Left without trace…


I remember your blonde hair
tied back with coloured beads,
when you walked out on me
that hot summer’s day.

I always expected
you would return,
for I was waiting
with arms open wide.

I searched for you
high and low,
you just vanished
leaving no trace.

As the years passed by
and you did not return,
I knew in my heart
I would live alone.

My focus in life
had all but gone,
the day you walked out
without saying good-bye.

Quiet Times…

St.Mary the Virgin Church - Rye - Sussex

I walked the path
other’s trod before me,
crossing the threshold
into peace and traquility.

Daylight broke through
small patterned windows,
depictiong forgotten history
of this wonderful building.

Monuments and tablets
adorn these walls,
those to be remembered
not forgotten by time.

What is Poetry?

What is poetry? I know not. I’m a mere amateur trying to be someone. Mind you, not like someone. Poetry, to me is elusive. I know about poetry just as much a new-born knows about the wide vast world. It’s an ocean to me, and I try swimming across, trying to reach somewhere. With words […]

via What is Poetry? — Asha’s Blog



I have escaped
yet I am a prisoner,
I exit my cell
I am free as a bird.

I leave my body
float off my bunk,
I turn around
my body sleeps.

The elation of freedom
what a joy to be free,
within a dreamlike state
free to wander, free to roam.

I would focus my attention
on my new environment,
speak I must not, otherwise
I would be lost, never to return.

Old Age…


Welcome to that time
when our bodies crack up,
we have lost our mobility
and taken to a frame.

Eyesight becomes blurred
hearing… what hearing,
our hearts slow down
and medication goes up.

One becomes envious
of those jogging around,
reminding you of past times
when you, were that young.

Sea Memories

1065 (2)

The land between
the sea and the village,
filled with emerald grasses
and blazing wild flowers.

For her the sea was sacred
a place of peace and life,
home of her sea god
home of mother nature.

Time had passed her by
the sun was going down,
hardly a ripple of the waves
the tide was going out.

Vidian Art Image

Young Love


He could control his image
but not the tone of his voice,
his eyebrows pale brown
matching the autumn skies.

She looked happy the other day
but I believe that be an act,
for when she’s alone
it be, a different story.

She hides her feelings
but I know she loves me,
why won’t she admit it,
so we can be as one.

Forgotten People


The lonely old men
sit in the old cafe,
drinking tea and coffee
from small plastic cups.

They have their memories
telling of their lives,
who would be interested
who would listen.

Their daily lives are spent
watching the world,
pass them by, through
old cafe windows.