I have just returned from two weeks in Sanur,Bali. My first overseas travel adventure for two years. My stay delivered a most relaxing time, enabling me to read, write and relax, -the Balinese people, friendly and welcoming as ever. This holiday time coincided with the launch of a new writer's notebook, so I had added incentive to fill it with a mass of observations and special moments.  A range of short poems spilled out across my stay in Sanur, a place I have been fortunate to visit several times before. Each time the writing is easy on this tranquil island.  I began gently with the flowers blooming close by... This morning I looked at the flowers And said Thank you.  Alan j Wright Then came some Haiku as I developed a routine of sitting in Patio Cafe mid morning coffee and contemplation, while watching the world buzz by as words swirled in my head. Walk the streets early  As earth's vapours are rising And sunlight is soft. Large green leaves flutter Like sa...

 I regularly launch my writing day with at least one haiku. I write them in a dedicated small notebook with a sturdy leather cover. This morning ritual grounds my thoughts and lubricates my writing mind. It has become part of my process.  Because it is winter in the southern hemisphere, a gathering of wintery haiku is at the forefront of my thinking. I have taken the time to gather a few of them together for you, dear reader to consider... Mornington Pier Winter Haiku Winter morning birds Twitter through the morning gloom Stoic tweeters all.   The shoreline is bleached Under a low frowning sky Rain is imminent. Sky and water meet Where the grainy light hovers The horizon smudged The day, cool and dim The garden stilled and unmoving The wind is elsewhere. Winter's biting air                                                    ...

  Returning to prose poetry this week and nostalgically returning to memories of my time in New York .  I am recounting  one of the many adjustments that were part of living in another country, another culture. Fast Paced City   The first time I visited New York, I realised those stories I had heard about a fast-paced city were accurate. When I stepped out onto the streets it was like viewing a movie where the action had sped up. I found myself on the edge of a fast-flowing stream. I felt a sense of everyone moving somewhat quicker than I was accustomed to. Walking along Broadway, I began dodging and weaving between oncoming walkers. I was navigating the rocks in the stream.  It was simultaneously thrilling and daunting, but I resolved to adjust my stride to the pulse of the city. I garnered a New York state of mind. Stepping out on the city sidewalks. Speed walking. Alive and alert.  I was in the slipstream! Alan j Wright It is Poetry Friday and Michel...

 Winter has settled in to place in the southern hemisphere. Damp and cold days predominate.Winter doesn;t have a large circle of friends, but it does draw lots of attention. If pluviophile is a new words to you, then I hope you are curious enough to check it out. It's a word just perfect for winter.  As the rain fell down into the street, it baptised me in the process and a winter poem rose from the puddles forming on the footpath.  Umbrellas Are Pluviophiles It rained most of today A signature winter day Consistent, soaking rain Made everything sodden, damp and dank The neighbourhood dogs refused to go for a walk The cats, displeased Chose to sit by the window and sulk My old mate, Roger Was seen dodging puddles large and small Because there’s a hole In the sole of his favourite boots By contrast the umbrellas Were most pleased for the outing Rising to the occasion While popping their eye-catching tops. Alan j Wright It is Poetry Friday once more and our host this time ...

Across the six years I was living and working in New York I was most fortunate to harvest a rich vein of  stories. So many stories...  My friend, Linda once shared a story about growing up in the city and enduring the somewhat oppressive summer nights.  That story became the focus of a poem I included in the 2016 anthology, 'I Bet There's No Broccoli On The Moon.'  Writers and poets are storytellers... Summer Night Escape On those long ago Summer evenings, The children of New York Dragged their mattresses Onto the fire escape In search of  A zephyr  Of cool air And a chance to dream. No air con back then, Just a sweat box Apartment. So they crept through  Open windows Buoyed by hope Of finding relief  Slumbering Above the street. Alan j Wright It is yet again, Poetry Friday and our host on this occasion is Linda Mitchell at Another Word Edgewise Linda presents a collection of quotes she hopes might springboard fresh poetic pearls from her readers....

  Stornello Poems A stornello is a traditional form of Italian folk poetry as well as improvisational song. The stornello originated in the rural regions of Tuscany before spreading across central and southern Italy to Lazio and beyond.  In taverns and public squares, stornellanti (singers) would engage in long, improvised musical battles. One singer would throw out a verse, and the opponent had to quickly counter with a witty response using the same structure.  The stornello form requires a tercet (or 3-line stanza) poem with 11 syllables per line and an aaa end rhyme.  No limits exist regarding subject matter, so it’s an open field.  It is as simple as that fellow poet. Stornello on! I'll have mine with a glass of sangiovese... Storm Brewing Across the day we watched the gathering storm The sky from blue to metal grey did transform Leaves and dust so hastened by the wind did swarm. Alan j Wright Chill Pill Our world is truly discombobulated Rising tensions nee...

  This poem emerged from a brief observation while on a supermarket raid last week. A notebook entry percolated into a poem and this is the result. Poets are observers. Much of our inspiration comes from the noting of brief encounters and magic moments. We see something and feel a compelling urge to react with words.  So here is my poem about my special sighting of a cruciverbalist... Crossworder A man sporting a wide brimmed hat Sat in the café Studiously crouched over The Thursday crossword in the newspaper. His pen poised, His brow set to serious.   I further noticed he was seated One down and three across from the café entrance. Beyond that I didn’t have a clue. Although I did wonder if a crossword passed his lips while his puzzle he pondered. Alan j Wright It's Poetry Friday and our host this time is Carol Labuzzetta. Carol uses the metaphor of a ferris wheel to write about life's ups and downs and the ever changing cycle we all encounter. 

 I frequently talk about the spark of an idea that can grow into a flame.  -A flame that lights the way forward. I am buoyed by such moments... A brief conversation with a six year old regarding how much she likes blue jelly had me instantly reflecting upon my own childhood and suddenly my mind was filled with custard, not literally of course, but thoughts of how custard was a dominant dessert during my early years, so long ago. Suddenly young eyes lit up- 'You should write a poem about custard, Papa.'  And so the poem, 'The Custard Years' began to form in my mind. Here, now is what was revealed. The Custard Years It’s amazing how much custard one can eat before the age of ten.  For I certainly ate a lot of custard early in my life... Custard was a dessert staple. I loved it lump free and viscous -mellow yellow Simply mum made using Foster Clark's custard powder. For me  they were my custard years.  Custard with ice-cream, two-fruits, or jelly Custard tarts...

Recently I was watching an episode of 'Antiques Roadshow' (the UK version) when the words 'occasional table' were mentioned. I immediately thought of  tables small in size including coffee, side, and end tables, designed for  social gatherings in the home,  occasionally employed and  variously used to present light refreshment, drinks, snacks, or possibly the playing card games and the like.    Much to my surprise the words 'occasional table' sparked my interest and for a number of days ideas swirled in my head, spinning like clothes in a dryer. I have no idea why these words persisted in my thinking, maybe the specifics of nomenclature, can account for my interest.    I found myself engaging in some personification to tell the story of an occasional table, beset with unfulfilled ambition. The resulting poem is clearly tinged with sadness and whimsy. I wish I could turn the tables, but alas. The Occasional Table It was named for designated moments...