Monday 17 July 2017

Love song by Sheila Ash

Running round the corner wind in your hair
You took my breath away. Would I dare?
Lost in the scene, flower power days remembered
Lost in a dream, my heart surrendered.

Summer days, you lit up my life
Summer nights resting in the arms of my wife.
Fresh and cool your summer dresses
Replaced now by winter caresses.

Golden hair, skin soft and tender
Those are the days I remember
Grey locks flow now
As we approach our November.

© Sheila Ash 17th July 2017

Monday 10 July 2017

Memories from a crochet hook

Memories from a crochet hook

Granny’s crochet shawls
spread across the settee back
gathering cat hairs,
budgie droppings
and age.

Ponchos draped over 1970s shoulders
above bell-bottom blue denims
widened with inserts
patched with Laura Ashley prints
pieces of faux fur
swaying to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young
smelling of sheep in the rain.

Squares pointlessly joined together
by WRI ladies’ restless fingers
in dentist waiting rooms
for the children of Biafra.

Pairs of dainty bootees
always white
their pink or blue ribbon laces
discarded appropriately.

A red plastic case
housing a complete set of differently sized of hooks
sits forlorn
on the charity shop table.

© Sheila Ash 10th July 2017

Sunday 9 July 2017


Structured and freed
Blended with rhymes, seen and heard
dance across the page
are slammed round rooms
engraved on tombs
to be echoed by believers .

alliterative assonance
creative consonance
capture the rhythms of life
release the aromas of pain and passion
expounding the glories of love
shaping a sense of place.

as fleeting as the breeze
as lasting as the seven seas
encapsulate Life’s Memories
histories and identities
exclaiming ideological positions
complementing musicians
peddling freedom and dreams.

© Sheila Ash 9th July 2017

Monday 3 July 2017

Human chain (*)

The tap tap tap has passed.
Terrace doors are opened one by one
and one by one are shut
closing life behind them.

One by one the men light up
their first of the day,
their last before evenfall.

Down the street,
along the lane,
up the hill.

The derrick tower looms large ahead
above the grumbling heaps
amidst the grey clouds
silently hugging the warming ground.

In the cage
down, down
to the darkness.

Along tunnels,
ever narrowing,
ever shallowing,
to greet the face.

The air thickens
rank with sweat and dust.
Shirts removed their own toil
drips and streaks their chests.

The bird sings
to the clunk clink
of chisel and hammer
against the wall.

The rush of baskets
carrying away
the debris of destruction.

A man coughs and spits.
The birds continues to twitter.

© Sheila Ash 3rd July 2017

(*) The titles comes from the twelfth and final poetry collection and poem of the same title by Seamus Heaney – see

Sunday 2 July 2017


Many paths weave life’s tapestry

each easy to walk absently

guided by others design.

I thought I wanted conformity

until the enormity

of life’s banality

blasted upon me

like a giant neon sign.

The road less travelled was frosty

full of uncertainties

doubts about ability,

about emotional maturity

muddied my choice.

People often say “You’re brave”

so much so

it becomes a triviality

echoing superficiality

reflecting their mindless normality

showing only the limits of their totality

each day passing by

in the same atonal voice.

I thought my route not brave at all

a compromise

in my eyes


a failure to take chances

no daring strides or advances

oftimes stuck in circumstances

outside of my sway.

With Capricorn in the ascendant

I strode forth resplendent

developing independence

passed down from my descendants

in ancestral DNA.

I travelled far and wide

facing fire and tide

I never tried to hide

from experiencing hospitality,

embracing diversity

around the globe .

I travelled hopefully

Never letting objectivity

accept the immorality

of social marginality

of political impartiality

always continued to probe.

As I’m watching the finality

of other’s in their frailty

I realise with humility

the final steps are drawn

for everyone

not in summation

but in steady decline and negation

a total elimination

of the force which made us strong.

Hoping for a departure with dignity

without too much volatility

nor the needless litany

from an unwanted priest.

But a silent misty destiny

of willowy sleep and peace.

© Sheila Ash 2nd July 2017


I’ m often tearful telling stories
The ones which made me who I am
The ones which spun the threads that became my DNA
The ones which shaped the bones and muscles that became my body
The ones which stoked my heart’s chambers, fired up its pistons
and made the embers of my soul.
© Sheila Ash 2nd July 2017