Allow me to begin by thanking fellow poet, Irene Latham for alerting me to my personal affiliation with matters 'moony.'  I dug back into my poetry vault and unearthed a couple of poems celebrating some moony  moments. The moon has been a recurring theme in my writing. As a boy I pondered much thought regarding its magnificence. I would lie in my bed staring out the window imagining I could see a face on that distant orb.  I witnessed Neil Armstrong's first tentative steps upon its surface viewing this momentous moment, on a somewhat grainy black and white television set, during my initial year of teaching.  I have stood under its full beaming reflection in the middle of Australia's heartland and marveled at the light it provided in that vast open space.  I can still hear my father crooning the words, 'Blue moon, I saw you standing alone...' The moon even features in the title of one my poetry anthologies. The moon has featured in many phases of my life. So,it i...

When the Covid Pandemic spread across the world, I began a number of projects as a response to some of the pessimism that arose within my community and beyond.  I became inspired by the incredible creativity and resilience that simultaneously arose at this time in various parts of the world. Some great diversionary tactics were called upon to stop a predictable descent into darker places.  I felt a need to act.     The Poet Tree   project commenced in August 2020.  I decided to post a poem on a large eucalypt tree in the  Fisherman's Beach Reserve directly behind our house. We are able to access this greened space via a gate. Every day, people walk  along this greened, open area with their dogs, children, friends. The idea was to share a short poem sprinkled with humour and optimism in the hope it would lift the collective spirits- mine included. Occasionally, other poets attached poems to the tree. I have also received feedback in the form of app...

Today, I am thinking, 'natural encounters.' Across the years I have had solitary encounters with snakes and dolphins, foxes and a platypus, among others.  Such encounters tend to remain with us as vivid memories. One encounter in particular has glowed brightly in my mind across the years. It happened way back when I was only twelve years old while wandering beside the Sassafras Creek in my childhood home town, Monbulk. A very special one off  E ncounters with nature, or characters in human form, provide a rich territory for the writing of poetry. I urge you to put on your explorer boots and go in search of those encounter memories. I strongly suspect you will tap into a rich vein of poetic potential. Brief Encounter With A Trout   My extended backyard sloped down the valley hills, creeks and forests beckoning the young explorer This space under the sky a natural theme park for untamed wandering For glorious expeditions   Aged twelve I wandered i...

Boketto- an explanation... 'A few years back, I came across a concept called boketto. Boketto is a Japanese word that really doesn’t translate into English very well. But, the idea of boketto is akin to staring at the sky or into the distance without a thought… getting lost in one’s own self; removing the self from a place mentally. There is no regard to the past and no connection to the future. There is only THIS moment.' Walter J Wojtanik inventor of the boketto The boketto consists of TWO stanzas,  one of five lines (30 syllables – 7, 7, 7, 4, 5)  and a three-line stanza (17 syllables – two seven syllable lines  and a three-syllable line.  Rhyme is not required.   The subject is strictly arbitrary: It expresses a single moment in time! My boketto attempts to capture a small moment witnessed in a classroom, recently.   The Young Writer Approaches Entering the room, smiling Jade holds up her writing piece A smile owns all her face She beams broadly Th...

This week I'm getting acquainted with the Trinet, created by an individual by the name of 'Zion.' I'm afraid that's I can tell you about the form's origin. Here are the  guidelines for writing a Trinet: 7 lines Lines three and four have six words in each line All the other lines have two words per line There are no restrictions for rhymes, subject matter, or syllables, making it easier to create.  I based my poem on a fact I had gleaned from my research into obscure and unusual facts. I had a list of them in my notebook and this one appealed. It felt good to build words around a fact.  Pigs Can't Look At The Sky Siobahn started Each day With a deliberate, lingering, heavenly gaze Grateful she was not a pig Forever denied Those glorious Skyward glances. Alan j Wright It is Poetry Friday yet again. Our host for this week is Linda B  at Teacher Dance. Linda's post reminds us that every end is a beginning with a poem about her grandson and being on the edge ...

 I previously shared a first line index poem in March last year. It was titled 'Island Observations .' I recently returned to this poetic form using the index from Carol Ann Duffy's anthology '101 Poems For Children' as inspiration. I must admit, I love the challenge these poems present. You are driven by the urge to be a word weaver. It is a process requiring patience and being prepared to let the words settle for a while. You want the lines to display connectiveness. Lots of reading aloud is required to determine if the resulting poem has a sufficient sense of flow to it. Here's what I made of these special lines... Exploring At Night First Line Index Poem   In winter I get up at night At nine of the night, I open the door   And we left our beds in the dark The first whisper of stars is a faint thing Big Dipper, Giant Racer, Figure of Eight Fish-bones lay in the smelly bin Monday, I found a boot   Come on everybody Come play with me...

 During the month of May, I set myself a personal writing challenge of writing a poem each day based on historical events that took place on a particular May date.  The project delivered a number of documentary style poems (docupoetry). My previous docupoetry poems have been somewhat lengthy. These latest poems are shorter. I think time constraints may have contributed to this outcome. Writing projects /challenges are fun. They invigorate the mind. They reveal a lot. Here are two docu-poems  focusing on events in the lives of two disparate historical figures. The Last Word   A decade of faithfully recorded thoughts A life captured in diaries Rich in detail and scope Reached a premature ending When the writings of Samuel Pepys Hit a wall of darkness.   The final entry The last word Inked for posterity.   With eyesight failing And shadows advancing across the page His pen, he reluctantly laid to rest.   The writer found himself Out of sight ...

It seems strange to be writing a poem about a summer time phenomenon during the Australian winter, but poetry sparks have no comprehension of time, They just arrive and the writer must be ready to  respond.  The poem I am sharing has taken time to marinate having landed some weeks back, launched on the wings of a cross cultural word that refused to be denied. I have it heard it land in my conscious mind and it would not go away. And so I thought, I read, I listed my findings and then thought some more before the words presented on the page. My poem has since it initial composition,  undergone further refinement and polishing on my computer. My message for young poets is this...  When an idea lands, hold back a little on the  urge to write. Allow your words to gather slowly. Explore your ideas and gather your very best words around you first. Read, research, think, talk, then think some more, before you take up the pen. It is with a strong sense of satisfaction t...

  A wander through the weekly Wednesday street market of my town reveals much to stimulate the observant poet. It's the stimulus of place and the colour and movement within.  Here are a couple of poems that owe their origin to this market space with its wide array of stalls and curious shoppers. Girl at the Market   I walked by her On Market day Wednesday in Mornington.   She was browsing raspberries And blueberries Her hair, Remarkable. -The colour of ripe oranges. Alan j Wright Street Performer   A small girl Stands on the street Amid the passing shoppers Scratching out hesitant notes On a brave violin Her open case attracts A smattering of pitiful coins Tossed in by tolerant supporters And the tone deaf.   Her mother sits close by -but not too close Offering a stoic smile.   A mother’s love Shines through And the sun peeks out From behind the morning clouds And birds return to the nearby trees ...