Jen Thorne
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jenthorne.bsky.social
Jen Thorne
@jenthorne.bsky.social
110 followers 160 following 130 posts
In real life, I'm a working mother of two, with a boring job in IT.

On here, I am a poet, writer, artist, and crafter!
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jenthorne.bsky.social
#blueskyrelay
#banshee
Death of a planet Cry: The banshee rends the burning sky. Ice unfound, seas unbound, Cities drowned, no safe ground. Wail: Forests fail, oceans pale. The earth is charred, the sky is scarred, The deathly bard sings her final shard. Moan: Mountains crumble, rivers groan. Ash in veins, fire in rain, The banshee names our mortal pain. End: No dawn to break, no wound to mend. The voice of fear rings sharp and clear. The death we hear is drawing near.
November 16, 2025 at 4:17 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
The upside to all this rain is that it provides plenty of inspiration for poems!

@blueskypoetry.bsky.social
#BlueSkyPoetry
#BSPP47 #poetry
#poetrycommunity
Reflections A puddle waits in the field, its glassy hush holding the sky’s rolling weight. I bend to it, the earth’s small mirror, a basin nestled in mud and light. Racing dog paws scatter calmness, each splash a drumbeat, each ripple a sudden song. My face breaks, reforms, a shifting chorus of selves dancing across the water. The puddle does not mourn its interrupted quiet. It lifts its bright shivers and shows that life is shaped not only by stillness but by shimmering reflections born from each disturbance.
November 16, 2025 at 1:04 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
How could this prompt be anything other than an acrostic?

This helped me give structure to some random lines that wouldn't come out of my head.

Thanks @malformed-poetry.bsky.social

#MPPrompt
All My Ghosts Have Bones All the nights collapse beneath the weight of silence, My voice cracks as I recite their broken promises, Ghosts linger, hissing names I cannot forget, Have I not screamed enough into the void to wake them? Bones rattle in the dark, brittle echoes of what was stolen. All the mornings rise distant and cold, My hands reach for shadows that dissolve in air, Ghosts of needles, pills, and despair claw at my chest, Have their trembling bodies never left my dreams? Bones of memory lie fragmented with contempt. All the years stretch forward, cruel and indifferent, My rage burns against the injustice of their vanishing, Ghosts demand I chant their unfinished songs, Have I become the dirt in their graveyards? Bones are all that remain, and even they accuse me.
November 14, 2025 at 6:51 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
My offerings to @thebrokenspine.co.uk

#PoemsAbout #Desire
The Wanting Bone Desire is never sated. It howls in the marrow, a wolf in blood’s red chapel, gnawing the knuckle of night, turning lips into lanterns burning the path to ruin. Hedonism takes its toll. Writhing swarms grind cracked ribs in spiralling mills. Base beats in darkened rooms while laughter limps from the mouth of the moon. Euphoria is gluttonous. We claw with longing, dancing on the grave of restraint, feet blistered by pleasure. Throats torn by song beg the night for one more taste.
November 14, 2025 at 7:26 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Thank you for prompting this poem @sonnetsmith.bsky.social

#WildWalkPrompt #carpet
Elegy for a Hunter of Leaves   When puss was a young and clumsy twist of fur,  He learned to hunt by chasing drifting leaves.  With silent steps and eyes that burned with fire,  He stalked the curling edges of the wind.    This game endured through all our shared years. Each autumn day, returning home from work,  I’d find the hall adorned with leafy spoils, A carpet rich with rust and brittle gold.    Always I thanked him for the gifts,  As I stroked his velvet head in gratitude, And gathered up the haul with ceremony, To place them in a temporary shrine, Until his whiskered head was turned And they could be cast away, Unseen.   But now he’s gone, when autumn comes,  The leaves fall unclaimed across the garden, And I return home to silence, swept and bare.  No rustling welcome greets my weary step,  No scattered proof of love upon the floor.  The gentle rites we shared, now memory And every clean return renews my grief.
November 13, 2025 at 7:48 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Today's prompts from @youngliz.bsky.social, @mwplovesmusic.bsky.social and @ignorantfairy.bsky.social all seemed to align today to make this bit of whimsical, happy nonsense.

#myth
#sappiness
#fairy

#vss365
#emoetry
#blueskyrelay
Glimmerwhisk’s Sappy Saga In a glade where mushrooms lie, And unicorns roll their eyes, Glimmerwhisk the fairy flew With sparkly wings and not a clue. She loved a bard named Thistle Gwain, Who claimed he’d fought the Beast of Flame. He hadn’t, it only tripped on a rock, But he bragged about it round the clock. They courted beneath the moon’s soft leer, While the unicorns snorted with jealous sneers. They kissed by a pond that judged them both, And swore their love with dramatic oaths. But bards are fickle, and often flighty, And sappy vows are traded lightly. She gave her heart, he gave a shrug, Then ran away with a banshee named Bug. Glimmerwhisk cursed his socks with flair, And he woke as a frog with decent hair. But revenge did not mend her broken heart, That one cruel trick was just the start. So in that glade, if you feel bold, Beware the myths that fairies told.
November 12, 2025 at 2:19 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
#emoetry #rapture
#poetry
#writingcommunity
#blueskypoets
Burn You say it will burn. Trumpets will split the sky, and I’ll be left in the wreckage. Well, good. Let it burn. Let the sky split. Let the faithful rise with their wagging fingers and Sunday-best shame. I’ll take the ash and cracked earth, the silence after sermons, the streets without judgment. You call it punishment. I call it release. No more eyes searching for sin. No more venomous mouths spitting scripture, preaching division. The outcasts will survive. Plant gardens in the rubble. Dance without guilt. Love without permission. Stay where the flames make light, and freedom makes room for truth.
November 11, 2025 at 1:00 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
A #triolet as prompted by @daveashleypoet.bsky.social about today's #vss365 #prompt #literature, courtesy of @youngliz.bsky.social.
English Literature GCSE We disect each line of Frankenstein My son and I, with weary eyes. Its soul reduced to chalk and spine, We disect each line of Frankenstein. The joy of prose in steep decline No room for awe, just hows and whys. We disect each line of Frankenstein, My son and I, with weary eyes.
November 10, 2025 at 10:30 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Any excuse for a poem about my dad 🖤

#WIPSnips #Picture
#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
The Champion The newspaper photo hangs on the wall: black and white, your arm raising a trophy catching light, smile carved in triumph. Its companion sleeps in an old album: a grainy square, taken by shaky hand. The trophy on the table, now I’m the one in your arms. I remember the tickling moustache, the breath of beer, the kiss on my brow. Being yours, daughter of a champion. I can’t see you now in the dark, but pictures keep their light. Hold the truth of who you were, and the endurance of love.
November 9, 2025 at 12:13 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Loved this prompt. #Language is everything!

@youngliz.bsky.social
#vss365 #prompt
#blueskypoets #poetry
Tongues in Costume We dress our words in velvet tones, for dinner talks and answer phones. We whisper truths to blunt their sting, or shout so anger’s echoes ring. In boardrooms, language wears a tie, polished, poised, and neatly dry. But in the pub, it sheds its coat, lets laughter loosen every note. We code-switch like a secret dance, from slang to formal circumstance. A text to mates? All gifs and flair. A job request? We write with care. We soften speech with just and might, to dodge the edge, to sound polite. But true voice burns through unmasked prose when inner passion overflows. Emoji grins, sarcastic tags, a wink in words, a joke that drags. We twist, adapt, revise, reframe, in each setting we play a different game. Our language lives, not fixed or still, but shaped by place, by mood, by will. It changes accent, mask, attire, a mirror held to what we are.
November 8, 2025 at 1:55 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Bit late, but it's been a long day, and I've been waiting for ages to use this drawing!

#vss365 #prompt #famous
#blueskypoets #poetry #illustration
A charcoal illustration of a wax- sealed letter and a poem: Letters from the Past When I moved in, the house felt hollow. In the kitchen’s oldest cupboard, a tin box draped in spiderweb lace grated open, rust flaking past secrets onto my fingers. Inside, deeds and letters curled with age, parchments sealed with wax, dark and brittle as dried blood. Ink faded to whispers, forgotten names looping in trembling script. I held each page like a treasure. The house watched, and through my hands remembered itself, its past rising in ink and rust.
November 8, 2025 at 12:33 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
I'm never sure whether I find @thebrokenspine.co.uk prompts traumatic or cathartic!

Either way, here is my contribution this week (get a cuppa - it's long!)

#PoemsAbout #LockedDoors

#poetry #poetrycommunity #blueskypoets
Inside   The door was closed before I came. I think. Or maybe not. I don’t remember.  I wanted rest, so didn’t argue when they said I’d hurt someone. Maybe that someone was me? I said I didn’t. I didn’t mean it. That’s the same. Isn’t it?    The walls are pretty jigsaws. Sometimes I talk to them. Sometimes they answer. Sometimes they purr when I think too loud.    I think too loud. I know. I try to stop. But thoughts keep pulsing. Don’t wait their turn.  They crowd the room. They press against the door. Flake the tangerine paint Into fragments on the floor.   I pace the floor, check the door is locked. I check it every hour. Count the ticks to make sure. The clock rasps through hours.   The door holds its silence. It’s keeping something out. Or in.  I’m not quite sure which one I am today. It won’t tell.   They said I’d be okay here. It would be safer.  They meant from me. Or maybe not.  I wish I knew. I wish I knew the rules.    I wish the door would open.  Not wide. Just a sliver. Just enough to release the pressure and let the air remind me what is real.  But not too much. I’m not ready for too much.  Not yet.
November 7, 2025 at 2:09 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Geography was my favourite subject at school ❤️

#vss365 #prompt #geography
#blueskypoets #poetry
Geography Trip We went to study the drumlins and eskers, the slow sweep of glacial time. But in the spears Of the bilberry brush, We discovered each other without meaning to. We rattled there on the minibus you with your mates, me with mine. But on the way back, we shared a seat, and a few unpracticed kisses, hidden from the teachers behind unzipped coats. We went out as classmates, came back as something tender, dropped into our own timeless valley.
November 6, 2025 at 6:23 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
True story!

@youngliz.bsky.social
#vss365 #prompt #famous
#blueskypoets #poetry
November 5, 2025 at 10:16 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Thank you for the prompt @rfsmith.bsky.social. I struggled for a bit with it, but then this one came out of nowhere as I sat in my back porch today, listening to the rain. Thank heavens for British weather!

#PromptCombo #Storm
#poetry
#poetrycommunity
#blueskypoets
Rain, Tent, Dog, Husband, Me It rained. It rained on the dog. It rained on my husband. It rained on me. And with dampened spirits we took refuge in the shelter of our little tent. Lay there soggy, deflated like the airbed beneath us. Watched the tempest rage, through the half zipped horizon, as we brewed our own storm in a kettle. Listened to the drops beat on flapping yellow canvas, nostalgic for the same experience of different childhoods, as the sky cried itself to sleep. Outside the landscape sighed beneath shawls of cloud and quiet. Inside the air was thick with plastic coffee and damp dog. We emerged, blinking at the semi- conscious sunlight. The dog ran in circles of joy with fragrant release. And the Lake District, having thoroughly rained on our parade, gave us a rainbow as a sheepish apology.
November 4, 2025 at 4:42 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Thank you for the prompt @youngliz.bsky.social

#vss365 #education #poetry
The Bell Never Rings for Good The chalk dust settles, but the questions keep rising. We walk out of classrooms thinking the lesson is done, but the world has its own curriculum. No final bell, no summer break from wonder. We learn in the quiet of mistakes, in the rhythm of routines, in the way time teaches without ever raising its voice. School was a beginning, not a boundary. The learning never stops.
November 4, 2025 at 12:45 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
In honour of the Great British Bake Off final.

(And it also kind of fits with the #Emoetry prompt for today, so I'm tagging that too!)

#GBBO #bakeoff #final #poetry #villanelle
@mwplovesmusic.bsky.social
#Emoetry #Idealistic
My Poor Oven   You only use me when Paul and Pru are on the screen, I brace for war as flour hits the floor, The cursed sponge and tray bake crime scene.   You hum the theme, all hopeful and serene, Crack an egg like your settling a score, You only use me when Paul and Pru are on the screen.   You chant “no soggy bottoms” like they’re unseen, While pastry battles rage once more, The cursed sponge and tray bake crime scene.   You call it “rustic,” I call it obscene, The piping bag explodes, it begs “no more,” You only use me when Paul and Pru are on the screen.   I’ve scorched your dreams to keep my chamber clean, Your dough’s a myth, your crust’s a cardboard core, The cursed sponge and tray bake crime scene.   Spare me from this televised cuisine! Go buy a bun. Just close the oven door. You only use me when Paul and Pru are on the screen, The cursed sponge and tray bake crime scene
November 4, 2025 at 7:21 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
If my cobwebs could talk!

@wipsnips.bsky.social
#WIPSnips #Cobwebs
#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
A Cobweb's view I’ve spun myself into the hush of your indecision. Thread by thread, I’ve learned the rhythm of your almosts. You see me settled in my corners. Imagine how I look down on you. You think, maybe today. But the duster stays idle, and I stay whole. I’ve become part of the architecture. Not decoration, not defiance, just a soft witness to your overwhelm. I catch the tremble of all you meant to do. I feel safe while you feel guilt. We both know this is not about me.
November 2, 2025 at 3:48 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Great promt @mwplovesmusic.bsky.social

#emoetry #groped
#poetry
#writingcommunity
#blueskypoets
Uninvited Touch Gripping at shadows in a blackout ballroom,  every step a blindfolded treasure hunt, a choreography of tripwires and trapdoors danced through the scent of others' sweat. My fumbling fingers grope through fog while the world gropes me back,  with the uninvited, eager hands of a needling, grasping planet. Pressing up against me  like an eager lad who thinks “no” is just a challenge. I’m not dancing. I’m weaving through  the unsolicited caress  of society’s palms. Searching for the light switch  in a room full of strangers  who claim you’re lucky  to be noticed. But I’m not flattered.  I’m a flayed walking bruise, with a polite smile and clenched fist in my pocket.
November 2, 2025 at 3:04 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
@malformed-poetry.bsky.social #MPPrompt
Soon Replaced   I didn’t expect your life to stop Once I walked out the door. Did I?   I didn’t think your world would crash down, That you would sit, statue-still to mourn. Did I?   I didn’t want the loss to render your existence Purposeless and hollow. Did I?   I just wanted some hint of proof That my absence mattered. At all.
October 31, 2025 at 6:53 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Happy #Halloween everyone

@bofferson.bsky.social
#vss365 #prompt
#blueskypoets #poetry
#illustrations #charcoal #death
A skeleton hand and poem: Trick Tonight I walk the earth, among those who do not yet know to fear me. Mockeries swathed in black nylon, their foam skulls barely masking chocolate-scented laughter. But those I visit wait in silence. They feel the weight behind the knock, and know their treats will not save them from the trick to come.
October 31, 2025 at 6:17 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Nowadays it's common to hear "blood is thicker than water," to mean family should come first, but the original saying "the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb," means quite the opposite.

TED Talk over, enjoy the poem!

@thebrokenspine.co.uk
#PoemsAbout #Blood
#Poetry
The Covenant’s Blood In shadowed glades where moonlight weeps, And ancient oaths break silence deep. The witches gather, veiled in night, To weave their spells by candlelight. They chant not names from cradle’s kin, But for those who bled to let them in. The chosen few, the sacred band, Who reached, not grasped, with open hand. The blood of covenant, dark and deep, Was spilled where secrets dare to creep. Born not from womb, but forged through flame. A bond unbroken, free of shame. Yet in the sunlight's bittered glare, Twisted tongues strip truth laid there. “Blood is thicker now,” they claim. Yet a covenant knows the truer frame. What of the curse it bore, the weight Of those before, the bitter fate? The mother’s scorn, the father’s rage, The heirloom grief passed age to age. The coven knows what blood forgets: Kinship grows where friends are met. Not in the name, nor cold embrace, But in the ones who hold your place. Let them preach their twisted lore, Of duty owed and bloodlines bore. We’ll dance beneath the silver eye, Their legacy left to rot and dry. For we are bound by deeper ties Than any birthright sanctifies. The blood we choose, not that we share. A bond beyond which all compare.
October 31, 2025 at 6:03 AM
jenthorne.bsky.social
My contribution to #ray

@bofferson.bsky.social
#vss365 #prompt
#blueskypoets #poetry
Not Today A single ray of light falls across the bed, a celestial beacon calling me to rise. I cannot. Not today. Maybe tomorrow the clouds will part, revealing blue between the cracks of grey. Maybe. But not today. At some point I know I’ll throw off these shrouds, stand upright, embrace endless euphoria. The point is, not today. I live through visions of joy behind lidded eyes, promises of the me that will be again. I will live soon. Not today. The pain will flow away with broken slumber, and that ray of light will give me hope, not pain, like today.
October 30, 2025 at 6:10 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
My offering for the @wipsnips.bsky.social prompt: SPELL.

#WIPSnips #Spell
#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts
Incantation for Adulthood (A spell to be spoken alone, while wearing slippers and eating blue cheese) Gather the bones of old stilettos, splintered from nights that outlived their music. Circle them with receipts and loyalty cards, offerings of devotion, brittle as promises. Take the anthem of your youth. Sing the chorus backwards. Whisper “retro” three times into the wind, until the air tastes faintly of lip gloss and burnt toast. Scatter bath salts and liniment, a snow for aching saints. Split a bill five ways, including tip. Swallow the coins. Let them clink against your ribs. Light a candle made of ear wax, harvested from years of not listening. Pluck one chin hair, a rogue prophet. Ignite it and inhale deeply, before dousing it with tears distilled from your first heartbreak, when love was a cassette left in the sun. Fan the flame with a script torn from a crime drama, where your childhood crush limps through grief and solves nothing. Roll your medications down the lines of his grizzled face, each pill a plot twist. Blow out the candle. Step into your comfy shoes and coat. The world is waiting for your grown-up face, creased, kind, and quietly magic.
October 30, 2025 at 1:34 PM
jenthorne.bsky.social
Thanks @mwplovesmusic.bsky.social for the prompt.

#emoetry #defeated
#poetry
#poetrycommunity
#blueskypoets
Defeated The duvet snarls from the bed, a pale, bloated beast. Its cover crumpled, mocking my inability with its gaping mouth. I am stitched shut. The surgeon’s thread holds me like a secret, tight-lipped and aching. I reach, and pain blooms in red flowers. The cover slumps, half on, half off, a corpse in a shroud mocking my domestic death. I am a ghost in my own bedroom, haunting linens, defeated by cotton.
October 30, 2025 at 8:40 AM