The seaside lad I knew.

Whispering like a dormant field mouse,

but roaring like a fucking lion.

You loved from your soul and nothing less,

And happily fucked up and cleaned up the mess.

To be loved by you in any form

was protection, an absolute norm.

And I look at Tish,

and I know the wings you spread about her,

No one’s gonna get there,

not with you about her.

Fire in your spirit that burns throughout your skin,

A devil’s little angel always teetering on sin.

The girls they fell about your feet,

swooning, every time you meet.

You were fucking fit

And boy did you know it.

Yet to be your girl

was to be your world.

And now age has fell upon us creeping up the rear,

and murmurs of your name I do often hear.

You left us far behind, a memory of your past,

Your life began unfurling all so very fast.

Your whisper still is there, it hides beneath the roar,

and your name now opens up metaphorical doors.

You reached beyond the skies,

never scared to stop and try.

You walk another beat that drums to just a few,

you’re a nutter, braver still,

but always the seaside lad I knew.

Karen Hayward ©2016

My world.

My world is a constant 

whirlwind pulling 

me in a thousand 

directions. 

Except now. 

Now I listen to the radio

In the background as cars

whizz past. I listen to the

heavy pull of my daughter as

sleep pulls her in. I listen

to the rhymythic purr of my cat

as he spreads himself across my 

neck in some random loving 

gesture. For now, in this second

my world has stopped. 
Karen Hayward ©2016.

Naked fury.

The impulsive abandoned

rush of excitement as anger

roars through the skies around,

as nature crashes,

and our bodies entwine in naked fury.

Wave upon wave of pleasure

releasing from the core of my

being, need spilling into

my fingers, stroking, feeling.

Thirst building from within

as fingers explore my inner

pleasure.

In your eyes I see flames

of passion roaring to the

surface, yours, mine, ours.

Soaring heat burning in the essence

as it slips between my lips,

as I peak, convulsing, releasing,

as you hit the back of my throat,

as it creeps through my soul,

as I swallow it down,

as I spill across your fingers.

The essence of our souls

dancing in blind fury

among the crashing waves of natures force.
Karen Hayward ©2016

Honey in soft undertones of a whispered accent of ancient days.

* observational poem, a beautiful elderly lady with a soft Irish accent stopped to chat with me. 

You are honey to my soul

The soft ancient caress of love

that whispers across the breeze.

The gentle undertones of wisdom

a kiss from the spirit of yesteryear

reminding me, they are forever near. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

You were King and I were the Queen.

You thought it was funny calling my bluff,

I thought I as clever acting all tough. 

Skirt to my arse and cleavage on show,

You said, change the wheel it’s good stuff to know. 

So picked up a tool I pushed and I pulled, 

then battered my eye lids, you wernt easy to fool. 

Your hands on mine the moment was soft, 

till what’s his name appeared and gave a loud cough. 

He followed us here he followed us there,

our moments together were constantly shared. 

But for that moment in the garage of sin,

when I as the Queen and you were the King. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

Summers fling.

Oh how I cringe when I think of the shyness that carved through my every touch, the whisper in my every word. The silence in my longing and the screams that echoed from our every moment hidden in the shadows of deceit. And yet we were everything in that fleeting summers moment. The raging lust of youth, the deep desire of empty souls searching and the shy spirits exploring on the knife edge of belief, readying ourselves for the fall. And oh did I fall. 
Karen Hayward ©2016