Month: August 2017

The depth of love your touch can bring.


Beneath a summer sky of deepened blue
with a rich sun I think of you.
Not the gentle breeze upon my skin
but the depths of lust your touch can bring.
Nor the subtle scent of purple beaded petals
No, just the way your honey voice settles.
As rays of heat warm my soul
I think of you and I feel whole.
White puffs of cloud drifting by
become your kisses on passions sigh.
Bees busy mining for their queen
whilst I struggle in earnest to keep my thoughts clean.
A penetrative stance in mornings intent
Wishes of desire divinely sent
As the summers day begins ascent
Your lust is the my only scent
embracing the curve of tender skin
As I dream of a life of luscious sin.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

Market scent. . .

Technicolor legs, plastic bags, the bustle of life,

some striped blue, some striped white.

Apple scent hung in the air, angry wasps,

greedily, hovering ready to fight.

Men shouted “Bananas,

come and get your bananas”

in that cocky London accent that felt like honey

being sung across a crowded room.

On sunny days voices echoed above laughter

And when rain fell, the clip clapping of shoes

Surpassed the clip clapping of tongues.

Burgers sizzled, onions frying

cheap vinegar sold as ketchup in

Manky souviettes. Culture? Perhaps.

In among the faces I see hints of my

of second home.

I learned here of a world beyond my own.

But never beyond my Dad,

lost in market scents

Wandering the rainbow hue of humanity,

reaching stars, grabbing at his hand…

Only it never was his hand….How one girl

Could get lost so any times among row

upon row of plastic covered stalls

Is beyond me…The beating of my heart

as the hand was not his,

not his large fingers holding me,

not his warmth not his touch…Somehow in those crowds

Among the legs too busy too stop,

The bustle of voice the bantered rhyme,

Angels, is all i ever found.

Karen Hayward ©2017