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...

 I cordially invite readers to visit UK poet,  Brian Moses' Sssssnake Hotel   and discover some secrets and poetic delights about his guest this month.  Brian Moses is a widely published and renowned, poet. So I am quite delighted to find myself and my poetry journey featured on Brian's wonderful blog.  Brian has recently published a Verse Novel- 'I Am Ray's Imaginary Friend.' Check it out while you are there. I'm currently reading it as a worthy addition to my ever expanding verse novel collection.  Please visit my guest pages at the Ssssnake Hotel here:  https://brian-moses.blogspot.com/2026/03/guest-poet-alan- wright-allow-me-to.html?view=timeslide  

  This week I am responding to a prompt in a news article asking - Are you feeling swamped right now?  That was all I needed to set my writing mind into furious action. Sometimes a simple question can set the mind alight. I'll let you, dear reader determine how I feel...  I would classify the resultant poem -A Rant poem, and a long one at that. I have written Rant poems previously. They provide a wonderful outlet for strong emotions and unsettling feelings. Anyway, sit yourself down, strap in -here is my Rant poem.  The News of the Day- Chronicles of Chaos   The news And the views on the news Are let loose In torrents Cascading into the conscious mind The digital tsunami comes flooding Endlessly dumping headlines With updates layered thickly Delivered by device and design Sensory overload and mind-boggling exhaustion Have another helping of despair and dross And while you're here, juggle this- and this And have a dash of this as well. ...

 The mere mention of Yorkshire Fog Grass in a random conversation elicited a memory of distant childhood recently. Such are the merurial sparks of poetic inspiration. It behoves us to be constantly alert to the stirrings of poetry magic. For more than a week, a poem percolated in my mind before it was sufficiently formed to emerge in my notebook. It has been further revised to reach this moment.  Hope this nostalgic recollection resonates and sparks memories of your own wild imaginings and experiences. Were you a cloud watcher too? The Cloud Watchers The Yorkshire Fog grass grew wildly on the vacant lot next to my grandfather’s cottage Grass, bleached by the summer sun And now the colour of wheat.   Dense grass, so long, Small children could hide in it with ease And watch people passing by -and so, we did.   Robert, Margaret and me Lying on our backs Staring at the sky Watching a slew of clouds Slide across the heavens.   All the while, those nebula were shape-s...

When the reading of poetry is mindfully modeled, young learners are more inclined to read poetry for their own purposes. Here are some tips to assist you to present poetry reading successfully:   • Read the poem aloud to yourself first. Consider the meaning, language, rhythm and other features of the poem that you will highlight in your reading.   • Convey the meaning of the poem with your voice.   • Allow the students to hear the poem first before they see it. Read it a second time, but this time let them see the words.   • Avoid long elaborate introductions. Give them the title and the name of the poet.   • Let the tone of your voice convey the mood.   • Let the language convey the rhythm.   • Each word of the poem is important. Savor each one.   • Use your voice as a tool- whisper where appropriate, Shout if necessary, stretch words for effect!   • Invite short discussion rather than long analysis. Don’t dissect each line, don’t be a lint ...

 It is Friday and I am feeling frivolous. Word play on steroids for me.  I am dropping in to drop this playful poem.  I am writing as the mood of the morning suggests. Yesterday was a day of serious contemplation, but today is about having a little light amusement with words.  Poetry allows us that freedom, that latitude- so I'm taking it, right here. right now. Drop what you're doing and read this...   Drop Everything It drops down Drops in Drops by I am in the drop zone A water droplet Followed by a slight drop of rain Merely a drop in the ocean A drop in the bucket But then the penny drops My jaw drops Everything drops into place I can hear a pin drop Today is drop dead gorgeous So, drop the dead donkey! Don't drop off a cliff Drop off a gift Goody-goody gum drops. Alan  j Wright It is Poetry Friday and out host on this occasion is Karen Edmisten who is focusing on the poetry of Arthur Sze. She has welded words from a couple...

  My earliest memory of writing poetry was when I was in Grade 4. I wrote a poem about springtime. That day we all wrote poems about springtime because that was the expectation back then. That was writing as we knew it back. Teachers handed out the topic and the genre and we the young and inexperienced writers, dutifully responded. I recall my classmates liking my written efforts and suggesting I share my poem with our teacher, Mr Manzie. So, I took their advice and Mr Manzie liked my poem too. He invited me to share it with the class. When I read the poem aloud to the class their reaction was to clap in appreciation. This was a totally new experience. All these years later, I cannot recall the actual words of that ancient poem. They have long vanished. However, I have never forgotten the feelings that washed over me knowing other people enjoyed my written composition, my humble poem. The reaction to my poem ignited a spark energizing me to continue writing poetry, to persist...