I find myself on a roll with quirky characters in recent posts... This time I'm introducing Rhonda who features in a poem with a repeated rhyming pattern across five stanzas.  Rhonda is a composite character, pieced together from encounters in Fish & Chip establishments entered across the years.  In reality I have  met numerous Rhondas and none of them cook French fries... Feeling Chipper   Rhonda serves me Fish and chips Serves them up with edgy quips Salt and vinegar on her lips She smiles across the counter   Rhonda works For Fisherman Pete Fish and chips and lots of heat All day standing on her feet While frying smells surrounds her.   Rhonda works there Through the week Gives the orders quite a tweak Never mild, never meek I’m rather fond of Rhonda   Rhonda fries Potato cakes Scallops, croquettes, all it takes Among the many things she makes They all go in her fryer   A streak of b...

 Last week I wrote about Ronny Wunders, a recurring character in my poetry. I also made mention of Shirley Birley and fellow poet,  Patricia Franz,  expressed an interest in knowing more about her.  An introduction seems more than appropriate, I feel.  So I searched the poetry vault and discovered Shirley conveneiently located in a collection of poems about quirky characters... I consciously created this poem with short lines to add pace to the reading and to portray the busy nature of Shirley's life.  Shirley Birley   Shirley Birley Hair quite curly Starts her morning Bright and early. Shirley Birley Never surly Enters the city’s hurly burly. She rides her bicycle Rings her bell Passers by Wish her well. Into the city Shirley ventures Passing folk Asleep on benches. To the factory Shirley’s winging Arrives for work Cheerfully singing. Shirley dons her uniform And every day She does perform. Makes her workmates Cup...

 I am here to share a narrative poem and taking the opportunity to celebrate the frequently heard idiom- ' I'd like to be a fly on the wall.' I had a chuckle to myself while writing this one... I must come clean here and reveal that Ronny Wunders, a character central to this poem is based on two of my childhood friends. He is a composite of two people and has featured in several of my previous poems. He is what is referred to as a recurring character.  He does some heavy lifting for others who remain anonymous. There is in fact a real Ronnie Wunders out there somewhere, as well. Allow me to explain...  Some years ago while walking through a large department store, an announcement rang out for someone called, Ronnie Wunders. I thought, what a great name- and the rest is history. I adopted Ronnie Wunders, in name only! Ronnie's been having adventures in my poems ever since, along with Cliff Edges, Shirley Birley and others.  Ah the machinations of a poet's messy mind!...

As a child I never ate Kellogs Rice Bubbles as a breakfast cereal, but I do recall the catch cry -Snap, Crackle, Pop! Sometimes writing ideas come to us in snap, crackle, pop fashion. They arrive with such velocity we are left slightly unsettled.  Sometimes writing ideas attach themselves like iron filings to a magnet and we just have to respond. As I was driving past Fisherman's Beach (at the end of my street) on a grey spring morning earlier this week, I spied out on the bay, a single, blue hulled boat, slicing its way towards the boat ramp. The surface of the water was as smooth as freshly ironed sheets, so the boat's wake cut a clear line through the water's dark surface -providing a brief, yet memorable sighting.  In that fleeting scene I held the map I needed for my writing idea.  Snap, crackle, pop!  As I sat enjoying a coffee at a local cafe a few minutes later, that earlier scene refused to leave me. I willingly surrendered to it and scribbled the first draf...

 This week, inspired by a new song from The National's lead singer, Matt Berninger, 'Ask For Water,'  I went in search of water themed poems in my poetry vault. I wasn't exactly sure what I would find, not a deluge,  but I was curious. Here is some of what I found... My Dad Was a Rain-man I stood beside my dad one summer afternoon Under the eaves of the back veranda As indigo clouds Blotted out the summer sky And threw our world into warm shadows Dad broke the silence Can you smell the rain?   -It’s only minutes away So we waited Staring skyward Listening to low rumbling of distant thunder As lightning scratched the sky And the clouds sprung leaks Soon large, heavy droplets Slapped the ground Before a downpour drenched the day Stripping dust from the air around us Making everything fireproof  He knew rain my Dad He could read the sky I saw him do it once. Alan j Wright Time Beside the Sassafras Creek Occasionally I stand still Beside the muddy bank of the c...

  'Writing is evidence that we exist.'   Donald Graves This poem regarding notebooks emerged during my recent holdiay in Bali. Since returning home it has undergone some polishing. The poem's title gives a nod to the late actor, Karl Malden who made the phrase famous in an advertisement for American Express some years ago.  My one small regret is that this poem  emerged after the publication of my latest book, 'Notebook Notions.' I opened Notebook Notions with a poem about writing and feel this poem would have neatly closed the book. Afterall, the book is a reflective journey through 43 years of notebook scribing.  Don’t Leave Home Without It Take your notebook with you  When you leave For other lands, Visit other cities, When you wander down streets Of unfamiliar towns. Your notebook Will remind you of exactly who you are And where you are from And matters residing safely in your heart. Years from now, The words you gather will...

  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 ...