The ultimate handbag checklist. 


The ultimate handbag checklist.

Keys, door, shed, garage, car. . .
adult hood at 16, 18 and
again at 21.
Lipstick in various shades
of mood from scarlet lust,
to blushing pink and nude
swallow me whole.
A hair brush carrying
enough DNA to create
a genetic army
Two snapped hairbands
a rusted hair clip bend
as you will kirby grips
and a fraying I’m your
only choice hair tie.
Panty liners, towels and tampons…sporadically
but never when needed.
A mirror smeared in the
grime of reality
Pocket tissues harbouring
last seasons man flu
and the melted remnants
of throat lozenges.
Body spray, empty.
The perfume your great
aunt Margaret brought
back from the second hand
booty, full.
A Biro covered in thick,
slick black ink.
A lifetimes worth of good
luck pennies shrouded by
a paper chain of the who’s,
where’s and when’s.
A purse and the hope of the
queen herself blessing my
lonesome bag,
alas, a ‘mum’ keyring and
the tinny rattle of silver 5 pences.

The gentle innocence
of her ten year old
eyes sparkling as
she reaches for her hand bag. . .
Lego figures, check.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Till the ink becomes blood.


If I could. . .

I would spend all day writing
And all night reading
Ideas evolving
And concepts breeding.
I would watch every sun setting
and see it as a new day seeding.
True soul nourishment breathing
My psyche feeding.
Beneath moons we’d sit kissing
the violent rush of our hearts beating
My pencils scribbling
Ink of need my pens drawing.
With time true art would begin thawing
an explosion of thoughts all storing.
An implosion of life breeding,
Happiness evolving,
I would spend all day writing
And all night reading.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

The smoldering kiss of suppressed
thought, silent flames, burning
memories, (inse) ‘curities fueling
the empty hours that were once
seconds. The vile shadow of intent
for all thoughts have a root, all
words have cause and I feel for the
distant tug of space beyond
prostitution of the flesh. But alas,
some pages we rewrite in frenzied
passion and label it liberation,
erasing our markings with the
over chewed end of a HB pencil
till pages are torn and the canvas
becomes a hue of melancholy grey.

Karen Hayward ©2017

The chaotic tango through invisible self.


I leave a shard of myself in the shadows
A soft echo of spirit, she moves with care
unseen by all, she is delicacy, vulnerability
she is the binding Celtic knot. She is my net
when I fall, my enough my embrace my love.
I leave a shard of me in the shadows
where few think to glance as they tango
through me in a tantalised dance.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

When all the sorry’s of tomorrow are taken.


A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans laborious chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figmant of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say jezeebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mudblood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, futures generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

A touch of Dawn on your lips…


Your words wear a touch of dawn

in the evermore of their intent.

May I kiss them and taste the

essence of golden sunlight

upon your skin? Oh, to

be those warm rays that caress

awake your soul. May I kiss

them? Follow the trail of heat

as it climbs across your naked

form, as the dawn whispers

her lasting love to to the

moon on his descent. . .

You have a touch of dawn upon your lips,

may I kiss you?


Karen Hayward ©2017

Velvet heels.


Her toes embraced the
rubbed velvet interior
of her heels. Deep black
speckled with a glimpse
of the universe, A four inch
ascent to the heavens
she floated with an ancient
female elegance.
I glanced carelessly at the
way her delicious calf curved
delicately as the surrounding
air caressed her barely
tanned skin.
She didn’t need the heels
or the silver grey skirt that
hugged the curves of her
arse and little more,
and as she tripped
I’m sure even she regretted
her choices.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image found on pinterest