This poem has origins in #PoemsAbout #Waxtears from @thebrokenspine.co.uk

‘Wax runs down the stem, / becoming a trace of tears’ - that image burns low and steady. You’ve folded music, memory, and loss into one candle’s breath. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘wax candles shining [vaporizing the efforts of ten thousand bees—who knew?]’ - that parenthetical flips the glow to grief in one beat. This whole piece balances fire and fallout, never letting the heat distract from the cost. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘a waxen cairn he cannot hide’ - that’s it, right there. The build-up is precise, brutal, & cinematic, but this line buries the whole scene. Alchemy undone. Nothing left but residue. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘wick untrimmed, wax spilleth over’ — this spills and spirals like it’s trying not to break. That rush of sound—‘why, why, why, why’—isn’t asking. It’s keening. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘It’ll be the seal and the letter’ — that line’s doing double time. You’ve turned heartbreak into artefact, and it holds. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

That repetition of ‘too scared to laugh, too busy to play’ does the heavy lifting: it’s elegy and accusation both. You’ve turned the doll into a mirror. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘a bonfire of / candles crying wishes onto the ground’ — the clash of ritual and ruin in that image is... oof! You’ve taken the language of survival and made it luminous, without softening ir. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘softening angles / became ideas / of angles’ — that collapse is devastating. You’ve written grief without drama, precision without cold. Each line thins like breath held too long. No sentiment, just surrender. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘Paused in contemplation is rage’ — such restraint, like a scream held at the edge of the throat. You’ve caught the cycle: burn, cool, burn again. It’s lived. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

‘into my waxing heart’ that lets the heat build, slow and close, without rushing to explain. The whole piece flickers with intimacy just out of reach. You’ve caught a tenderness that stings. #KeepWriting #PoemsAbout #WaxTears

Look at Me I’d set my heart on all you loving me so learned the ways to catch your needy eye I’ve sussed the greedy blatancy of fame and how to blag a freebie with cool cheek I shine and strut with sleek insouciance while flashing charming smiles to devotees I’m setting shame apart for it is just that my smart clique should pleasure out its days since I was yearning for this as a child and mildness never stopped a bee’s despatch I shall be earning squillions at this mine as others bend the knee and trudge for miles I shall have been… What? Your bad. I was misled. I swear you’d said I had to stitch an epic thread on grammar. Paul Rapley 2025

My stitch for the thread
#poemsabout #Glamour @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk
#Authentic #TakeRisks #poetrycommunity #poetry #PoetsWhoSupportPoets #KeepCreative #PoetsOfBlueSky
[BTW my #waxtears effort was a rip-off of that wonderful novel, Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre.]

Here's my offering for the theme of #tears – a second outing for a piece I wrote a few day ago for @thebrokenspine.co.uk - #PoemsAbout #waxtears -thanks go to our #vss365 host, Jami Lyne @jamilynewriter.bsky.social

#vsspoem #poet #poetrycommunity

darkness, light, passion For shame! For shame! Lock up the mad cat! Red. Pink. Crimson. Mahogany. No jail was ever more secure. Rain beating, wind howling, fireplace blank violent tyrannies, proud indifference, plain aversion darkening deposits in my mind’s turbid well courage sinking cold into the coming night… Outside, a swift-darting beam, unrecognised [from the burning oil of a whale, perhaps] the herald of some coming vision from another world head hot, heart thick, the rushing of wings in my ears in terror i hear my cry… there was a stranger in the room soothing conviction of protection and security more tenderly than ever before, i felt raised, upheld before the warm fire and a friendly flame [from the combusting fat of sheep, no doubt] before he went out, and then the fire and the flame A loud bell ringing in bitter cold the girls up and dressing evincing fortitude under wintry privation night irked out by feeble glimmers [from the ignited pith of grease-dipped rushes, for sure] water frozen in the pitchers i let down the window and look out behind us, the town to judge by the number of its lights [from volatile components of coal, distributed, in main] a place of considerable magnitude

Re-reposting cos heavily indebted to writer far greater than me [As Harold Bloom said 'No, Thomas Stearns, not Dante] Anyone?
(2 pts)
#poemsabout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk #Authentic #TakeRisks #poetrycommunity #poetry #PoetsWhoSupportPoets #KeepCreative #PoetsOfBlueSky

Here’s a response to this week's call for #PoemsAbout #waxtears from brokenspinearts.bsky.social

Thanks for hosting alanparrywriter.co.uk

darkness, light, passion For shame! For shame! Lock up the mad cat! Red. Pink. Crimson. Mahogany. No jail was ever more secure. Rain beating, wind howling, fireplace blank violent tyrannies, proud indifference, plain aversion darkening deposits in my mind’s turbid well courage sinking cold into the coming night… Outside, a swift-darting beam, unrecognised [from the burning oil of a whale, perhaps] the herald of some coming vision from another world head hot, heart thick, the rushing of wings in my ears in terror i hear my cry… there was a stranger in the room soothing conviction of protection and security more tenderly than ever before, i felt raised, upheld before the warm fire and a friendly flame [from the combusting fat of sheep, no doubt] before he went out, and then the fire and the flame A loud bell ringing in bitter cold the girls up and dressing evincing fortitude under wintry privation night irked out by feeble glimmers [from the ignited pith of grease-dipped rushes, for sure] water frozen in the pitchers i let down the window and look out behind us, the town to judge by the number of its lights [from volatile components of coal, distributed, in main] a place of considerable magnitude 

I'm reposting this because it's heavily indebted to a writer far greater than I'll ever be.
But no one seems to have noticed.
[BTW, as Harold Bloom once said 'No, Thomas Stearns, it's not Dante.]
Anyone see it?
(2 parts;9 stanzas)
#poemsabout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk
@thebrokenspine.co.uk

Oh my! What a treasured compliment. I think I'll frame your words! #poemsabout #waxtears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

This is how you do it 💪 #poemsabout #waxtears @karenpgonzalez.bsky.social

A Pile of Tears by J.D. River The lab lay still, its breath withdrawn— glass ribcage cracked, the furnace gone. Beakers stood in tempered hush, their golden stems dulled down to rust. Glass-coil limbs and copper spires grayed under ash from choked-out fires. A chart was tacked to plastered wall— its glyphs half-seared, its margins crawled. A flask lay cracked on soot-veined stone, its spatter cooled to slick black bone. From amber froth, now cold and spent, a ribbon ran where heat had bent. It licked the sleeve, then found a seam— a thread unspooled in waxen gleam. No cry. No mark. A soft arrest, as breath congealed within the chest. Mid-reach, he leans—no breath, no brace, a sheen of wax across the face. A scent of honey clings to lip— half-formed, as if mid-final slip. One socket rimmed in brittle black, the other sealed with cooling lacquer. A scent of honey clings to lip— half-formed, as if mid-final slip. And from that hollow, slow and small, a single drop begins to fall. The coin lies warped beneath the chin, a dull gleam masked in paraffin. Drop after drop, they stack and slide, a waxen cairn he cannot hide. No breath, no flame, no alchem spark— just tears, still falling, growing dark.

#poemsabout #waxtears #horror #vsshorror
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
Initially I was going to do a trite Icarus/national decline metaphor. Hated it and I am certain someone else has done it better. Decided to try another anomaly poem.

Yes, this is what happens. A wonderful closing line. #poemsabout #waxtears @alanparrywriter.co.uk

Wax Tears

Too much, now you've done it
wick untrimmed, wax spilleth over
ablazen eyes burning cries
why, why, why, why, why
too much, too much

#poetry #poemsabout #waxtears
@alanparrywriter.co.uk
@brokenspinejournal.bsky.social

Bit late, but it's here. Might play with this image again later. Still has more it wants to say. Special thanks to @boomshockalocka.bsky.social for helping me edit this one. You're awesome. 🤗

@alanparrywriter.co.uk

#PoemsAbout #waxtears #poem #poetry #childhood #poemaday ##skypoem #horrorpoetry?

Gorgeous! Gorgeous! Swift and relentless in its time-travel capture of what it means/what it costs to become an altar. And: happy birthday 🎉. #poemsabout #waxtears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Lovely to hear this spontaneous feedback. As you know, poems are personal and sometimes they don't hit the mark. But your response tells me this one did! Grateful 🙏 #PoemsAbout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

There is a universality in the opening stanza that grabbed me. Like the lines were talking specifically to me, to that part of me that is like everyone else. Just loved this. And the tone and, of course, the little bird. #PoemsAbout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

The closing 2 stanzas are a lovely wrap-up. Thanks so much for sharing. #PoemsAbout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

Oh Dean, thank you so much for these kind words.🙏 You capture so much of its intent in so few words. Grateful, grateful. #PoemsAbout #WaxTears @alanparrywriter.co.uk @thebrokenspine.co.uk

I'm becoming an altar On my twelfth birthday, I didn't want to get out of bed, and face them, my family smiling like wax dolls, barely able to mask the discomfort, with faces that never fit right. Mum came into my bedroom, and asked if I could just pretend to be happy, and get it over with. Next week I'm turning 40, and I'm still trying to forget how to be a sacrifice, an offering, a body eaten by gods. I need to become an altar, a bonfire of candles crying wishes onto the ground, a place for photos and incense, where hurt can be sacred.

My contribution to #PoemsAbout #WaxTears for the week! Turning 40 in a few days is bringing up very...mixed emotions. So this was a bit of therapy 😅 🕯

Cheers for the cool prompt
@alanparry83.bsky.social
@brokenspinearts.bsky.social