Ronnie Smith
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rfsmith.bsky.social
Ronnie Smith
@rfsmith.bsky.social
570 followers 830 following 520 posts
Scottish living in France. Poet, lover of art and nature. Retired from the world of smash and grab.
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rfsmith.bsky.social
Ronnie Smith @rfsmith.bsky.social · Jul 8
Poem - The Boy on the Beach
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
saintghost.bsky.social
For #PromptCombo #Storm ⛈️✨

for @rfsmith.bsky.social
Each Word Is A Lantern You’ve Dropped In The Sand You drift on a little boat that can only think about sinking. It does not know which side is heaven and which is sea. It’s all the same, blue, blur, the way you cannot know the difference between the voice of God or that of small birds. Everything sings, especially when we are drowning everything is music, a language we bend closer to hear. The boat smells of crushed violets. There is a storm coming, supposedly, but the mirror’s surface is undisturbed. And the boat is angry at the storm for not pulling it under the tideline. Because sometimes we want that collision, that sharp cleave of a before and an after but here we are still, in the middle, between the heartbeat of the waves where we trace a lineage of salt stains from one dim star to the other. There is a semblance of yourself forced to sail half-empty around the great ice caves where the glitter of their echo has you baptized with the silence of half-being, half-not. Maybe the storm was that sigh you had let escape through the vault of your lips. And the weight of the moments is flitting through the church of your hands like a fish. This morning, the revelation had been out of print. So you sewed the glimmering moon into the hem of your billowing skirts to take a fire with you, to strike a small match in the night. Each step is a day passing, an era, a life; the legs still bewitched just thinking of fins. All the lighthouses with their restless eyes were looking for you across the periphery, sweeping the coastline for something, some moral in the wreck of yourself. The body itself is a shrine upon which the storm’s breath stitches its meaning, the cold wind that silvers our secrets, the water that hollows you out until only one light is left, until the altar is ivory bone. The cracked planks glisten with the ocean’s white wedding froth, who is married to the deep in us all, the darkness where the wilderness sleeps.
November 8, 2025 at 5:21 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
hool415.bsky.social
@rfsmith.bsky.social @dragonslayerma.bsky.social @thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
@victoriaspires.bsky.social I’m hosting #promptcombo this week.Use the #promptcombo and post me @hool415.bsky.social for the theme of #workinglove Anything on love, work or a mix of both! All welcome till 5pm Friday!!
Working Love I fell for you in work amid the photocopier’s paparazzi-flashing, had no control over seating so, between floors giddy elevator conversations snatched. Once, outside, during a fire evacuation test I stood by you, aware my ruddy-face was so obviously smouldering. Hold the note you gave me for supposed help on an urgently demanded spinning-hamster-wheel type task, just a rather economical: ‘Thank you v v much’ but I imagined that first word unexpectedly promoted and H.R. formally introducing its shyest new replacement: Love. Since that day to my certain knowledge you’ve never used ‘v v’ again… though I make sure those twanging Cupid arrowheads are near daily kept still in play.
November 9, 2025 at 7:42 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
victoriaspires.bsky.social
@rfsmith.bsky.social for your #promptcombo #storms. I persist in believing in this weird half-poem, despite all evidence to the contrary.

Also, #smallpoemsunday
November 9, 2025 at 8:05 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
gclifford1.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social Ronnie. Hope you're having a lovely week. Here's y third response to your amazing #promptcombo #Storm

This is from my Seren collection: The Hitting Game
November 7, 2025 at 6:31 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social Ronnie. Hope you're having a great week. My third response to your amazing #promptcombo #Storm is from my collection: "These Random Acts of Wildness," Glass Head Press:
Struck Mr. Kay 5.20 a.m. on Tuesday it were. I were walking to work through Wombwell woods, when a great storm overtook us, fair surprised us watta comin' dahn. I stood wi Mr. Kay under a beech tree, known not to be struck by leetnin. Not five minutes when we were all skittled. Tell thee I'd not heard crack, nor seen leetnin afore hit us. Mark Kay were assistant colliery checkweighman at Wombwell. Awake and wick first I went to gamekeeper's house for to see, fetch help, on return. found his soul had flit. Reet sorrowful for his wife. Distraught. No money comin. In God's hands her sorrow
November 5, 2025 at 8:29 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social Ronnie. Here's my fourth response to your marvellous #promptcombo #storm:
Time Is Words on a page. Time it takes to read a sentence is a breath out of life. Lapped, shored up ruin. have you read the coming storm that wants to say hello, that wants to say Hurry up. I bring the peace of lightning. The hope of my downpour.
November 6, 2025 at 10:32 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
daveashleypoet.bsky.social
#wildwalkprompt #clogged @rfsmith.bsky.social
#Storm #RhymeRoyal #poem #Writing
November 5, 2025 at 9:10 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
poetryman1.bsky.social
Just a quick, simple one!
Previously in another place!😳

@rfsmith.bsky.social #promptcombo #storm
November 5, 2025 at 1:14 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
mwplovesmusic.bsky.social
called my
self
tornado-
hurricane,
self
deprecation of
my destructive
nature;

I’ll build a house
tear the roof
off,
erect a tower
demolish it,
make bridges
burn them,
this is my story;

sound the siren
changed paths
don’t get caught
in the fray
#promptcombo #storm #poetry @rfsmith.bsky.social
November 4, 2025 at 3:35 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
daveashleypoet.bsky.social
#PromptCombo #emoetry
@rfsmith.bsky.social
#Storm #idealistic #fascism #RhymeRoyal #poem #resist #politics

let not the Far Right dictate politics throughout the world
November 4, 2025 at 7:56 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social Ronnie, here's my second response to your great #promptcombo #Storm:
Mariner Hard Gust from the white mountains teases ap art and weaves together Fear's daughters, nine, lonely, mariner hungry, storm-hap py, waves, BigBillow, Wave, Pitcher, Surger, Grasper, Bloody Hair, Foam-Fleck, Skywave, Chill. Mariner, amid their cold clamour rides their needs, surfaces and depths, recalls wills hearth hug blaze of his land bounded wife, and wild land hugging bairns, masters Gust's warp and weft, refuses to be stolen. Fear is close brother to Fire and Gust. His wife is Theft. Their hunger the mariner's wife knows as she flinches at the wind's waves whisper on land the loneliness of these sisters
November 4, 2025 at 8:50 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
fhpowellwriter.bsky.social
THINKING ABOUT TURNER

There I was
strapped to a mast
paintbrush in hand
trying to capture
the power of a storm
as the wind rushed
brushing my face
only a madman
would go to such lengths
but I am man
whose passion for art
runs deep

@rfsmith.bsky.social
#promptcombo #Storm
November 4, 2025 at 9:28 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
davidbirch.bsky.social
I've read some great responses to @rfsmith.bsky.social's brilliant #PromptCombo #Storm. Here's mine: a fragment of memory which might be worth developing a bit more #BlueSkyPoets #PoetryCommunity
November 4, 2025 at 12:10 PM
rfsmith.bsky.social
www.facebook.com/share/r/1BXt...
Redirecting...
www.facebook.com
November 4, 2025 at 7:56 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
ignorantfairy.bsky.social
flickering aura appears
messenger of doom
unknown sharpness
ravaging helpless skull
retreat into the darkness
weathering tempestuous
seizure — thoughts
turning to grey sludge

#promptcombo #storm #migraine
#poetry #poetrycommunity #freeverse
November 4, 2025 at 6:01 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
hool415.bsky.social
Hullo @rfsmith.bsky.social
Thanks for an early classic poem for the very seasonal #storm theme for #promptcombo
All welcome, just post to the above address with both hashtags.
(The rfs one above, not mine!)
@thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social @victoriaspires.bsky.social @dragonslayerma.bsky.social ⛈️
Squall, Bedruthan Cove, Cornwall The sky is suddenly shuttered, a god-fearing, if futile attempt at boarding-up, then raw incomprehensible torrents. Not mere weather, but mile-wide, a bay’s exhaustive bereavement begun. Below a perilous cliff path, the self-flagellating bash of sea: dented and scored enough to will its own collapse, while hovering over the gap, (a chomp of fallen and gushing rocks), blackened birds must cope with the stifled chokes of wholly inconsolable winds.
November 2, 2025 at 5:38 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
fhpowellwriter.bsky.social
#promptcombo #Storm
@rfsmith.bsky.social
November 2, 2025 at 6:04 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thewombwellrainbow.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social Ronnie. Thankyou for the timely #promptcombo #Storm. Here's my first response. It's from my collection "Wolf Eye Territory:"
Wolf Eye Territory – Paul Brookes 34 Our Storm Eye also call us Hunger or Ice Eye. Stillness, whilst all around rages. Hushed centre inside when you gape at our barrenness. Deadness, perhaps, but clarity ventured. Your raging eye looks at our calm and style. Breathes easier. Gusted leaf shadow prone black dog lope. Lightning your deadly smile, what the thunder said your voice. Your hailstone land is popping popcorn. Skin a short, sharp shower. Left you to dry out in sole heat of no goodbyes or see you laters. Part whist at our unruffled wax, wane. Storms beat your rocky slopes, snowfall binds you to earth with noise of winter, our eye lights your worth
November 2, 2025 at 6:08 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
janpsolivagant.bsky.social
🙏 @rfsmith.bsky.social as #PromptCombo #Storm host

#newpoem / #photography:
©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025/2021

#Expressionism #Trakl #feverdream #delirium #darkpoetry #deathpoetry #monochrome #scape
Dies Irae Childhood hidey-holes, Dens, boltholes - Rot-hollowed hamlets. Weeded, dark-plumaged Hundreds at prayer: Sisters, mothers chanting Compline mysteries Abroad, ashore. Windows folded with Hands poised, paused. Stillbirth. Blue-veined Riddle hushed amid the Rank-trimmed pageantry. Purple-tongued jester Gibbers in still delirium at an Untenanted catacomb. Lush-lapped thorns finger Fever: Blood-spat cackle raised from Famished dreams. Panic rocks the death-rattled Coracle. Blanched shadows - Strangers - Crowd the Addled steps of a Landing stage. Vile body Breeds rats and lilies. Supplicant-sinner Thirsts for Cerulean. ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2025 After Gericht (“Tribunal”, “Judgement”, 1912-14), by Austrian Expressionist poet, Georg Trakl (1887-1914) ©Jan Peters/Solivagant Wisdom, 2021 Black-and-white image of the rotting hull of a small boat on a salt marsh adjoining an estuary in North Norfolk. Darkened skies.
November 3, 2025 at 6:56 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
sueimnw.bsky.social
For this week's #PromptCombo #Storm with @rfsmith.bsky.social - will catch up with others later.
November 3, 2025 at 8:50 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thepaulconnolly.bsky.social
Here's a piece for @rfsmith.bsky.social's #PromptCombo theme #storm Entitled, suitably enough, Storms. First published some years ago in Guttural Magazine. #poetrycommunity #poetsonbluesky #booksky
Storms. A poem by Paul Connolly. First published in Guttural. Storms Soaked chino and skirt thighs pressed and scraped, or flapped and soared in Steerforth-felling gusts. Booze-brewed and sexed-up, cod-Gothic fallacies massed proof of selves, not both of us, which overthrew the other’s mouth, then ran into the storm I loved. I’d loved you always, fashioned anew in childhood’s thunderous night-times, where I spun your wind tales, cast you in abstract dramas. I didn’t itemise events, or note much more than vibrancies from tapped current, misprized the details. True love is detail. Storms like those drenched pawings were canvas. My son slides off a rain-smooth log today, falls, doesn't strike his head, cuts off blurt fears with wet enjoyment at slopping in a flash-flood pool. My dykes breach. I flood across felled trees, gates upended, meadows, then pull my lendings tight, cash-strapped amid shattered slate, damp walls, loss-adjustment.
November 3, 2025 at 9:04 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
thepaulconnolly.bsky.social
My recording of my poem Storms, first published in Guttural Magazine, posted here for @rfsmith.bsky.social's #promptcombo theme #storm #poetrycommunity #poetsonbluesky #booksky
November 3, 2025 at 9:04 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
cieloceano.bsky.social
#PromptCombo #Storm
@rfsmith.bsky.social

This is an attempt to a poem with no metaphors.
November 3, 2025 at 11:02 AM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
dragonslayerma.bsky.social
#PromptCombo Ronnie @rfsmith.bsky.social , here's one from me for #Storm . Have a fabulous week hosting my friend♥️
📸Colette Gemmell
November 3, 2025 at 12:55 PM
Reposted by Ronnie Smith
robgalpin.bsky.social
Hi @rfsmith.bsky.social and #PromptCombo - here's my offering for #Storm, based on notes made after our summer wind storm
#poem #poetry
The Wind-lover I’m balanced on a bicycle, motionless, halfway up the hill in the mountain wind, face full of oxygen I can’t breathe in— the slap, slump, and wallop increasing with every upward inch. Below, the storm is rolling its palms across the scrubland. Sycamores are stripped, and willows cracked open. Huge, astonished lime trees lean east. The lake shivers, lifts, resettles, edges for the exit. A greenhouse catapults a fence. Even the daws are not so cocksure now. The gulls have gone to ground, or decamped to the river and its ghosted granary towers. The storm has blown us back in time. It’s autumn, and the ships will not be sailing. They roll, maddened, in the docks, pouring their North Sea spill over the white-washing-line terraces, sending the black and white kids in wellies running for safety up the valley… Night. The wind begins to walk away. There’s the sound of someone opening and closing a door, softly, repeatedly, dementedly, again and again— My son, the wind-lover, windows open— and unbelievably asleep.
November 3, 2025 at 3:38 PM