Often we celebrate the shape of a poem or the patterns it presents. This poem is all about the sounds of the words, in particular the sounds of a host of towns and suburbs in Australia. These rich and varied places owe their names to our first peoples, our indigenous Australians. The names have meaning attached.  Yackandandah for example, means, ' one boulder on top of another at the junction of two creeks.'  The town I grew up in, Monbulk, means  'hiding place in the hills.' The names of these places possess a musicality  unique to Australia. Proud to say I've visited many of them. Come with me now and get your mouth ready to dance with delight. I’ve Never Been to Tumbarumba Australian towns Have memorable names Some of them astounding They dance upon my tongue Delightful in their sounding I’ve always known in Yarrawonga That I should try to linger longer But should I try to chitter-chatter If I find myself in Cabramatta? All the kind folk ...

 I became aware of the incredible achievements of Charles Blondin watching a  television progam a little while back and was prompted to go in search of more information concerning this fabulously talented funambulist. What an amazing life Charles Blondin lived... As someone who has always struggled with heights I found myself in awe of this man's incredible mastery of tight rope walking, his superb balancing capabilities. He crossed Niagara Falls numerous times. I've been there once. I was happy to view the falls from a safe position.  Anyway, my curiosity was sparked and the subsequent research has resulted in another docupoem. I shall be adding it to my ever expanding collection of these poems.  Docupoems are reliant on realism, written from an observer’s standpoint, and shaped with a desire for revelation. They share truth in collaboration with the poet's voice. Readers, I present The Mighty Blondin!   The Mighty Blondin Famous French funambulist Charle...

It is often said that as writers and poets- 'First we imitate, then we innovate.'  When I first wrote a haibun poem I followed the structure and form without question. Since that time I have written numerous poems in this classic Japanese poetry form.  Among my personal poetry collection I own a copy of Robert Wood Lynn's 'Mothman Apologia'  In this anthology the poet innovates with a variety of layouts for his poems. He writes a series of ten elegies where there is a complete absence of punctuation and adopts layouts with multiple blocks of justified text. He is challenging visual norms. These considered actions focused my reading.  All this brings me to this week's poem. I have presented it as a haibun, but have consciously removed punctuation a la Robert Wood Lynn to make it a hybrid presentation.  My poem tells the story of a coal delivery man in England in the 1920's. 'Alfred, The Coalman Cometh' could also be categorized as docupoetry, or an o...

 It was World Left Handers Day  on Wednesday. The day always causes me to reflect... Amazingly, I learnt to write using my left hand. An achievement against the prevailing beliefs of the day. My very first teacher saw it as her mission in life to ‘fix’ the poor, wretched little boy suffering from what she clearly diagnosed as left handed disease. She must have thought, 'This child must be re-formatted! If he remains left handed he will be forever condemned to writing in a scrawl that no one will be able to read.'  She actually told me this horrifying fact regarding my predicted fate. They took the pencil out of my left hand and placed it in my right hand. It felt unnatural. It felt weird. It was not right. More importantly, it was not left. Watch me I said. I may be a left handed oddball, but I am a determined oddball. I mean how boring would the world be if everyone wrote with their right hand? So I dug my toes in –and my hands too, and steadfastly resisted efforts to ch...

 This week I took a deep dive into the vast catalogue of  7000 images trapped on my Iphone. I then randomly selected four that caught my eye and rescued them from obscurity.  I called on their support to help me launch some Haiku poetry. A collaboration of image and inspiration. Thank you team... Brittle autumn leaves                                                                                                                              Skitter along the footpath                                                        ...

  This poetry presentation is all about keeping secrets with siblings, or  rather the inherent folly of such agreements.  My poem is loosely based on childhood experiences.  It is also about form and structure.   I have consciously off set the couplets to symbolize the unsettling sleep experiences that frequently arise around such matters.   Unsettled Sleep As I stumbled through the forest dark A green witch grabbed my hand   I raced upon an open plain Through soft and shifting sand   I stood upon a craggy bluff While the wind began to scream   Then I awoke in tangled sheets From this disturbing dream   I think I know the reason I got wrapped up in this twister   I’m concerned about a secret shared With my loose-lipped little sister. Alan j Wright. Poetry Friday has rolled around again and our host this time is Jane Whittingham . Jane delivers an ode to the chaos that frequently surround...

  I have figured things out this week and find myself focusing on matters mathematical. I could have gone with a Fibonacci Poem again, but I decided to look elsewhere within the fascinating world of mathematics to find my connection.  Here are three little poems owing their existence to various mathematical inspirations. They were quietly nestling in my poetry vault, but I found them when it counted.  Go figure... Figure It Out One stands by itself Two makes a couple Three gives us a crowd Four sends us to the corners Five gives us golden rings Six can be hit out of the park Seven is heavenly Eight comes with easy pieces Nine gives a cat lives Ten likes green bottles I figure that’s enough. Alan j Wright   Zero No beginning or end No tail to descend Like a hole in Swiss Cheese With no corners No one’s lucky number it must be said You unfortunately have amounted to nothing But I like the way you stand Between positive And negative So well roun...

 This is another example of prose poetry. The poem owes its origins to real events that occurred during an Australian summer when I was a teenager. It is strange to be recalling a summertime event in the middle of an Australian winter, but it was an unforgettable time and it often resurfaces, particularly when I revisit my old home town.  During that long ago summer, a string of hot summer days -a heat wave was ours to endure. A summer that left the landscape parched and dry and communities exposed to the potential of devastating bush fires. And so it transpired...  The poem is presented in two stanzas; blocks of texts representing the before and after aspects of the event. A Summer Blaze   During my fourteenth summer a January bushfire tried to erase our small town. It poked its flaming head above the ridge line, consumed a pine plantation then down the slope it raced, hot and voracious. Acrid smoke surrounded our homes, our streets, our every tiny space. Live e...