Author: Ash Cheyne

I'm a Scot living in New Zealand. I write stories and poetry and experiment with photography, I have just finished a novel called "A Genuine Mistake."

Sydney

No real surprise that

flights were all cancelled

cause of the wind in the night

that made us feel like the house

could be airborne any minute

Or was that the glorious wine

from Patrick’s private collection 

that he brought to the stormy dinner?

It was a long weekend

not for shortening

so we took a cab back into town

had breakfast in Joes Garage

then crossed the road to see

what Warhol had to say

pretending we had arrived

without a hitch.

Rain like in the movies

straight down

and bouncing off the concrete

like we were

at the thought of being together

in Manu’s restaurant

in record stores

sharing spells with witches

and vodka martinis at Morrisons

Late in the evening

home in the early morning

© Ash Cheyne 2017

Someone

Everyone is someone

way or another

It’s a question of whether or not

you’re bothered about the others

or what someone else makes of it all

when they take a bad fall

and need someone else to blame

for what they never became

No one can get away from that

as we’re all famous for fifteen minutes

for good or bad

It’s all the same

© Ash Cheyne – 2021

Paris – Riot City Bleus

This was the calm before the storm. Paris had been ground to a standstill by striking workers.

Stepping out of the beauty of the Musee d’Orsay, I got very different impressions at the site of “tooled up” Gendarmerie waiting for a riot. I took some shots of the peaceful demonstrators and the armed police with my iphone and posted them online.

They all mysteriously vanished but fortunately I had my Nikon with me.

© Ash Cheyne – 2020

Fake

Fake it till you make it with that tan

you didn’t have yesterday

Making all the fake news

spraying it across the media

between adverts for platform trainers

that you can’t run in

unless it’s in an election

Where there are only two clowns

you can vote for

who make each other look good

yet no one is laughing

Someone call the cops

in the middle of the night

and stop the circus

before the big top

comes crashing down

Or let’s just all head to the ocean

and feel the spray

for real.

©Ash Cheyne – 2019

Busker

One way or another I’m gonna get ya

to the city that never smiles

not even yellow cab drivers arguing

about who pays the Tribeca toll

Crashing at the Pennsylvania

just across from the Garden

I’m wondering if I can go the distance

before blowing my mind

We walk and walk and walk

clutching cheap vodka

disguised as lemonade

blisters on feet

all the way from Brooklyn

where empty towers

have vanished from the eye line

Gives me hope behind a dumpster

in the village of lost souls

in return for half a dozen beers

and a trashy tee shirt

to go with that thousand yard stare

With a crocodile tear

I listen in faint disbelief

as I hear her say

I’m not enough for her

I smile at a dead body on the sidewalk

and think of home

Which you don’t get anywhere else











© Ash Cheyne 2017







"Busker" features in the poetry collection "Pretty Real," available in the Shop






	


	



			
				


			

			
Lifestyle Block
		
	
	

		



It’s only temporary this block thing. I’ll think of something clever soon. Something good enough to post that will make people smile and hit the like button. Or even comment. That’ll be nice.









It’s a long winding drive and the rain is coming down heavy now, like my mood. I’m not sure why we bought the place. A lifestyle block with a couple of olive trees and some apricot ones that we chop down every couple of winters for fine smelling firewood. By the beach with a nice view of the city which is miles away. Another world.









Inspiration he cries and I reach into the back for my phone and some paper; rummaging amongst the dog eared books and running shoes and a nearly empty bottle of vodka. There it is. Now I just need a pen because they’ll like this. In the glove box. I turn up the radio and hear a loud bang and suddenly feel very cold.









Green lights. Red lights. Traffic blocked in both directions. Lots of yellow jackets with POLICE on the back. I watch myself being cut out of my car by firemen as the motor cyclist, still encased in a helmet, slides silently into the back of an ambulance. The truck driver wanders around in circles throwing his arms in the air in shock.









I tap the pen in my hand, unable to remember what I was going to write down or whomever I was thinking of calling. Perhaps to say that life is temporary.










© Ash Cheyne 2017