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

I need the flutter of wings.



I lean back, close my eyes

let my body fall with the swing.

My stomach lurches as

a thousand butterfly wings

tickle my stomach as fear

swells with every drop.

This is living.

The fear that beats inside me,

the excitement that rushes

through my body into my fingers,

into my nervous giggle as

my world drops down and

then rises, high, high above

the clouds and I can look the

sun straight in his face.

And then I remember as that

excitement rushes through me

this is living.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Saturday Rituals.

When I was little, strawberry blonde curls and those pools of blue, I spent Saturday morning, snuggled in your bed watching David Frost with you.

Then I grew.

Next came a cuppa in bed, by now I’ve aged I’m ten instead. The little black and white screen, cartoons now snuggled at your feet, there in your bed I watched them with you.

Then I grew.

Hangovers came next before the legal age, but never did you show a bit of rage. Tea for me tea for her, and her and her. Cartoons gone, the morning news, I’d sit and watch just me and you.

Then I grew.

And Saturdays became a blur as I scurried round to be ready for work. Tea on the side and toast going pop. The morning sun and me and you.

Then I grew.

Wings to fly the nest, history they call the rest. Saturdays were truly gone, now they always felt so wrong. Another day for dinner and tea, just you and me, me and you.

Then I grew.

I grew and grew and grew some more. Travelled away to another shore. The miles betweens us to far for a simple knock at the door. I grew and grew and grew some more.

Saturday morning as the sun cracks the morning sky I boil the kettle grab a cup, dial your number and patiently wait. First comes the white noise silence as you slip on the hearing aid….’Hello. Hello. Hello…ahh gotcha, alrite love.’
For sixty precious minutes we put the world to rights as we sip on tea. We talk politics and religion and atrocities and life, sometimes you simply give me advise. My Saturdays are long gone, but the cycle repeats, every Saturday without fail as the day begins, loud speaker on…..

‘Hello my Princess.’
‘Hello, Gandad. Love you Gandad.’
‘Love you more.’
‘Love you to the moon Gandad.’
‘Love you to the moon and stars Princess.’
(Girlish giggling.)
‘Love you to the moon and stars and back and to the sun Gandad, and to infinity too.’

My Saturdays curled up watching David Frost are gone, but hearing this declarations of love, Saturday no longer feels so wrong.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Blind faith.


I want to know. The obsessive need consumes me.

I need to know the whys the hows and the vivid paths. To accept I must fully understand the intricate web of silk lanes.

There has to be a reason.

Everything has a reason.

Tell me the reason.

Let me obsess over the details and file away the
concrete evidence created
in my mind.

I can recreate reality and cover it in darkness.

Word games on a wooden board in the flaming pits of hell. Satan will play his hand and I will know. I will know the answers to the questions he has. I will not be outwitted by the horned man.

Turn right, turn left, walk ahead five steps, turn around touch the floor and there you’ll find destiny’s door.

So tell me.

Show me why there is pain in my soul, show me why I know emptiness. Don’t whisper it on the breeze where I cannot hear. Tell me.

Paths have to be walked, so show me mine.

Lessons have to be learned so give me the books.

The soul must grow, so show me how.
Tell me I am on the right path.

Grade my attempts with A* and big fat F’s in red marker.

Show me.

I cannot do this alone you must sign post this journey.

It’s not enough to believe in me.

I cannot hear what is not said.

I do not see the reason for the blue that sparkles through the grey cloud.

I do not understand why I feel the suns heat as he reaches his arms around me, warming me for a moment before my day begins.

Tell me.

Tell me I will find light.

Show me why I must survive the darkness.

Don’t tell me I must blindly trust in the journey.

For surely without sight I will fall, and then who will catch me?

Karen Hayward © 2016.