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...