Selene, be my light within my dark

Selene, are you here
for the whispers
of my waning soul?
As I slept beneath
your pearlescent beads
did you shroud
me from sight?
If I sit now and stare
upon your face
in the infinite depth
of darkness,
will you kiss me,
caress me, leave a
sheen of your energy
flowing through me?
As I wane will
you catch me…

Splitting the atoms of thyme

Time spent swimming in thyme
blue oceans of salted seas
flickering flames of warmth
and silence, just soft silence.
Like an eruption of chaos
volcanic lava spilling,
You rise, she rises
Noise erupts
Tiny atoms split
Split again
Split again
and split again
my deamon shatters among
this dark trilogy
of thought as thyme
fades, as time disperses
to become empty thoughts
in worthless verses.

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When love tastes so good damn pure …

I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs.
Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

The cracked remnants of tomorrow’s dreams

Can it be that love exists ‘neath blue skies
between the forest green vines of ivy
or on ancient mists of a moonlit sea
I find a tomorrow deep in his eyes
the speckled remnants of new paths aligned
between the broken cracks of history
a presence preserved in serenity
my love dances with singing butterflies
on nights empty echo and fierce rhythms
Our Selene hears the whispers of my soul
Whilst I drown in pearlescent kisses
configuring broken algorithms
beneath these blue skies I am whole
wondering about loves existence.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words
First attempt at a *#Italianpetrarchansonnet*

My global map is only local

My radio lies,
it deceives me
radio waves
happily received
It sings me
lullabies of life
But it seems to share
a different
global map to me.

So empowering to
Innocent ears,
and in the whisper
of a background song,
the damage is done.

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The waters trickle, fall and weep.

Aside the listless waters of time
reflections fractured now stilled
in stagnant whispers of bleak void
an endless stream of magic borne
wars fought and promises sworn.

I see the contours of my soul on waters edge
Shimmering beneath the debris of existence
Illuminated by my darkest light
It reaches from out the depths of hell
to sooth the speckled witches spell.

But alas, I am neither elemental nor
celestial,
nor am I sister to Lilith or a soldier of the dammed
I am the waters curve, the rippled playground
as dragonflies dance upon my skin
stealing precious nectar for their King.

I am the reflection the mirrored voice
the distant echo of ancient blood
essence skimming on luna tides
the silent eyes suffocating in vivid blues,
drowning in the scent of knowing truths

I am the fractured, stagnated waters
curdled by minds descent
I am the Illuminated body of tides
empowered for my ascent
I am the lucid astral plane
the love of which you dreamt
I am the reflection, rippled in pain
I am the reflection, I am my pain.

Imageand words

Gone are the gentle days

Where once I heard the trickling
of liberation on summers evening
breeze as laughter danced between
the bubbles of sanity… Insanity.
Now I hear only a hollow glug
that creeps across my skin on
the knife edge of smashed shells
as you pour another and another
refilling your glass of despair.

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They’re Catholic, does it matter?

They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, him in cut of shorts, a baggy shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?

Will you still when I am aged

Will you. . . ?
When my skin wears the markings
of my days and the lines of my nights
etched upon my face in a constellation
of battles won and wars lost.
Will you…?
When my hair is peppered with storms
meant to crush and dances meant to
drown. Leaving a trail of suffocated
colour, speckled through my timeline.
Will you…?
When my essence is muted grey in a
room full of rainbows arching to
perfection as I stumble to stand but
manage only to fall… Will you?
Will I?
Yes, when life is tattooed across your skin
in the distant echoes of battles, knights and Kings,
Yes, when age holds you within its grasp,
hair disappearing rapidly fast.
Yes, when our minds are a riddle
of yesteryears, lost thoughts and a need to tiddle,
Yes, when presence is historical in fresh blooms
among young meat in crowded rooms…

And suddenly I understand the depth of ‘of course’
the reason behind loves universal laws
We are all of our good bits, all of our flaws,
And age is the key to a souls longing need,
together we’ll blossom, starting from seed.

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And when the children cried
the world silenced their
tears in the bitter kisses
of politics, embraced their
fear in the suffocating
Grasp of greed, nourished
their empty bellies
on yesteryear fears.
And when the children
cried the enemy soothed
their tears with the groomed
thoughts of revenge,
lined their innocence
with the intrinsic webbings
of hate, they took away
dolls and gave back guns.
We took away hope
and gave them darkness.
They sculpted the
darkness into worth
Worth that we had squashed
in the grand parliament
of riches
When the children cried
we wiped their tears
with disdain, branded
them so the enemy
could learn their names.

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