Category: angels

A constellation of symbolism written across the skies.

img_20160223_141802.jpg

Your essence holds
a constellation
Of love, the intricate
pathways of
existence, your
desire is a star
lighting my skies…
Your presence,
well, that’s just
coveted in symbolism,
The Angels whisper.
Loudly, to make me Hear.

Karen Hayward (c)2017
Image and words

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Without the Rainbow Pieces.

Photo courtesy of Walter E. Gantt. ©2016

‘Pieces of a Rainbow.’

waltergannt

I feel a vast emptiness inside of me,

spreading through the black storm

clouds, I search for my Rainbow and

I recall you gave it away.

And I search  for my love

and I remember you gave it away.

And I wonder where is my passion

and I recall you gave up that too.

And I ponder the way we once connected,

perfectly synchronized

and I don’t even try as you gave that away…

And now I wonder what is left…

A future?

A future without love

without passion

without soul

…is a slow and torturous death.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Image used with permission ©Walter E. Gantt. 2016

Please see more of his amazing photography here on g+

His wonderful photography can also be

viewed and brought here at Fine Art America.

Gabriel, sit with me.

Picture prompt can be found here

Gabriel,

sit with me and listen

to the constant flow of

gentle water. Let it trickle

through

my

soul

cleansing my spirit

in anticipation for my future.

Let it lubricate my mind

opening a portal of perfect

creative communications.

Gabriel, sit with me

let me feel the essence

of your presence in my heart.
Raphael, come to me as I sit

in perfect solitude within the

Aura of your love. Tell me

the hidden wisdom of depth,

pull strands of memory from

my head, broken, unhealed and

raw, sooth them so they are no more.

And as the water trickles deep into

the perfect pool, let your love

spread within my heart.
Metatron, sit briefly

with me in this perfect tranquility.

Share with me your wisdom

and I will share my life.

Not a worthy trade perhaps,

so let us just pause beneath the

shade as your being gives

me the strength of seeing

within in this battleground

of reality.

 

Sit with me here my angels,

hear my pleas.

Heal my soul.

Wintin my scared space of serene

perfection, celestial  atoms

charging the translucent water,

every droplet pure, divine.

Sit with me here my angels,

hear my pleas.

Heal my soul.
Karen Hayward ©2016

A strangers deja vu.

You resemble a 3d image straight of the cover of the new look catalogue.
Killer boots elevating your ego,
that symbolic clinking across the tiles with an air of ownership two steps behind the tail of your coat trailing the dream.
Your blank stare searches the shop for someone, you need someone, anyone, to scream your name in a show of merciless identity.
No one does.
So you follow the dull looking guy beside you.
You’re together, but separate.
You’re a looker, so very pretty.
The camel coloured coat that skims your shins and is tied only by a belt belongs to a lady, perhaps a couple of sizes larger than yourself too.
The clinking heels tell me you are short, still growing.
The makeup a daring act.
He enters the shop as you hover outside, no bag on your arm, no possessions of adulthood.
You are a kid, 13 maybe trying out the adult world for size, you are drowning in the symbolic clothing.
He hands you your smokes.
The token reward, you follow him home.
I am living a strangers deja vu, I pray that arch angel Michael still resides in those dank rooms of despair as you tread the concrete path, left, pass the urine stained phone boxes and left again.
I wonder if Bernie ever died and who watches over the broken now.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Blood tinged forgotten fun with the glorious Beezlebub.

Spare me the history making class.

This is history in the palms of my hand.

Writing itself in the blood of my sins,

smeared across the empty page.

There’s no reason for the rose hue tint,

let’s not glorify the facts.

Let us speak with a double edged sharpness,

free ourselves from the grappling hands of a fucked up society.

Stop listening to the screams of the fallen.

Let them become the echoed stepping stone of reality.

Their sweat dirtied with the mud of indecision and regret.

Guilt etched into every breath they take.

The stench rising from their mangled bodies.

Breathe in death,

let the those floaters become you,

swimming in your lungs as your heart pumps.

Death, life, death, life.

The constant beating of fear.

Close your eyes feel that darkness.

Know in your soul that Satan too is an angel of God,

carrying out the work of him almighty.

So I sin in the name of the Devil

as he drags me down into the depths of hell

glaring deep into my soul,

he searches but cannot find,

for I am broken, but I am found.

The only blood upon my skin is self made luminous sin,

tainted in the beholders eye .

Let’s not dirty with the sweat and tears of a foxes tongue

the beauty of our blood tinged forgotten fun.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

Deceit of a poet.

Emerald skies of burning blue as white tufts of wisdom float past on the rays of a flaming sun. Inspiration woke me before my eyelids fluttered and this mattered not for my eyes have not seen, truly seen since the last time my soul screamed from the other side to look. Ownership is the materialistic economy of a rich mans world and I am poor in possessions and rich in ownership. Floating particles of death shimmering in the morning light, freely rising, freely falling unaware of any fear. Words caught on the tip of my tongue that beg and beg to be spoken and if destiny is true if our map is drawn out in blotted ink before our soul even contemplates this life, then why fear unsaid words? If all of life’s fine events happen for a reason then I am free to utter thoughts of fantasy and reality and own my day. I am free to own these intrinsic words I splatter across the page that I pull from the empty wardrobe of lost hope covered in webs and crawling with spiders. Hearts break on the beating of the roach’s wings and shattered dreams are scuttled onto a breeze of dark shores. A poets self deceit cuts deeper than any mans lies. The creation of a story based upon a false prophecy stretched beyond the realms of reality searching for the nicks, nooks, crannies something to hold, to grab to elevate the soul toward the summit. The glorious summit, and I wonder why it is that I fight this need for the summit. A thousand definitions can be formed from the utterance of thoughts based upon chemicals. A million different ways to be and I have never been A typical. Blue is red, red is green and all the colours need to be seen and my heart beats. My heart beats and beats my stomach flutters as a swarm of bee’s buzz through my soul and I am okay with this. I do not fear living. Personal autonomy and the thought tank of morality hand in hand coding for that predestined reality. Free me. Put a label on this box and clarify the meaning of interactions. Thoughts, a maze of indifference in a storm of magma a molten mass of dissected words, cut and pasted letters, broken images from a a black and white stills devoid of colours that will one day become igneous. Rocks of life. Beaten down beneath the feet a thousand life soldiers, ground into the dust of oblivion and lost deep in the outer realms of space among the dying lights. But some, some have the power to become, to be the flattened stones skimmed across an ebbing tide, to be the crystals held close to our hearts, to be the stone we never throw and never look at that attracts dust the way it attracted you, in multitude in broken thoughts and fears of unknown origins.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

juxtaposed feelings.

Coldness has crept beneath my skin
sleep has gone and been
again as darkness swarms the night
as spectres steal the light.
And as I lay beneath the all seeing artexed dream catcher ceiling.
I ask silently for stolen shreds,
For silken threads,
For stories once read.
Whispered tales of classic lines
for a single moment in time.
A single moment outside of my mind
in surrealist movement a juxtaposed realisation of words into images. The creation of a picture book, flip pages with worn out edges. A page as safe as any other page where my thoughts can lay bare to the naked truth of self, rather than hidden on an old and dusty shelf.

Karen Hayward ©2016