Month: September 2017

The ultimate handbag checklist. 

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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

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Till the ink becomes blood.

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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.

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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