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...

It is said to be out there as a poet, you need to be out there. So I took this literally and earlier in the week ventured out for a coffee. As I at my outdoor table attentively observing the passing parade, a poem gently formed around me. I made a few notes rehearsed some words and sipped my cappuccino. The poem landed as an everyday observational narrative, consciously devoid of any profound turn of deeper significance... Tuesday's Coffee Guests  I choose to sit at the tightly arranged round tables outside the cafe I prefer my coffee with a side of life. A woman passed by walking a small dog adorned in booties. He's got sensitive feet she informs a man who stares intently at the booted pup. At the next table two frosty matrons complain bitterly about the fashion choices of young people, Just as people have done since Plato famously launched a tirade about the lack of respect shown by young Romans. I chose to look skyward and sight a pod of pelicans wide winging across a naked ...

  Check out two of my scary poems that have just boarded the Scary-ness Poetry Express.  It's an online resource for children's poetry. *The Long Tongued Slurpenspray *The Monsters Are A Mess Follow the link if you feel brave enough to go there... Scary-ness Poetry Express  #poet #scary #poetryexpress

 This week I turned my attention to natural phenomenon. I made some seasonal adjustments to suit the weather in my immediate world. I set aside my global concerns for a moment and lavished my attention on autumn's glorious gifts. I returned to a small, leather bound notebook where I gather short form poetry -mainly haiku, tricube and tanka. I wrote in my special notebook across the week inspired by natural phenomena like weather events, seasonal changes and observations related to these mellow days. This haiku harvesting remains contemplative, calming and reflective. It represents a form of limbering up for further writing across my day. Gymnastics for the mind.  Here is a sample of my autumnal harvest. A utmn H aiku   Autumn sings to me Like no other season can Nature’s song, sung sweet.   The leaves change colour Their variegations dazzling Across mellow months.   Crisp mornings abound They usher afternoons lush With gentle sunlight. ...

  So, what is the answer? At present this is probably the most asked question all around the world. We have all been snared in a global conflict that was initially referred to as an excursion, which was actually an incursion which could more accurately be called an act of war. The ripples of this ill-advised miscalculation have had repercussions reverberating far beyond the theatre of war.  So, what's the answer? I certainly didn't hear it yesterday. The address to the American people, and by extension the rest of the world, provided no answers whatsoever. It delivered a bottle of smoke.  I confess to being utterly bewildered and terribly concerned by what has been set in place by two world leaders who take no responsibility for what they have unleashed, and the disruption to global affairs they have set in play. Such actions possess all the hallmarks of moral malnutrition... That's my response, my rant. Even if there is a clear answer to this disturbing situation, those...