really am. The yarrow nod their heads. She picks the ones whirled with vines. No you're not. She picks the yarrow because as a girl she picked yarrow and the vines hold around some stems the way a boy once wrapped his hands around her neck, his mouth pressing hard, green cloved leaves, but that was when she was a child, knew nothing about resistance and the kissing like clucking a pony, urging, and the boy, insistent, a hungry child, I really am, and she rose from the ground, dirt and leaves pressed to the backs of her thighs, her neck hot, not tangled in vines.

#poemsabout #consent

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These days it's all #poemsabout #restaurants and growing up in them

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Warching A Woman of Substance Whilst Homing a Rescue Cat :
And all the buttons spilled,
splashed undones
curling across marble, 
counters of life's choices 
escape below the chaise 
where only tabby sees 
in a catnip of claw, 
her exit barred. 
Consent not exactly 
on the horizon. 

Sarah O'Grady

Warching A Woman of Substance Whilst Homing a Rescue Cat : And all the buttons spilled, splashed undones curling across marble, counters of life's choices escape below the chaise where only tabby sees in a catnip of claw, her exit barred. Consent not exactly on the horizon. Sarah O'Grady

@thebrokenspine.co.uk @alanparrywriter.co.uk #PoemsAbout #Consent
On the hoof:

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the love of a king shows in the people
overworked trust destroys his
temple

a true ruler cares for every heart
the devotee, from silence, is first heard

#PoemsAbout #Consent and #emoetry

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Trusted boy
trusted friends
trusted world,
in a blink
my words
didn’t matter-
only bodies
smothering,
bodies taking,
bodies robbing;

Trusted boy
trusted friends
trusted God,
no one came,
just hot breath,
spit,
and the end
of childhood

#poemsabout #consent #survivor #poetry @thebrokenspine.co.uk

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