Inspiring literacy confidence through workshops for all ages!

Contact Alan



Workshops include introducing poetry styles, creating and performing. I can tailor it to your specific needs, or challenge the dormant creativity we all possess.


As a poet, I do love to recite. I don't mind if it's my own work, or someone else's.


I'm happy fit in with the National Curriculum aims and requirements, including comparative assessment and constructive critique.


Here's a few of my own.




Half past a quarter to seven

In the night time, during the day

I sprinted whilst hovergliding

On a stream spilling over with hay.

Down to the kangaroo’s igloo,

Where the mountains reached up to the sea

And froze in the hot soaking desert

In my sleeping bag, dancing with glee.

My watch, which I wasn’t wearing,

Said the time was a hundred and eight

So I hurried along without moving

And strolled through the fence with no gate.

I smiled at the invisible person

I could see when I wiggled my knees,

And swam with the A-major ice cream

And sang with the green swimming bees.

Now to the folks who look without seeing

Who unlock a door so it shuts

My journey’s beginning is middle

And the end is, I’m totally nuts!

DO YOU………..



Do you laugh when sometimes nothing is funny?

Do you cry when sometimes nothing is sad?


Do you seek your friends when you’re feeling lonely?

Do you seek your own company when the good times go bad?


Do you have “funny moods” when all things seem distant?

Do you wander around knowing not what to do?


Do you feel as though no one ever is listening?

Do you ever feel as though nothing is true?


Do you sense that the answer’s just out of your reaching?

Do you clumsily knock over cup after cup?


Do you wonder if ever you’ll find what you’re seeking?

Do you know that you’re not all alone, growing up?



School again today


Not that I mind going, but


Weekends are better



People ask mum how I am

And she says I’m well enough

And when I’m being pushed by dad

They say lots of pleasant stuff

I know they all mean very well

And never mean to stare

But I wish they’d learn to talk to ME!

And forget the damn wheelchair.



Once, before time, a garden arose from nothing.

Filled, scented, warmed, given life,

And all was wonder, and peace.

Deceit drove the tillers from the wonder,

And sadness reigned at their loss.

Peace remained, but distanced.


Later, a garden grown from toil and sweat,

Saw tears and terror, pain and injustice

Soil its tender fragrance.

Yet all gardens have seasons, and time,

To regain former glories, and this one

Saw also the beginning, of wonder, and peace.




Wave goodbye to clouds of tears

by letting in the light;

wring the wrong from storms of doubt

and see with clearer sight;

as constant sea erodes the sands,

God’s constancy, His might.



I want to be swept away

by tides

rich, full, flowing

life-filled and smashed

dashed into oceans

colour blinded, dazzled

light-beam startled

electrified by pulses

making mine race

outside mere human spectacle

seeing more

and less just looking


find the elusive

breathtaking, wordless

where only tears speak.



Tonight, I saw

Heavenly shine amongst

The daylit night;

Wonder enough, then

To speak of.


The only sound

Fittingly awe-inspiring

For description

Was that of my tears

Hitting the ground.



stripes of zephyr in azure skies

amidst the moons deep haze

and lengths of violets slowly rise

to frame the end of days



Where once there was a playing field

Where all around was open land

Where jungle animals were heard

Where Custer took his last, vain stand

Where hidden children sneaked to den

Where pirates sailed the seven seas

Where England beat Brazil for once

Where flowers were graced by happy bees

Where picnics made the summer day

Where adventure set the day’s events

Where conkers gave all equal chance

Where now stands bricks and harsh cement.


Where is the sense in killing grass?

Where does the land seem smaller now?

Where are the lanes I courted in?

Where can I hear the sound of plough?

Where do they think the children play?

Where have flowers to plant their roots?

Where can I hear the graceful bees?

Where do I use my walking boots?

Where is the tree I looked out from?

Where could it seed in flattened scape?

Where can we breathe in playing fields?

Where was debate to halt this rape?



A thing is more than itself

Ritual study shows us

Time heralds new meanings

Inside each of us, lurking

Secretly gestating ideas, creativity

Tempting boldness, abstraction, form

Idle doodles reveal yearnings

Calling, gently calling



I’ll see you on Midwinter’s Eve, and then shall play our game of chance

that smile I wore at your behest may yet undo your victory dance.


These words forgotten all too swift by one who’s guiles and wiles bewitched

too many men whose heads were turned by dancing legs as skirts were hitched.


The dance went on for many years with laughter overcoming doubt

that some had sensed until those feet, those dancing feet, put fears to rout.


But years exact a heavy price for jollity to have its way

and lines must blur as rouge applied more heavily than years can play.


Soon, all too soon, the dancer needs a slower and more gentle tune

and lines are drawn as rouge’s mask awaits the far more flattering moon.


But then shall see the smiles return to all those broken-hearted eyes;

there’ll be no rest, no slower tune and aching feet shall dance to lies


now told in song, forever fast with partners new each step and turn

while smiles look on, as yours is fixed, unable to escape the burn.


That sadness in each smile you pass while whisked and spun in endless round

is yours to view for evermore, no rest for you in sacred ground.


Your partner now for several bars, I smile no more, my heart is stone

I lost too much in Summer’s haze, and Autumn saw me dance alone.


And now Midwinter’s Eve arrives and we can play our game of chance

The dice is thrown and no-one wins, there is no heady victory dance.



Creative writing