As poets we spend so much time thinking about those ideas we wish to write about. As the saying goes, anything can be the focus of a poem. Well, pretty much everything... This week I completely flipped my thinking and began to consider those matters for which I hold absolutely no interest. This is quite clearly  a personal preference I'm exercising here and someone else's list may look decidedly different. That's as it should be. My poem is quite obviously a list poem and has a rhyming introduction. You could decribe it as an anti poem.  I Fail To See These Poems In Me I doubt that you will ever see These poems upon a page -by me Just forget it Don’t regret it They’re locked outside the gate Unneeded They shall remain forever unheeded  Topics I just fail to rate: My love for green trousers Admiration for influencers Garters Hot dog eating contests The thinness of Donald’s orange skin Wordle game result posters The history of lint Onions as gifts Recalling lost lemmings Ho

 Our poetry is informed by the here and now and also by memory and mood surrounding  events past. Those memories are often quite vividly recalled due to the impact they have had upon our lives.  My year in Grade 5 all those years ago was no doubt, memorable. Memorable for all the wrong reasons though. Still, it continues to provoke the poetry within. I am grateful for the therapy it delivers. I keep saying it, but its true- poetry is about the mud and the flowers. Be brave and consider all your rich and informative memories -the perfect and the problematic. Beware Of Wrong Answers In those long passed days, back in Grade 5  A lot of our time was spent With our hands on our heads All because our teacher, Ms Dungeon  Didn’t like fidgeting. She taught us to be afraid of wrong answers And to count in our heads -never our fingers She taught us how to write a letter But never let us send it -something I find strange even now. She introduced us to subject and predicate They sounded like the n

  I recently returned from a holiday in Bali. I had been looking forward to much reading, writing and relaxing as well as watching my four year old grand-daughter experience her first overseas travel adventure. The holiday had to be cut short due to some unscheduled health related issues that unfortunately claimed me. So, reading/writing plans did not materialize as I had envisaged, but I did get to see the joy in a child's eyes when exploring a new and exciting culture. Priceless... I at least got to rework a poem I had written on a previous Bali sojourn which was most satisfying. It has morphed into a haibun poem, so my brief time in Bali  produced a small, yet profound change. I'm home now and feeling better in every respect. A Room At Puri Damai Lying beneath a flimsy sheet, under the heavy heat of a Bali evening. I observe the ceiling fan, slightly out of kilter. It whirs and clicks as it spins, emitting a faint squeak of discomfort in its efforts to keep the warm air movi

 A chance conversation about eating healthy foods delivered me back to the bountiful garden my father created all those years ago, ensuring we ate well. Fruit and vegetables were plentiful and varied in our humble household. It was economically and gastronomically a sound investment. Garden to plate was seamless. Sometimes the fresh produce never made it to the plate. My favourite fruit trees in the mini orchard were the nectarines.   That's where this juicy little poem finds its essential spark in a memory regained. A conversation delivered a moment in time, now captured in words. Nectarines are not in season at present, but they are front of mind for me at least. Anything can be the focus of a poem-even nectarines. Poet's respond. A Morning Bounty Of Ripe Nectarines   I heard the footsteps on the back veranda Then I heard the fly screen door swing shut Wrapped in the turned up hem of his old jumper My father nursed a bounty of freshly picked nectarines Plucked from the fruit

Dug up this video while doing a bit of housekeeping with my poetry resources.   A little performance poetry with 'Slugger Mugger.'

I came upon Chrissie Gittins' poem, 'The Powder Monkey' while reading Michael Rosen's impressive anthology- 'Michael Rosen's A to Z -The Best Children's Poetry From Agard To Zephniah,' Puffin, 2009. I was so taken by it, I felt compelled to do some research regarding the poem's origin. It turns out the poem formed from a conversation the poet had with a friend. Chrissie Gittins, the poet visited HMS Victory in Portsmouth, U K and learnt about the young children, often orphans swept off the streets of England, who worked on eighteenth century sailing ships as powder monkeys. They kept the artillery on the gun decks stocked with gunpowder. She was shocked to discover that before 1794 children as young at six went to sea. She visited the Caird Library at the National Maritime Museum to research further. The  resultant docupoem  won the Belmont Poetry Prize for individual children’s poems. This was especially significant as the shortlist was drawn up by

I have been exploring the theme of small, tiny things. Things microscopic and seemingly insignificant. It turns out to be a HUGE matter to ponder. Living close to the beach, I quickly realized I had an abundant source of tiny material to inform my writing. The Travel Adventures of Sandy Grains   Within the whispers of the shore Where waves unload at beach’s door Lies a tale of grains of sand Gifted by the oceans grand.   In pockets, cracks and corners deep Grains finds a home, a place to sleep A tiny stash of sandy gold A story waiting to be told.   From every shore, sand is shifted To parts unknown, grains are lifted On gusts of wind, they hitch a ride Dispersing beach-sand far and wide.   A reminder of the changing sea Grains of sand spread randomly In nooks and crannies they now sit These tiny specks of ocean grit.   So let us treasure grains of sand In pockets, towels, across the land For in their journey, we may find Travellers of

 I always enjoy a challenge and last week fellow poet, Linda Mitchell issued a list of 'Clunker Exchange lines' and invited everyone to take up a line from the list and see where that might lead. we were also invited to exchange a clunker line of our own.  Upon making my choice, I immediately saw potential in the words on offer. I took them and played with the possibilities in my notebook. I gently surrounded them with new words, assisting my chosen line to nestle comfortably in to this new poetic location.  The resulting poem is in the form of Ars Poetica  which I have featured previously.   The Mud And The Flowers Words trip and stumble onto the page Leaving the pen unsettled Leaving the writer pondering the next hesitant action The fate of the very next line.   Those words, There, on the paper No doubt appear as A weedy patch of writing -should never see the light of day But they are there nonetheless Resting uncomfortably Awaiting possible erasure, A pen stroke, Revision, A

Last week attention returned to docupoetry in some of my discussion with fellow poets. That prompted me to return to the poetry vault and unearth this docupoem paying tribute to the brave and fearless, Amelia Earhart.  Docupoetry puts a bit of twist on information text. It contains a dose of fact and wraps it in a protective layer of supportive words. I read recently that marine explorers may have located the crash site of Amelia fatal flight. It currently remains as an enduring mystery. Let's take flight with the brave and daring Amelia as she ventures out to cross the Atlantic ocean, solo.   Amelia’s Aeronautical Achievement In a flight filled with danger wild, icy weather And a broken altimeter Amelia took off early one morning From Newfoundland In her Lockheed Vega -a frantic Atlantic flight unfolded. A copy of a local newspaper tucked under her arm Confirming her departure date And sharing local news far and wide. -No fake news for Amelia.   Along the