Month: February 2017

Celestial rains.

img_20170118_142636.jpg

Do you know that each fluttering beat of my heart

does so in a silent embrace to your soul,

traversing the oceans, riding currents upon waves

upon the gentle golden kisses of an eternal sun.

Each swarm of wings tickling through my soul

searches for your eyes in anticipation of your

knowing smile, each morning bird I hear singing

to the descending moon, serenading the ascending sun

is a melodic reminder of your honey curve voice

that thaws ice of old and lights the darkness long told.

Each droplet of rain, celestially born,

heavens tears cleansing…Gives clarity to my

thoughts and depth to my love of you.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

No pin upon my atlas.

img_20170202_095937.jpg

My map stands empty,

no pins to leave my footprints

across

the

globe

and the seven wonders.

I cannot boast of a thousand cultures

swimming first hand through my veins,

nor can my tongue speak of any language

other than the one given by my mother

as she enriched my palette with

poverty’s favorite dishes.

I’ve not seen a multitude of sunsets kissing

new horizons nor watched as the moon spills

pearlescent love across lakes, upon oceans, upon rivers…

Upon earth’s most glorious waterfalls.

I’ve never attended a grand ball,

or danced across a stately hall.

My memories are not decorated in cultures finest,

embossed in pearls encrusted in diamonds.

I am not cultured.

I was not taught the fundamentals of elocution,

I cannot call myself a lady.

My name is not a sought after rose fragranced in class

and watered with the travels of a Prada bag.

I guess I am poor…

and every morning I thank the gods for this blessing

and each evening

as I watch the same moon ascend the skies

I thank the heavens in my addressing.

I have no pins trotting across an atlas,

just the essence of my soul that walks with

each that has crossed my path.

I cannot speak in the tongue of others,

only the tongue of humanity. I am cultured only

in the depths of trust and loyalty, taught

only to give and never to take to smile in kindness

and never be fake. I’m better than no man,

and no worse then a Queen, taught to work

hard towards all that I dream. I will

give you my last, I will give you my first

whilst quenching my soul and its insatiable thirst.

I’ve no pins, no seven wonders, no silk or cashmere,

champagne is yet to cross my lips and still I’ve never

learned to twirl from my hips. I lack culture,

eyes empty and mind filled with the

common mans dream,

I’m better than no man, rich or poor,

and worse than no Queen on land or ashore.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

 

When good mornings fade into new horizons.

img_20170120_082918

One day our good mornings shall

become a distant moment of the past.

Birds will still sing a symphony

of life to the cloudless sky and

the sun will ascend anew into

emerald blues. The outside world will continue

without us, thoughts crossing oceans,

intent skimming moon beams

and desire burning on the edge of suns

descent.  Such a gulf will silently

implode and explode as a vortex

of everything becomes a meaningless

whisper void now of need….And we will

search for those all knowing eyes as a

storm roars through our veins, and we

will search among the rapid beating

of our hearts…But we’ll not look so far.

Tender lips, tongue tips between

coffee sips and ….dancing hips, we’ll bid

good morning with a loving kiss, in loves

finest tongue.  Kissing good morning

beneath a single ascending sun.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Karen Hayward  ©2017

Without shoes my soul flies.

SS850442 (2)

I promised…someone or something,

perhaps a relative,

my dad,

or my  Grandad lost in spirit.

I promised,

God or the devil,

or earth’s spirits maybe,

or it could even have been

the clouds as they skipped merrily

on by. I promised….Someone,

myself perhaps…

No matter my age;

no matter my dress,

my hair,

I would never truly leave behind

my inner child.

I would never forget the sky as I swung higher

and higher a swarm of fear

of excitement

of life

igniting throughout my soul screaming for release as my feet

push out as my knees pull under as the clouds become closer,

the sun warms my face….I promised…myself perhaps…

even grown up shoes are made to be slipped off so as to feel the earth between our toes.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Karen Hayward ©2017

Multiverse of possibilities.

Collaboration between myself and a very talented poet/writer/creator Blueflamez.

Check out more of his work on the link at the bottom! 🙂

img_20160729_133026.jpg

Forget the Ink, forget the page.. Let us entwine thoughts

and become the very essence of poetry. We’ll dedicate the

blank spaces between letters to the creation of our realities

based upon our fantasies. Quills together in shared unison,

a creative rush of chaotic lunacy…the building blocks of

moral sanity a pandemic thought spread throughout

humanity.Think about the concept, the art, those same

words embedded in your mind, the margin, the heading,

the facts you can piece together, and tear apart. The real

challenge is shaping up and breaking down the mental

blocks that can hold you back, only to channel that creative

spread that surrounds you, and unlock that potential.

Harness the power of a world within the world, the multiverse

of possibilities, choices, to see the mirror image of who

you were, to the person you’ve become. You are the pages,

you are your eternal life of spoken truths, and written fantasies,

your signature is your personality as your greatest work of all.

The letters of your existence a strong hold of knowing,

unknowing becoming and undoing. Call your name into

the cosmos, start with an inaudible whisper if you must,

there is no rush. Say it, shout it, call it from heavens bed

sign your essence across the skies of men.

Sign your soul across the minds of man.

Karen Hayward & poetryflamez ©2017

Image Karen Hayward ©2017

Find more of poetryflamez work here.

 

 

 

Soldier of ancient knowing.

mikewildyelginger1

My soul is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue barely filling

the crevices of histories voice echoing through the

lost caves of innocence.

Smashed China, pastel floral’s

lost in the vivid hues of self destruction…I wear my scars

with the whispered honor of shame, the rivets caused

by the dull blades have become storage boxes of rational

thought, irrationally taped together in tears that fall only as

darkness reigns…Even I must stay relatively sane.

And deep within this constellation of thoughts I search

the battle ground for your essence. Praying I will find you

safely jumping across the stepping stones of

my existence, but alas my horizon is clear and yet

I feel you so near. A soldier of love I find you

peeling back torn memories, embracing the deep

etches of self doubt and kissing away the deep echos of

darkness that shroud me from light. My honored Knight

taking arms against this lifelong fight.

My soul…

is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with your love and vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue and your gentle insistent

whispers of encouragement  filling the crevices of histories

voice echoing through the lost caves of my innocence.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Michael J.Garland. ©2017