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?

Karen Hayward ©2018

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.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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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.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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The seconds ascend depleted

The seconds ascend
across the broken
scent of bleach,
swept debris
And forgotten cutlery
wedged between
reality and
fantasy. Caged in
the realm of
fairytale, no
Bird sings here, no mice
no pumpkin carriage.
The fairies Godmother
has long vanished
into the ethereal
taking with her
the Ill fitting glass
slippers. And so it
is I sit here bare foot
as the seconds ascend.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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A carefully compiled list of quirks

I am a carefully compiled list of quirks
Please do not kiss me with vacant lips
I am a forgotten library of ancient works
Do not touch me with tender finger tips
I am a self made bookcase of insanity
Do not stain me with a silver tongue,
I am organised to my own conformity
Please, do not think I can be undone.
I am a catalogue of first editions
Please, do not think me second choice
I am all the eccentricities of my vision
So please, do not silence my only voice.
A lifetimes worth of precious works
I am a carefully compiled list of quirks

Karen Hayward © 2018
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