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.

Curiosities of a mud filled sky.



Cold, wet earth.
Grey clouds and droplets of rain.
Daffodils already through, garden readying anew.  Transformation begins. Vibrational reflections felt, heard and required.
Even in winter, I come here when tired.
Damp dirt to awaken my spirit.
Life’s cycle, clearance nearing completion.
Spring will bring new hope.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

If I keep moving I can avoid detection, walk unseen on the streets of distraction.
I can run through alleys of fear in darkness, not looking where I am going.
I can avoid eye contact, no one need see my broken spirit.
If I keep moving, impulsively I can heal, band aids of despair I no longer care.
If I keep moving you can’t see me and I can’t see what it is to be me.
If I keep moving at speed and refuse to take heed, I can transform, I can become the mask, a sanctury at last.
If I can keep moving, I can forget, I can fight, I can survive my darkest nights I can endure the sharpened knife in this loveless war.
But this coldness isn’t me and if I keep moving i’ll forget the reason to be.
If I stop moving your light penetrates my dark.
If I stop moving the universe directs my way.
If I keep moving I can outrun the future and create my own, if I keep moving I can sit in peace upon my icey throne.
If I keep moving I can live in the whispered shadows created by fragmants of the moons glow..but oh what a glow.
If I stop moving I feel your light penetrate my dark.
I feel whispers of you on my skin.
I feel you in the calmness that follows our storm, a questioning battle of what I believe to be norm.
The body is purely flesh and bone, flesh and bone, whispered thoughts whislt I am stuck unfucnctionable in that zone.
If I keep moving I have no reason to feel and I can pretend that none of it’s real.
If I stop moving you penetrate my dark.

Karen Hayward 2016 ©