Kay Medway
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kaymedway.bsky.social
Kay Medway
@kaymedway.bsky.social
530 followers 680 following 740 posts
I’m a library assistant and poet with work published in The Dirigible Balloon, Disabled Tales, Dreambeast Poems, and featured on Brian Moses’s blog. My poems are forthcoming in Scaryness Express.
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Reposted by Kay Medway
bobjohnstonbooks.bsky.social
It's a Sunday lie-in with a mug of tea on a very wet & grey Mayo morning. Time to peek behind #BobsRandomAdventCalendar Day 7 for a smidgen of random joy...
Photo of a shop sign typo saying "£1 each. Stapler With Motives".
December 7, 2025 at 9:59 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
rough-diamond1.bsky.social
Get those subs in! Open until 16th December!

#poetry #poetrycommunity
December 7, 2025 at 11:17 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
"Nan, how did you learn to cook?”  
I say again.  

“I just used to watch my mum,”  
is always her reply.  

#poem #poetry
"Nan, how did you learn to cook?”   I say again.   “I just used to watch my mum,”   is always her reply.   Like finding a photo of us   at Christmas dinner   when I was only three.   Grandma dished up dinner.   The plates were neat:   boiled white potatoes beside   cranberry and mint sauces,   roast potatoes, mash, and meats.   Great‑grandma,   ever generous,   ensured my little plate’s portion   was not really smaller   than the grown‑ups’.   My tracksuit, pink and white,   worn at the table,   still sang of summer.   The plates’ colour palette was soft.   They say art is not only paintings;   it is how we dress,   choose gifts,   solve problems,   prepare a meal.   Great‑grandma said that at school   she used to drop her knitting stitches   because of nerves.   But Great‑grandma still liked presents   wrapped neater now,   nicely placed on tables,   ready for opening   on late Christmas afternoons.   Art is not only paintings,   it is how we learn,   how we serve up dishes,   how we are remembered.  
December 6, 2025 at 10:54 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
shaunjexauthor.bsky.social
We're heading into the heart of the holiday season, and that's the theme of this week's blog post. Poems about holiday goodies!!!
#poetry #poetrycommunity #kidlit
shaunmjex.wordpress.com/2025/11/30/a...
A Festive Feast of Holiday Poems
A look at poems celebrating the food of the Holiday Season.
shaunmjex.wordpress.com
November 30, 2025 at 5:50 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry
What if the moon were a compact mirror, resting in a pearly case? At its snapping shut upon all the spirits, it locks the gremlins’ powers, and keeps on shattering across the skies, scattering silver shards and stones of light. What if the sun were a shield, engulfed in flames? It guards the one who stands behind, holding it high as protection. A fire rises from a fearsome hearth, blazing with untamed strength. What if the clouds were soft, fluffy arm rests on giant’s chairs? Giant-sounding dins of stomping boots overhead, until in the chairs giants rest. What if the tree were a person, tall and from an ancient land, its chin tilted high beneath the brim of a sun hat, an all-around crown of emerald leaves? Yet when it speaks, it drowns out in muffled rounds. What if the bee were sun colour, and night-sky colour beads in a stripey painting? Its yellow stripes, the only lights. What if the flower were a bright serviette, with folds and creases of beauty, arranged in a thin green glass on a fairy’s dinner table, where ghostly guests, uninvited, reappear.
November 24, 2025 at 8:45 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
amylvpoemfarm.bsky.social
❤️
November 22, 2025 at 2:01 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
valpoet.bsky.social
What a beautiful poem
kaymedway.bsky.social Kay Medway @kaymedway.bsky.social · 4d
I opened a book,
and a shiny glass comb
slipped from a mother’s drawer.

youtu.be/5VikuPLboAM?...

#workshop

#poem #poetry
I opened a book, and a shiny glass comb slipped from a mother’s drawer. The only time my mother did not worry about the hair of daughters was in the happy endings of fairy tales, hair washed in haunting rivers, river pearls braided in the strands, fish like silver, fish like jewels, swimming through chestnut waves, like firelights dancing, candles glowing gently, shadows gathering across the riverbeds, candle flames flickering in pauses. They remember stories and sweep away the dust of days. “Then everything will be well with silk-spun hair,” said the jewels, their voices echoing softly like ghosts in a hallway. Even a rose tiara does not tremble on a princess’s hair, no matter what she must overcome. And one daughter ran away. Running and running and running away. She ran away in a baker boy cap and a red beret, berry‑red and bright. The beret giggled with a shadow friend, the baker boy cap looked up and thought. Hair of shining black, hair that spins until we are old, hair folded at the neck, hair like bronze pages in a storybook. Hair with a mother still shines, glimmering in candlelight, spooky and bright. I opened a book, and a shiny glass comb slipped from a mother’s drawer. The only time my mother did not worry about the hair of daughters was in the happy endings of fairy tales, hair washed in haunting rivers, river pearls braided in the strands, fish like silver, fish like jewels, swimming through chestnut waves, like firelights dancing, candles glowing gently, shadows gathering across the riverbeds, candle flames flickering in pauses. They remember stories and sweep away the dust of days. “Then everything will be well with silk-spun hair,” said the jewels, their voices echoing softly like ghosts in a hallway. Even a rose tiara does not tremble on a princess’s hair, no matter what she must overcome. And one daughter ran away. Running and running and running away. She ran away in a baker boy cap and a red beret, berry‑red and bright. The beret giggled with a shadow friend, the baker boy cap looked up and thought. Hair of shining black, hair that spins until we are old, hair folded at the neck, hair like bronze pages in a storybook. Hair with a mother still shines, glimmering in candlelight, spooky and bright.
December 3, 2025 at 8:25 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
I opened a book,
and a shiny glass comb
slipped from a mother’s drawer.

youtu.be/5VikuPLboAM?...

#workshop

#poem #poetry
I opened a book, and a shiny glass comb slipped from a mother’s drawer. The only time my mother did not worry about the hair of daughters was in the happy endings of fairy tales, hair washed in haunting rivers, river pearls braided in the strands, fish like silver, fish like jewels, swimming through chestnut waves, like firelights dancing, candles glowing gently, shadows gathering across the riverbeds, candle flames flickering in pauses. They remember stories and sweep away the dust of days. “Then everything will be well with silk-spun hair,” said the jewels, their voices echoing softly like ghosts in a hallway. Even a rose tiara does not tremble on a princess’s hair, no matter what she must overcome. And one daughter ran away. Running and running and running away. She ran away in a baker boy cap and a red beret, berry‑red and bright. The beret giggled with a shadow friend, the baker boy cap looked up and thought. Hair of shining black, hair that spins until we are old, hair folded at the neck, hair like bronze pages in a storybook. Hair with a mother still shines, glimmering in candlelight, spooky and bright. I opened a book, and a shiny glass comb slipped from a mother’s drawer. The only time my mother did not worry about the hair of daughters was in the happy endings of fairy tales, hair washed in haunting rivers, river pearls braided in the strands, fish like silver, fish like jewels, swimming through chestnut waves, like firelights dancing, candles glowing gently, shadows gathering across the riverbeds, candle flames flickering in pauses. They remember stories and sweep away the dust of days. “Then everything will be well with silk-spun hair,” said the jewels, their voices echoing softly like ghosts in a hallway. Even a rose tiara does not tremble on a princess’s hair, no matter what she must overcome. And one daughter ran away. Running and running and running away. She ran away in a baker boy cap and a red beret, berry‑red and bright. The beret giggled with a shadow friend, the baker boy cap looked up and thought. Hair of shining black, hair that spins until we are old, hair folded at the neck, hair like bronze pages in a storybook. Hair with a mother still shines, glimmering in candlelight, spooky and bright.
December 3, 2025 at 7:34 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#CurrentlyReading #CharityShopFinds
December 2, 2025 at 5:17 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
emteepoetry.bsky.social
A very quick instinctual scribble as a bit of fun for @victoriaspires.bsky.social wonderful poem prompt. If I have time I will try another more considered response.

#promptcombo #ThisPoem
December 1, 2025 at 10:36 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
danigracewrites.bsky.social
Enchanting Treats

#Dough of anticipation
Stacks up imaginations
With holiday creations—
Inside yummy pies,
Sugar cookie sheets wide,
and breads on the rise before hungry eyes
Spying ovens glow &
Sprinkles of sugary snow
Enough to make Santa go "Ho, ho, ho whoa!"

@thetoypress.bsky.social
#kidlit
December 1, 2025 at 4:52 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
thetoypress.bsky.social
Happy 1st December! Here is your #wordoftheweek!

#writingcommunity #writingforchildren #writingprompt #poetryforkids #poetryforchildren #poetrycommunity
December 1, 2025 at 8:27 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem
Not being a musician, I did not know what was treasure in front of me, the metronome in a penguin shape I saw first two days before my friend, then heard her enthuse over it as her star purchase, how it works, her daughter’s second instrument a clarinet after oboe, to qualify for marching bands. She continues on: There is the little charity shop in Olney that always has nice things, I mean absolutely always has nice things. These are my Glinda boots from there, they are Doc Martens, palest pink. The assistant at the desk looks and says, “These are Doc Martens.” Her colleague says, “No, they are Accessorize shop style boots.” “No, they are Doc Martens.” I thought to myself, they are my size, I can wear them. I found a cashmere jumper once on a rail, in the smallest size, but bought it for my daughter.
November 28, 2025 at 11:07 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
Snow, I call you
clouds scattering,
colour tamer,
sound silencer,
greenery concealer,
frost buttered,
white sequin wearer,
cold spell farer,
postcard dream scene sharer,
day-to-evening blur. #poetry #poem #kennings
November 26, 2025 at 9:24 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
tinytreebooks.bsky.social
🎄✨ It's one month until Christmas! 🎄✨

Celebrate early with A Welly Full of Christmas by @attielime 🎁

A poetry collection full of festive fun for all the family! Get your copy 👉 amzn.to/4f64NLj

#Christmas
Cover of A Welly Full of Christmas on a green background.
November 25, 2025 at 4:31 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
malformed-poetry.bsky.social
Today's prompt is working for me. It will take a few days to finish but here is the intro:

#Poetry
November 25, 2025 at 5:04 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry

When a ticket arrives in exam season,
on a Sunday home from school,
you know it’s an it’s‑getting‑closer‑to‑your‑dreams kind of day.

No one can be disappointed in you,
you carry a visit‑us‑in‑Toronto invitation.
When a ticket arrives in exam season, on a Sunday home from school, you know it’s an it’s‑getting‑closer‑to‑your‑dreams kind of day. No one can be disappointed in you, you carry a visit‑us‑in‑Toronto invitation. A blue velour tracksuit waits for the journey, and the photo booth for your passport. Mum tells you: wear her cross, solid gold on its chain, to guard your travels. Your first evenings there, you open your luggage: shampoos, magazines, CDs, lined on the dresser in white‑floral condo rooms, giant windows spilling views where your family now lives. The hosts of Canadian morning news speak as you plan your sightseeing: boats, cinemas, towers, restaurants, shops, villages, downtown malls. At night you look up at the building and wonder if this is a feeling as close to being famous as you will get. It lifts your worries, those quiet feelings of being inferior. Later you will realise how hard it is to uproot to Canada. For now, reality stays distant, a dream still shining in the window.
November 25, 2025 at 3:33 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry
When a ticket arrived in exam season,
on a Sunday when home from school,
you knew it was an it’s‑getting‑closer‑to‑your‑dreams kind of day.

No one can be disappointed in you
who offers a visit‑us‑in‑Toronto invitation.
When a ticket arrived in exam season, on a Sunday when home from school, you knew it was an it’s‑getting‑closer‑to‑your‑dreams kind of day. No one can be disappointed in you who offers a visit‑us‑in‑Toronto invitation. A blue velour tracksuit you will wear there too, and in the photo booth for your passport. Mum tells you to wear her cross on its solid gold chain for your journeys. Your first evenings there, you open your luggage: shampoos, magazines, CDs, on the dresser in the pretty white floral condo rooms, with the giant’s windows of views where your family now lives. The hosts of the Canadian morning news as you plan your sightseeing: boats, cinemas, towers, restaurants, shops, villages, downtown malls. At night you look up to the building and wonder if this is a feeling as close to being famous as you will get. It takes your mind off your worries, your sometimes feelings of being inferior. When you are older you will realise how hard it is to uproot to Canada. For now, the distance of reality remains far away, a dream still shining in the window.
November 25, 2025 at 9:59 AM
kaymedway.bsky.social
Going Through Old Photos @michaelrosenyes.bsky.social Poetry Workshop.

I wonder if that is why Granddad organised the variety of entertainment for the veterans club, and why my sister taught herself to sing too.

#poetry #poem
Me, my sister, my brother‑in‑law, and Granddad were going through the old photos in The Headlands pub. That is Pap’s photo, once in the museum exhibition, as the founder of the Northampton Veterans Social Club. The sign beside it mentions Nan, Betty Waterfield, married in the 1950s, as well as Granddad’s varied career throughout his life: railway engine cleaner, window cleaner. After Betty died, when he was in the garden once, he said a white butterfly would not leave him alone, hovering around his face. Betty was a singer, I already knew. “Can you sing?” he asked me. “A bit,” I replied. “It is all right to say if you cannot.” “I cannot, and I say it,” said my brother‑in‑law. I wonder if that is why Granddad organised the variety of entertainment for the veterans club, and why my sister taught herself to sing too. by Kay Medway
November 24, 2025 at 11:28 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poetry #poem
I have been thinking how often, before someone sings, there will be an observation aloud that says, “You know, the person before you is a professional singer.” Well, I have put on my trier’s hat. You cannot fault the give‑it‑a‑go, the see‑how‑it‑goes momentum, the parcel of courage in wearing it. Do not worry about me. My experience is in lobster quatrains, as Gryphon in Alice in Wonderland, red face paint heavy, glitter waistcoat more shimmery than space, playing before the senior years at school. You never know when you will need to approach something in life with the same willingness to not take yourself too seriously. But do not worry about me. Either way, the songs must be sung. I love the chance, really.
November 24, 2025 at 7:49 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
pinholepoetry.bsky.social
We’re missing pieces for our next issue!
We’re still looking for a few more poems and pinhole photography submissions.
Check out our guidelines on our website and send in work by Nov 28 to be considered for the Jan 2026 issue.

pinholepoetry.ca
November 24, 2025 at 6:16 PM
Reposted by Kay Medway
helenlaycock.bsky.social
Thanks, Paul, for the #promptcombo #OnRoofs
@thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social

Here's my contribution.

#poetry #poetsofbluesky #blueskypoets #skypoets #winter
November 24, 2025 at 12:06 PM
kaymedway.bsky.social
#poem #poetry
The most important poem I've wrote. Dear Kay, When you feel like everything is not going as well as it could of late, remember the mornings, three times a week, when you began, the commitment you had already shown, even if some might have thought it was less than others, the responsibility you carried. You did not do it for praise or rewards. After long volunteer morning shifts, you treated yourself to a hot sausage roll from Greggs underneath the office, before the walk home, dreaming volunteering would grow your C.V., enough for employment, and it did. Because as years passed, seeming similar to the one before and without positive change, you got better, and you still remember. In one of a series of interviews that changed your life at age twenty‑five, they asked you to give an example of when you had provided an excellent level of customer service. As an adult volunteer in a bureau, you had interviewed to discover who needed an appointment for full advice, who needed signposting, and who could be helped with self‑help materials. A bureau of every solution, where you learned to write reports of what had been asked, told, looked up, explained, advised, a satisfying arc of conclusion and achievement. Yours faithfully, A voice who began as a volunteer.
November 24, 2025 at 11:43 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
cclarklewes.bsky.social
Early start interpreting at the eye hospital. Reading Ned Denny’s envigorating versions in @pnreview.bsky.social while two old chaps discuss how ‘brown bread turns you out nicely. Surprisingly quickly actually.’
Ned Denny after Verlaine November Dusk Autumn and the departing sun, and I am wild with joy! Corpse hues drenched in blood, a five-alarm sky, death possessing a world of mud, torpid ponds, and man the sick child! This is, poet, your hour and your season, all illusions gone, your heart laid bare, that tender heart which the rats' feet of passion tear, your looking-glass, your festival! Let academics, dupes, and noted authors fawn over the springtime and the dawn, those two foxy virgins even costlier than their frocks; I choose you, autumn, prefer your dark grace to any little darling's face, you my implacable and strange-eyed courtesan.
November 21, 2025 at 8:41 AM
Reposted by Kay Medway
jumpingjulespoetry.bsky.social
So pleased to have 3 poems on The Poetry Express, one in the Haunted ticket and 2 in Cobweb-zines (September). Thank you! www.scaryness.com 👻
November 24, 2025 at 9:32 AM