The airwaves are empty.

I don’t want to rise again but I know I have to.

This ground is cold and damp and it is seeping

into me, I am becoming numb, my soul is dying.

The sky is a dark shade of emptiness, the air I

breath gives continuation where once it gave life.

The stars have died and my eyes have forgotten

what beauty looks like. I flip through songs

searching for the lyrics that beat to the same

tune as I do, there are none, so I search again

the airwaves are empty. The silence echoes my

emptiness twanging against the iron bars.

A smashed light bulb above my life, fragmants of glass

litter the ground and like an expert I tip toe through.

My wounds have long bled out and become the ink

in my pen, even that now runs dry, congealed and

scabby. One song is replaced with another as I

search for my beat, searching blindly for the

lyrics that whisper to my soul. I can only hear

the sound of breaking atoms their energy bursting,

streaming the skies with invisible energy. Iwant to

rise again and walk in the shadows where the silence

is my friend and the darkness my lover.


Karen Hayward ©2016


You are the poison that burns in my veins,

eroding the thoughts that keep me sane.

You are the fingers that claw at my soul

destroying me, their ultimate goal.

You are the storm on a clear sunny day

shrugging your shoulders in that shallow way.

You are the darkness that feeds my fears

that blood thirsty hatred is always near.

You are the shatter that blinded my eyes

you are the reason I no longer cry.

You are the tears caught in my throat

and you are the love I am so devote.


Karen Hayward ©2016


Blind faith in the poor.



I saw a man today picking litter of the floor,

a dog at his side I guessed they were poor.

He never said a word just got on with the job

never seen such a quiet and beautiful dog.

They say think of others and not just of you, so

I prayed he’d go unnoticed beneath a cloak of blue.

I watched him move his stuff to form a perfect pile

it took a few minutes, the dog waited all the while.

I watched the cars go by and people walk the street,

everyone too busy to even stop and greet.

He never paused to look around he busied with his hands

He stooped a little, walked in pain, yet tall, as if he

owned the land.

I watched this man rummage through the bins

they tell me feel no pity, for his cause are his sins.

‘He probably is an alchy, a druggie there’s no doubt.’

About this man in honesty they know absolutely nout.

‘He brought it on himself, addiction is a choice.’

Your self righteous words founded in fear spilling in your voice.

So I prayed you wouldn’t see him, blinded to your eyes,

for i’ll never change your thoughts no matter how hard I try.

I watched him fill his bag and feed that little dog,

I whispered to the skies, thank you, God.

They wandered on their way, slowly up the road

bin bag filled to the top with all he could hold.


Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)





Reoccurring dreams.

It is said that reoccurring dreams are a trick designed by our subconscious that allows it to communicate with us. Our subconscious can explore themes freely as we dream, feeding, subliminally messages to us.
Recently my dreams have been plagued with repetition, I’m hopeful that by writing it here they will somehow start to make sense.

The church.
I walk toward the church and nothing seems out of place. The Our Lady of Light church is a stone’s throw from the beach and as I walk there I can hear the soft ebbing tide, taste the salt air. However when I get inside of the church it changes. It is still clearly catholic but suddenly  I am aware of another layer, a basement/ cellar, I want to go down there I am drawn to go down there but I get the feeling from the congregation I am wrong to want to go down there. I go down there anyway. But as of yet I cannot recall any details of what happens down there. But as I leave the Father softly squeezes my hands and smiles warmly at me.

I’ve never dreamed about shoes before and yet now they’re in just about every dream!! Last night I dreamed I had left my shoes on a bus to the airport  we had 20 seconds to get them, I decided to leave them and instead travelled bare foot.
I’ve also dreamed that I was wearing to black ankle boots, odd ones!

I keep dreaming that I very very almost miss my flight. The planes are never quite normal, this one looked much like a bus with wheels, sometimes they have no outer shell at all!!

I dreamt we had two moons in the sky, the soft white one we often seen in the daytime as well  as a darker more detailed moon, they sat in the sky together, next to one another. In this dream I was out with someone and they turned to me said this is one those moments, he then snapped a picture if it,  before turning the camera toward me to take a picture of us.

The house.
I have had many house dreams, the house represents us. In the past I have dreamt of the same house over and over with secret rooms but I always ended up in the loft/ attic. A room filled with books and pens and paper…I stopped having this dream as soon as I started on my path as a writer. But recently I have been dreaming of another house, again the same house each time, the same person in that house and always focused in the living room. The décor is muted, shades of brown, it’s not my house.

I have always been fascinated by dreams. As a young girl I had bad nightmares and I learned how to move from one dream into another. As I grew up I learned the art of lucid dreaming, a dream state that gives me far more awareness and control. I’m hopeful that by writing these dreams down my mind will now release them and I can go back to dreaming about being a spy :-).

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Untitled with hinted hues of Raphael.

As the day draws heavy and my eyes beg to close

I take a moment to consider the highs and the lows.

I’m grateful, i’m grateful that I owned my day.

I’m grateful….

that each time the storm pulled me from my slumber

I didn’t need the power cut number.

that some of my fence panels were still standing

I’m grateful to those for withstanding.

I’m grateful for my daughters help to build the drawers,

I got it wrong, one is backwards, but we’re not keeping score.

I’m grateful for the pens we used to colour the dragon

and our creation of a pink and blue wagon.

I’m grateful that I heard her giggle, deep and filled with love,

and that tidying her toys was kinda tough.

I’m grateful that the storm calmed down and blue skies appeared,

and that for a moment she didn’t need me near.

I’m grateful for the foam ball that she bounced and bounced

anxiety prickling but her lioness was ready to pounce.

I’m eternally grateful for the moments when we talk

so she knew when the ball hit the road, not to walk.

I’m grateful for the chair that she spun and spun in

and for the vomit that completely missed the bin

and the bedroom floor that was clear

and that I was near.

I’m grateful for the rainbow

when I was feeling low.

I’m grateful for Easter choc

and tea that’s hot,

and for a book to read

when my day ends and i’m no longer in need.

I’m grateful for what comes next

night time silence at its best.


Karen Hayward ©2016



Storm Katie.

Storm Katie, I see that you are here,
your strength the reason for my fear.
Howling winds tearing through the leaves,
swaying side to side through the dying trees.
Storm Katie, I sense that you are angry,
your rage to much for you to see,
as you release torrential rain down into the street.
battering kindly all that you can beat.
Storm Katie, I see your lonesome path,
the reason why your anger means you do not laugh.
I hear you tapping at my door,
fist raging, feet stamping on the floor.
I hear your nails scrapping across the crying glass,
your turmoil so demanding you tear through so very fast.
Storm Katie the light of day has come,
people count the damage and add the final sum.
I see you didn’t like my fencing or my garden gate,
still there are hours till you release this vengeful hate.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Lost in the forest of the unworthy.


I’ll whisper as I clamber through the thorns, blood trickling across my skin as my clothes snag against the branches.  The moons glow a haunting reminder of the darkness that surrounds me. Engulfing me like hands gripping my lungs, squeezing out all signs of life. I try to breath, suck in the air through my nose and beg to every God this land has. I see the sparkling green lights of Raphael, his fingers soothing my lungs as I gasp desperately for the stale poisoned air.The ground beneath me is wet, the mud sticky against my skin. I wonder if my knees are grazed and whether my blood has mixed with the dirt becoming one, whether I have become one with the dirt that hides deep in the forest beneath forgotten fruitless brambles. Following the trickle of illumination droplet beads of pearl white splinter across dying leaves before the darkness of the incoming storm devours the moon, the light, belief. This darkness grips my heart in an iron vice taunting that these chambers might beat in hope. But hope has long left this dwelling. The damp chill of the twilight hours barricades itself inside my bones. Soldiers using my soul as shooting practice, arrow after arrow piercing through me leaving behind small holes where only the darkness can be seen. A moss covered rock pulls me down as torrential rains fall from the sky, falling tears from the angels or punishment from the devil either way I place my head upon the rock and scream into the night in the knowledge that no one will hear me. I let my self break into millions of atoms and watch unforgivingly as they disperse into the atmosphere. Only they return, they always return. Uriel reaches out his wings to gather the essence of my soul his red light burning through the branches, his fingers catch my fallen tears as they crystallize into the green hues of Raphael. Clouds crash angrily together and rain beats to an inaudible tempo, I pull my bloodied, bruised spirit inwards. I hear them as they whisper, as they hear me, as the dark angels make their case in the loneliness of the abandoned forest of hope. It is perception versus self belief. Perception being the inevitable unchanging darkness that will forever swarm at my ankles leading me into the forest to clamber through the thorns. Eyes closed I listen to the emptiness as the rain begins to slow and the chill is drawn out of me. A fire radiating through my spirit I lay back against the rock tear open my chest and let the falling rains extinguish it. Owls hoot and spiders crawl across my skin as if I were just another broken branch fallen to the ground. Light from the moon creeps slowly through the branches trying desperately to reach me. Pulling my legs closer even the moons illuminating love cannot set foot upon my soul. The shadows creeping, long bony fingers grappling at my sole as they fight for a soul that was worthy of neither fight.


Karen Hayward © 2016

Raspberry kisses.


Raspberry kisses.
near misses,
secret wishes.
Soft encompassing skin
sweet juices, tanginess that awakens my tongue.
The perfectly imperfect bite of to be the future seeds.
Raspberry kisses,
moments missed,
secrets wished.
Raspberry kisses.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (words and image)

Raining for the soul.


A breeze snakes through the partially open window,

an ebbing flow of cool air against my skin.

It calls out to my soul. Taunting me with fresh appeal.

Tapping slowly down falling still against the glass.

Already I catch the hinted scent of damp concrete as

people pull up hoods and zip up coats.

I can almost taste that cool descent against my tongue,

the teasing appeal of a promised cleansing.

The puddle-less rain for the soul.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Words and Image)