This online publication is a new venture created within a google+ poetry community ( find it here….it is so very worth checking out, they are an amazing group of people, and the poetry shared is divine) that I am a part of. They very kindly asked if they could use one of my poems in their first edition, which of course I said yes, is such an amazing honor….Take a moment to look through this amazing creation, and find my poem on page 33 🙂

Oh glorious mist, take me home, take me home.


Oh glorious mist, like rich silken threads

pouring delicately through the streets

of a lost concrete horizon. Take me, weave

for me a cloak of such splendor my naked

form will sing to the heavens of divine pleasure.

Oh dear, glorious mist, your ocean scent

speaks of ancient home, my soul yearns

for your touch. Kiss me, with a thousand

tongues, atom for atom, seep within me

and search for the essence of my core.

Ensnare me, oh dear glorious mist, ensnare

me within your silken fingers. Tantalise my

porcelain skin, graze the sensitive skin upon

my neck, your gentle smoke wrapping around

my beating heart, beating for you,

for you,

for you.

Sea mist, my truest love, let me nestle deep

within the droplets of home, so I may hide

from the darkness that is life. Swathe me

in all that is sensual, let passion rise and

entwine, take me home,

dear glorious mist,

take me home.

Karen  Hayward ©2016

Image found on google search.


Davy Jones locker.



Each grain of sand a broken heart saved by Davy Jones to insulate his locker. The melancholic melody protected in the Seas of the fallen. Soldiers of the depths collecting pain as I collect the tiny shards of green glass beaten and worn down by pain until it is spat back ashore, smooth and frosted. I ponder as I search the tiny piece of glass, how much heart ache did it take before it reemerged as this tiny slice of beautiful perfection.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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Writing prompt, brick. Dystopian story excerpt.


Word prompt…brick

Excerpt from book of no working title 🙂

Frank looked around the poorly lit octagonal hall its walls covered in art that read like a history book of British dictatorship. A grand ornate chandelier hung redundantly from the ceiling emitting a dull light that attempted to penetrate the deep layers of dust that had settled upon it.

So, The Houses of Parliament. Ive always wondered what this place looked like on the inside. Poppy said.

We have not called it that in a long time.

Frank turned toward the voice. June Whitbread stayed hidden in the shadows for a moment longer. Four soldiers stepped into the light.

No? So what do you call it then? Poppy said looking directly into shadow from which the soldiers had appeared.

Please, we just want refuge.’ Frank said.

Home dear…

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Insomniac nightmares.


Your presence haunts me from the darkness, taunting me within the shadows calling out to me as I slumber. Forcing me through the red mist into a realm of violent discord. And the rains fall and the acid burns and the children scream of tortured pain. Heart beats ebbing toward a distant light as innocence is lost in a roar of abandoned fear. I feel your essence between the darkness and the light, teetering on the edge of purgatory, the devil’s soldiers march on as the bairns sleep peacefully, their dreams the realism of a black hearted world. I can sense your torture upon my soul and scream into the vast abyss, but I am merely a flicker of pain and the vastness does not reply but to send me the devil as he crawls across he co tours if naked spirit.
Karen Hayward @ 2016

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