Dave Kurley
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badvibrations62.bsky.social
Dave Kurley
@badvibrations62.bsky.social
810 followers 1.5K following 640 posts
Poet, writer, photographer. All my own work. All my own photos. All my own teeth, too. No DMs, please - unless I know you personally.

First book of poems: ‘Irritating the Silver Lining’ - available to order online.

Visit my website: www.davekurley.net
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badvibrations62.bsky.social
#PoemsAbout #Desire - back after a short break, with a short poem. Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk at @thebrokenspine.co.uk for this week's prompt.

#poems #poetry #poetrycommunity

www.davekurley.net
Screenshot of my poem on Apple Notes - the desktop background is of some idyllic scene in the Californian countryside, redwood trees flanking the valley, a river cutting between, reflecting a pale sky.
November 14, 2025 at 8:15 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
I've opted for brevity for this week's #PoemsAbout prompt, #ImperfectMe - thanks, as ever, to @alanparrywriter.co.uk for hosting! @thebrokenspine.co.uk

I'll be reading/reposting/replying later

#poems #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
Screenshot of this week's poem - a haiku/senryū addressing this week's prompt - the desktop background (but you can't really tell) is a low-orbit satellite picture of a cloudy Earth. Imperfect Me In the mirror, look Decisions, most of them bad Reflect back at me © Dave Kurley 2025
October 10, 2025 at 7:25 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
It would have been my Mom's birthday today. Two years she's been gone. I wrote this for her funeral.

#poem #elegy #stillgrieving
Screenshot of my poem 'She Was' with trees in the desktop background. She Was She was Rarely Patricia Even though it was her given name Just for forms and formalities To family and friends She was always Pat But woe betide Anyone who called her Patty She was Paddy in the Wraf Cos she had one hell of a temper And she wouldn’t call anyone ‘Sir’ She was Nurse Whitehead A strong, brave, stubborn single mother To a son who always called her Mom Not Mum, Mom. No idea why It’s not as if we were American Some said she was a ringer For Sophia Loren, even though In her youth she preferred a Triumph To a Vespa, and then She was Nurse Kurley With an instant family (just add marriage) And then she was Grandma And then she was a carer And then she was a widow And then she was a little old lady But she was always Mom To me Not Mum, Mom
October 5, 2025 at 12:11 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 209: Dollface. My contribution to #mannequin - this week’s #PoemsAbout prompt from the always amazing @alanparrywriter.co.uk! @thebrokenspine.co.uk

I’ll do some reading, replying and reposting later.
Screenshot of my poem in Apple Notes - snowy mountains in the desktop background. Dollface Grandma turned back At an unfortunate moment Dollface, undone Frozen in place, unsettling palms outstretched Unnatural fingers splayed Her unwigged, tabula rasa visage Tearless painted eyes blank Unshuttered casements housing no soul Her cruel, short-sleeved safari suit In beige A testament to unfashion Dollface, dressed to fill Space in an unwatched shop window. © Dave Kurley 2025
October 3, 2025 at 9:48 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Here's my contribution to @thepaulconnolly.bsky.social's inaugural #PoetryTheme: #AMPHIBIAN - great prompt!
Screenshot of my poem with a background of the Himalayas on my desktop. Screaming That time the cat brought in a toad Cat, delighted Human, not so Toad, screaming Suppressing her Amphibian phobia She nudged the Toad into a box With a broom Pushed the box Outside. By now Both she and the Toad were Screaming The cat slipped out to find more gifts Returned in the early hours For a nap. The toad was never seen again. © Dave Kurley 2025
September 30, 2025 at 9:39 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 207: Her Time. For my mom, whose chatty son often ruined her concentration - and my wife, The Lovely Ali, who relates to silence in the same way I relate to music, #PoemsAbout #silentplanets thanks, as always to @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk
Screenshot of my poem in Apple Notes, with a desktop background on the Earth at night from a satellite - presumably silent, because in space, no-one can hear etc. Her Time This is her time She wants the whole world Around her to just SHUT UP For a bit - no noise whatsoever Not a single peep Admittedly, this would be An existential disaster For everyone else A noiseless clearing of throats Mouths moving, eyes horrified Vocal cords flexing, fruitless Pawing pointlessly at pearls In hushed surprise Not enough Rising organ chords dramatically unheard Tickless clocks edging onward Sirens unblaring, fireworks with no hiss Or bang, no anvil or steam hammer clang Pins dropping to no effect Lions and mice without a roar or squeak between them Still not enough Volcanic farts from Venus Ordinarily thunderous Now silent but deadly The stormy surface of Jupiter Becalmed, quiet as a prayer The sun spins in stark silence The entire solar system Soundless This is just enough This is her time In this chaotic silence sublime She can finally hear herself think © Dave Kurley 2025
September 19, 2025 at 1:11 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #history and with thanks to Paul for hosting this week - this is a rewrite and edit of a poem I wrote in March 2023.
@thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
A screenshot of The Apple Notes version of today's poem, dated with today's date. Behind it is details from a desktop background of a tree-lined, misty reservoir, presumably somewhere in the US. The Rebuilding They can see this gutted form has history Deep in its condemned bones Beyond these bound and bolted doors In these empty window eyes That once held in the roaring warmth Of a winter fire Lives were begun here First steps applauded Toys broken, tantrums ignored Music spilled out like light Into bright summer night air New histories Patiently wait To be birthed To imprint fresh-minted memories On smooth skimmed, whitewashed walls Unforeseen dramas Carousing and tears and loves All in the potential All in the rebuilding But before any of that The builder sucks his teeth and says ‘It’ll get worse before it gets better.’ © Dave Kurley 2025
September 18, 2025 at 6:55 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 205: He Was a Reclusive Sort - a rewrite and edit of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, presented here for #PoemsAbout #Candlelight, a marvellous prompt from @alanparrywriter.co.uk at @thebrokenspine.co.uk
I'll be reposting and commenting later.
#poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky #poetry
Screenshot of my poem in the Apple Notes app, the date and time of writing of this version are at the top of the note - I actually wrote an earlier version back in October '23. He Was a Reclusive Sort The milkman only ever saw His empties, and a weekly cheque Tucked into the neck of a bottle Neighbours spotted His flickering silhouette Uplit by a solitary candle As he scribbled furiously In a notebook, and wondered ‘What’s he writing?’ The milkman raised the alarm When there hadn’t been a cheque For the last couple of weeks The milk remained untouched Cottage cheesy in the summer heat A burly policeman Took a shoulder to the front door The smell smacked them With a soft, sick fist The reclusive sort would Scribble no more: his still form Surrounded by notebooks That appeared to be empty Until one bright spark Suggested holding a page Over a solitary candle The reclusive sort was revealed As a veritable magician When it came to words Rather than the potential Serial killer his neighbours Had uncharitably imagined An enterprising publisher Got wind of his work Published his first novel And the reclusive sort Won numerous literary prizes Albeit posthumously He would have hated all the fuss Why do you think he wrote In invisible ink? © Dave Kurley 2025
September 12, 2025 at 10:15 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 204: Meantime. My contribution to this week’s #promptcombo #ClocksTicking - a cracking prompt from @dragonslayerma.bsky.social
A screenshot of my poem, written in the Notes app. Above the note is a clock widget, that reads 4:31. Above the poem is the time and date it was written. Meantime That clock Will tock on One tick after the other Whether the hall Is chock-a-block with bother Or the corridor Is empty as A statue’s stare The clock tocks on Naughty kids Stand under In mute shame That clock Won’t stop Tocking and ticking Not even for death Its blank face impassive Never missing a beat Just gets on with it Time doesn’t heal all It doesn’t care Time is mean In the meantime © Dave Kurley 2025
September 11, 2025 at 3:46 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 203: Perfume Counter Ladies. A rewrite & edit of a piece I wrote in 2023, presented for this week's #PoemsAbout prompt, #Facades.
@alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Don't forget to repost!

#poems #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky

I'll be reading and commenting later.
Apple Notes screenshot of my effort for this week's #PoemsAbout prompt, Perfume Counter Ladies. What is behind their painted facade? As a child, I was always a bit scared of the otherworldly perfection of the perfume counter ladies in Boots, so I guess this is where the idea came from. Perfume Counter Ladies They hover by the perfume counter Proffer samples to indifferent passers-by More intent on paracetamol and How much lunchtime they have left They ask how they can help you today As if it’s a special offer And tomorrow help will no longer be available They never sell any perfume No-one knows who employs them But none of the other staff Dare confront them They sit on their own in the dull canteen Hold non-sequitur conversations Apply make-up in Vaselined compacts Smooth and sculpted and shaped and shaded Tweaking flight attendant scarves just so Nails, symmetrical ovals, glossy and pink But sharp enough To slice and slash if provoked The floor manager tried once One afternoon break To at least engage them in conversation They bared even white teeth in opaque smiles Tapped their nails on the formica Looked at him as if he were transparent Then continued their incomprehensible chat The floor manager paled and left them to it After that They lurk by the perfume counter Proffer samples to prospective customers Asking how they can help you today Your answer is unimportant to them © Dave Kurley 2025
September 5, 2025 at 7:33 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 202: Fleeting Feathers. A re-write and edit of something I wrote a few years ago, presented here for @hool415.bsky.social's #promptcombo for this week #winged #poetrycommunity #poetsonbluesky #poem #poetry
Fleeting Feathers Fleeting feathers Floating down from thick, oaky hands Flexing and outstretching overhead One finger springing back with the memory Of some random raptor’s departure. Ephemeral feathers Unwinding, spiralling, bagatelling To the eventual ground The brief afterimage of some broad-winged bird Leaving momentary, insubstantial feathers behind. © Dave Kurley 2025
September 2, 2025 at 7:35 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 201: There’s No Riot Going On. Being my somewhat skewiff contribution to this week’s #poemsabout #riots
Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk and to al the poets taking part.
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

Reading, reposting and commenting later.

#poems #poets #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetryofbluesky
There’s No Riot Going On We saw it on the news Bus shelters burning Shops looted, windows smashed Cars and lorries overturned Streets in disarray We watched in dismay We thought: We’ll have no truck with that There’s no riot going on Not here So we took Preventative measures Built walls, erected towers Kept undesirables out And us, in Those who disagreed were Politely persuaded to leave Till we preached to the choir We predict no riots Not here But our searchlights and sirens Dissuaded delivery vans Food was scarce We had to take Direct action A neighbouring town had A few bored guards Pitiful fortifications Their defences, weak We overcame them, easy They had stockpiles To the victor, the spoils Left the losers in the dust But we helped them rebuild Under our benevolent rule They tried to rebel in The language of the unheard We weren’t listening to that There’s no riot going on Not here © Dave Kurley 2025
August 29, 2025 at 8:07 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Mornin! Here's my contribution to this week's #poemsabout prompt, #chandelier - thanks, as always, to @alanparrywriter.co.uk for continuing to keep this community vital! @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poem #poetry #poets #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
Photo of a chandelier, cut out using Pixelmator and placed on a black background. Tinkle, tinkle, chandelier Every single crystal shard Hanging holds a memory clear Tonight, one contains inaugural Flirting and fluttering; another Shows the angry consequence Of too much blow and One too many beers Yet another records the sadness Of innocence misplaced and A sleazy bastard exits unnoticed By those dancing below in Grensons and Blahniks The ostentatious glittering Suspended from the ceiling Cannot judge: it simply reflects Twinkle, twinkle, chandelier. © Dave Kurley 2025
August 22, 2025 at 8:13 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 199: Hunter’s Moon.

Thank you for the prompt, @victoriaspires.bsky.social - this was inspired by hearing the hunter’s shots ringing out in the forest next door, now that August is here.
#PromptCombo #Woods #poem #poetry
#poetryCommunity
Hunter’s Moon A bristly snorter Dreaded she-boar A house side, crashing Through the dense wood Hunted by the crisp light Of a perfectly minted moon The pursuers relentless Torches flash and strobe The cold mist of their breath Twigs bone snapping underfoot New paths in the dense wood Beagles crazy barking Eagerly scenting the fear of The pursued And from a truffly snout Not meant for human speech She screams ‘PLEASE’ (At least, that’s what one Of the hunters heard) Too late The angry cough of powder Propels a killing nugget Wounded, she wanders Back into the dense wood Finding somewhere to die The shooters search Fruitlessly Years later Laundering land newly-purchased A woman’s skeleton uncovered At the foot of rocks rediscovered On the edge of the dense wood A mystery death Never identified © Dave Kurley 2025
August 20, 2025 at 7:59 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 198: Chase. Being one of the prompts for Friday’s #steppingstonescribblers writing workshop.

#poem #poetry #cats #catpoetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
A photo of my cat Risca, sitting on our patio. In the middle distance, there’s a dry stone wall, and beyond that are brambles, ivy, dry ferns and various bushes and trees. Chase He’s sitting, pert and furry At the fringe of the patio When a thingy catches his eye Immediately his demeanour changes Every millimetre of his body gets serious Down onto his belly his haunches quiver Shake from side to side As he switches from look to Watch to surveillance There’s a definite thingy in The undergrowth, could be furry Could be scaly, but it’s a thingy Alright He pours himself down The edge of the patio Reconstitutes himself On the grass below, flat As a shadow, approaching The vicinity of the thingy In total, sepulchral Silence But The thingy spots him and he’s Off, like the whooshy fluff In Vision On, the chase is Most definitely On With a cat-shaped space In the brambles like a Hanna-Barbera cartoon Only this is no cartoon And there is rustling and thrashing And nosediving into leafy piles And Nothing And then Like close magic Like a glitch in the matrix He’s sitting, pert and furry At the fringe of the patio As if he had never even thought Of a thingy.
August 17, 2025 at 8:58 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 197: Boots Full of Blood. Never imagined I'd live to write a war poem. My offering for this week's #PoemsAbout #Ceasefire.
This is a great community, @alanparrywriter.co.uk - I love being a part of it. @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poetry #warpoetry #poetrycommunity #poetryofBlueSky
Boots Full of Blood Didn’t ask for this Didn’t have a choice Never saw it coming Took his head clean off Lost without a leader Keep moving, keep going Keep to the shadows Keep to the compass Marching away from a filthy sunset With boots full of blood Didn’t understand Never stood a chance Didn’t hesitate Shot them in the face Can’t be too careful Keep to the corners Keep our heads down Keep going, keep moving Tramping towards a dirty sunrise With boots full of blood Everything’s rubble Everything’s burning Everything’s poison Never heard about no ceasefire Never have nice things again And if we can’t, no-one can The only language we understand Keep fighting, keep fighting Limping into a busted world With boots full of blood © Dave Kurley 2025
August 15, 2025 at 7:40 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 196: Project #BlackSky. My contribution to this week’s #PoemsAbout. Thanks as ever to @alanparrywriter.co.uk for fostering this community. @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poem #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
Project Black Sky She hurricaned in that night Blustering from room to room In our cheap rental Pulling the blinds and closing the curtains To stop it getting in, she said Stop the black sky getting in Well, we all laughed and went to bed But the laughter stopped next day The internet was down and all the tech was grim mirrors We peeked through the blinds At a Magritte morning that was still night As if the sun was on the other side Of a black sky Over an Americano (no milk), she said Some researcher on some project In her department at the Uni Was working on cooling the world Had an incredible breakthrough That broke out of the lab And now it was everywhere Project Black Sky One of us said, ‘Is it just me, or is the light going in here?’ It wasn’t just them. Under the badly-fitted front door Of our cheap rental, Something was creeping Swirling deep water, bubbling liquid night Filling the room with unlight Dimming the central bulb by degrees Replacing it with Something cold Something dark Project Black Sky.
August 8, 2025 at 6:24 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
A rewrite of something I wrote a few years ago - seemed appropriate for today's #PoemsAbout #starcrossed. Thanks to @alanparrywriter.co.uk for creating and maintaining this community! @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poetry #poem #freeverse #freelove #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
This Is Not A Road Movie Lust at first double-take In a star-spangled diner, just off A two-lane blacktop stretching back Beyond the horizon Was where we met A gap year English thrill-seeker and A burger flipper in Bobby sox and yellow gingham In the backlot behind the sodium-lit eatery Clinging to the grey, unlaundered outskirts of Infinity, Arizona Where even the tumbleweed turned back Fumbling a key into a lock Of an abandoned Airstream on bricks A trailer to her The whole feature for me Or a caravan. It was a one night, all night long stand But it was no practical joke I may have been the apprentice And boy, did I get fired The stars looked away blushing While we did what we did And we did what we did Again and again To this day I still can’t look Orion in the eye. And oh! that stark, still dawn of Panavision panorama In 3D IMAX and Sensurround After you stopped the unstoppable force And I moved the immovable object We stepped, ginger, out into The chill, barefoot morning Blinking, scratchy-eyed at the Unfocussed orange-yellow-white sun Wobbling up through the haze A blinding, bumbling neon water balloon We stretched and kissed, untoothpasted And shared a stack of piebald pancakes And salt-crinkled laminates of bacon Drowning in a puddle of sweet maple And coffee to sear the eyeballs In the truck-stop Before the earliest riser rose Shared smokes and little jokes Called each other’s mobiles Cellphones, she smiled And we never spoke again. I left Infinity, Arizona For the winding West Coast highways, Alcatraz and the trolleybuses The loosely-folded maps of the roads Unfurling tarmac down the slanted hills of Frisco And eventually, back to drab, damp, rainy Home. It was an unconfirmed pact, unwritten, unuttered. I never called her, nor she me. I will never know if she broke free of Infinity And she will never tell me. © Dave Kurley, 2025
August 1, 2025 at 10:18 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 194: Marvellous Party. Late entry for #poemsabout #glamour, I know, but I've been labouring under a terrific migraine for the last couple of days.
@alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#poem #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
Marvellous Party She enters Every heart stops Just for a beat or two Hardly a hair out of place Perfect complexion Kohl-rimmed eyes Her dress moves with her like a dance Somebody proffers a pill She knows she shouldn’t But she does anyway It’s such a marvellous party And the beats And the lights And the colours And the dancing The dancing Dancing It’s too much She’s kneeling before porcelain Somebody holding her hair back She’s splashing her perfect complexion With sink water Wiping the kohl From round her eyes Her Sobranie sizzles and swims To the bottom of her champers ‘Could somebody call me a cab?’ Later, everyone agrees What a marvellous party
July 25, 2025 at 10:21 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Just listened to Frank Skinner’s Poetry Podcast, this week highlighting RS Thomas. Love this poem. I’d heard of him, but never read before. Debate time: are you the romantic or the crafter?

(Poem screenshot from cymru2008.com)

#debate #poet #rsthomas #romantic #crafter #poetry #poetrycommunity
POETRY FOR SUPPER 'Listen now, verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty.' 'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil That goes like blood to the poem's making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.' 'You speak as though No sunlight ever surprized the mind Groping on its cloudy path.' 'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen.' So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose. "Poetry for Supper," from Poetry for Supper You can also find this in COLLECTED POEMS 1945-1990(J.M.Dent, 1993). Translated by Yoshifum! Nagata Background Image: River in Manafon (taken in 2002
July 23, 2025 at 8:20 AM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 193: More Cowbell.

#haiku #senryu #poem #poetry #pastoral #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
A photo of a cow in a Cantabrian village field, the cow in the foreground, village houses in the middle, with a background of mountains. More Cowbell It rings as she walks As she gently mows the field They know where she is
July 22, 2025 at 8:30 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Poem 192: Another Unasked-for Adventure.

#poems #poem #poetry #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky
Close-photo of a juvenile Sardinian warbler we rescued from our cat, Risca. It is in my hand, I was terrified it would just die there and then. Another Unasked-for Adventure Courtesy of the cat Who strides up, proud tabby hunter Bird feet dangling from his full mouth Disgorges his bounty on the hall mat Curls round it, a happy bracket In the afterglow of the chase Hardly notices I have liberated his prey The bird’s heart quivers against my fingers In shock, forgets it can fly Seems content to be carried somewhere safe Third eyelid flashing over a red-rimmed eye I set him carefully on a stone wall, away from the house Minutes pass: he still hasn’t worked out How his wings work, but I am patient And eventually, he remembers The cat, meanwhile, hunts around the house For his prize
July 21, 2025 at 9:42 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Inside. Poem 191.
I thoroughly recommend @alanparrywriter.co.uk's #cuttothebone poetry editing workshop. It really made me think about how editing is not just about cutting stuff down. This is what I came up with, after all the exercises. Thank you very much, Alan!
#poems #poetry #poetrycommunity
Inside Start At the very beginning In the beginning Beginning A void The void Avoid the void Bleak silent dark Empty Like a promise Or a threat Bars to bar escape Or prevent entry Not a creak No-one to speak Bleak silent dark Lock it all in a box Crunch it, crush it Bury it, ignore it Until no-one knows it Only you Full Like an effect Or a stop Stop.
July 20, 2025 at 5:54 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
#poemsabout #waxtears @alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk
Wax Tears The candle cries Wells up under a single flame An accumulation of melt Pools into a meniscus until Defences are breached Leaving tracks and trails Spent, hardening As the flame dies
July 18, 2025 at 2:09 PM
badvibrations62.bsky.social
Another piece for #summer - appropriate as it's 39 degrees C here in Salamanca today 🥵

#poem #poetry #poets #poetrycommunity #poetsofbluesky @victoriaspires.bsky.social
Heatwave When brass monkeys look smug When you sweat like a murderer in confession And all you’ve done is stand up When there aren’t enough ice lollies in the world When saunas are cold comfort When the breeze uphill is like Someone’s trained a hairdryer on you When even butterflies pant When beige is the new green When reservoirs recede To reveal old spires When you’re wide-eyed, sleepless Waiting for the bedroom to go ‘Ping!’ When you turn the pillow to the cool side And there is no cool side When the heat waves And you daren’t wave back
July 16, 2025 at 3:37 PM