Your Shout

I once wrote a poem

that I’m fairly sure nobody read

Someone will, I’m sure

after I’m dead and gone

to a place where no one knows

about anything at all

regarding the need,

the desire to share our thoughts

with that one of a kind hearted soul

I could of course, instead

have shouted at the tellie

whilst making my way

through a cheeky red

faced with the desparate thought

that anyone who knew anything at all

would shout back. 

Ash Cheyne – November 2018

Take Cover

Give it your best shot

go on

do it

you know you want to

Just hold it steady

go on

no shaking now

I know you’re nervous

of course you are

but what’s to lose ?

No one knows we are here

it’s just you and me

and the silence

in monochrome

The click

in the darkness

and its done

Been dying to have

you shoot me

My picture on a magazine


© Ash Cheyne – October 2018


A little Asian girl

smoking a cigarette

on a swing

at this time of the morning

instead of being on time for school.

An old man

from South London

been here 50 years.

Not the bus stop

although it feels like it.

He’s never worn gloves in this town, you know

not cold enough

unless he was nicking something

from posh people

who should know better

than leave the back door unlocked.

I step in a puddle

the only one for miles

which makes the girl laugh

as she falls backwards

off the swing.

The old boy waves at me

from the back of the bus

with his gloves on.

I feel a shiver as she winks.

My wallet is gone.


© Ash Cheyne – October 2018





Laughing Matters

Said she had no sense
of humour

Thought she was joking

Certainly got bored 
as my shirts creased up

Meet you here, there, everywhere
Just never in the place
I wait impatiently
like we've arranged to break in 
to the asylum through the front door

Just one more
trouble is
they're not cornettos
at least they don't seem to be
as they spray over the back seat

Just one more
as the cop shines his torch
in my face
Says they're fascist, male bastards
as they unlock the cuffs

Seems it never happened
and it was all a bad, bad dream
as we awake to the number on his shoulder 
on the official looking letter
on the mat
next to her broken shoe

© Ash Cheyne - October 2018

Having a Ball

Good morning
All the innocence of the very young 
echoing around the steps
as I see through the trees
that I've not yet missed the bus

Cinderella scrapes her knee
and ponders whether that is worse
than losing a shoe
in front of a crowd

Bus comes, eventually
as she waves away her heartache
and I think of India
and the lack of cool air
without the charm

as heads throw back and forth
in synch with the drivers foot

No one talking to each other
except the chick on her mobile
describing the slowly changing vista
to someone who surely doesn't care
that much

Then the one carrying the crutch
maybe for moral support
as she gives up her seat 
to a fat person who claims to be disabled

not even discontent
as life drifts away one stop at a time

Looking for clues
lost and found
please check your balance
in case you fall
into the man in the dreadful cardigan
or the one in shirt sleeves
whatever the weather

They might have something to say 
if they knew about this

Don't let me down.

© Ash Cheyne - September 2018

Fatal flaws

There’s none of us perfect

we all have something wrong

us humans

The supermarket lady

asks me if the banana is up to standard

with that ugly black mark

We all have at least one of those

on the outside

or the inside

that never fails to disappoint

in a crisis

I got eyes that can’t see colour

as others do

while she got the ability

to play music with her ears

and someone else’s heart

before the old one got broken

by a boy called Jimmy

and some unwanted genes

from the man with the braces

and the big smile

I got the temper

with cigarettes and obession

about all the gold diggers

and words not to use

in public

or privately



© Ash Cheyne – September 2018

Someone Else’s Dream

    For the third time this week, I’ve had the same vivid dream that I’m in this old style cafe in Soho. The tables and chairs are shoved together, like an old furniture store. It’s dimly lit, so much so that I have to blink repeatedly to get used to it. I’m sitting in the corner and a pretty, young waitress skips across the room and asks me if I prefer Chopin or Mozart to which I smile and shrug and order a cappuccino with almond milk. A policeman slouches against the wall outside, smoking a cigarette and reading a book of poetry by Rupi Kaur.

When I awake, I get up immediately and decide to walk the streets and take in the early dawn and the autumn sun starting to glint off the beautiful buildings.


    When he will come in again, my Ikigai? My reason? He said he would tell me which one he liked best from the poetry book I suggested to him. I’m guessing the one where she bites the heads off the wilting flowers and eats them. I hope so


    I turn the corner and start to run, as a solitary cloud hovers above and starts to threaten and then instantly delivers an unexpected heavy shower. Bumping into a policeman, I knock a book out of his hands as he throws them skyward at the sheer inconvenience, letting the raindrops blur the damp words. When I look up I find myself in the dimly lit café and the pretty young waitress rushes up to me and impatiently demands to know which one I liked best.


    I hand him a small box of macarons and tell him to take care of them as they are delicate.

“Like eggs?” He says.

“Like hearts,” I say. “Easily broken.”

I wake suddenly and realise I’ll be late for my shift at the cafe.


    My suit is ruined.



© Ash Cheyne – September 2018