Category: memories

Never forgiven.

The rustling paper bag pulled me into reality, 

I imagined it was white and filled with sherbet pips 

or aniseed balls or 

strawberry bon bons the sweet flavoured powder coating your fingers.

I wondered where you had stashed them as the seconds continued to move.

The paper bag continued to rustle a constant noise that scraped along the inside of my soul. 

Hand in, hand out, hand in, hand out, hand in…

then I heard you wretch. 

Racing heart, a scream caught in my throat. 
We are in your living room. 

You are screaming at me. 

I didn’t even know that 

I knew your address. 

I didn’t know I could cry like this. 

You begged me. 

When he asked or maybe it was a she, 

it was on the tip of my tongue.

You begged me, 

all I could see was you, 

all I could hear was you, 

all I could feel was you

 and you begged me.

And the room filled with silence

the phone on my shoulder, 

I am thrown through the 

transition from child to adult. 

My heart broke and my soul 

was ripped from my body. 

An eternity passed, 

the drumming in my chest 

created a vortex of black time, 

sucking me in. 

You begged. 

I whispered, broken. 

Your tears turned to anguish. 

You were gone, stolen from me. 

Your begs turned to promises of hatred. 

I’ll never forgive you, 

you screamed as I begged. 

As I begged to know how many. 

How many had you taken. 

I begged tears choking in my chest, 

fires burning in my throat. 

Let me die, you said.  

No, I replied selfishly, 

I can’t, 

my most selfish act to date. 

I’ll never forgive you, you spat back at me. 

And you never did. 

And I never did.
Karen Hayward ©2016

To the…

cropped-the-naze-040.jpg

To the seconds, the minutes, the hours and days

to the lands and the seas thousands of miles away.

To the promises told, to the promises broken

to the distant reasons left unspoken.

To the rush of emotions new and aligned

to the fantasy frozen deep in the mind.

To the hollow dreams empty and void

to  the moments gone that were enjoyed.

To the fixed and the broken,

to the sleeping and woken.

To the ones that regret,

to the ones that forget.

To the strong and the weak

to the originals…

to the freaks.

To the silence and moments that have gone and passed

to the knowledge it ended way too fast.

To friends,

to the end.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Words and image)

 

Be the hint of a memory.

 

Be the,

hint of a kiss

on precious lips

that smile even

in the pouring rain.

 

Be the,

hint of a memory

in the sight of beauty

that shines even

in the pouring rain.

 

Be the,

scent of a night

filled with musk

and dying stars

in the pouring rain.

 

Be the,

sting of regret

in a captured thought

on a forgotten day

beneath the pouring rain.

 

Be the,

taste of a flutter

of a remembering heart

growing old in the days

in the pouring rain.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

The long forgotten Sundays.

What ever happened to my day of rest?
Sweet tea brought in bed
and marmalade toast,
on that day of which we made the most.
Whatever happened?
What happened to the sweet smell of polish and soaking wet rag,
Homework lined perfectly ready to bag?
Where did it go?
Little house on the prairie
as you gave me wisdom meant to be scary,
The Walton’s and that space show,
Sunday was the day when I had no place to go.
Bubbling pans, dripping glass
I wanted those days to forever last.
The tiny kitchen and cord brown stools,
I used to tip back acting the fool.
You told me this and that
None of it true all of it fact.
Time stood still as we chatted away,
whatever happened to my Sundays?
Dinner at 2 pm on the dot not a minute late
and never a thing on the plate for me to hate.
Chicken, pots, veg and gravy
then the afternoon for us to be lazy.
We walked by the sea with sand in our shoes
Rain, clouds or beneath a sky of blue.
I ran, I climbed, I skipped I walked
as we did, me and you talked.
What ever happened to my day of rest,
the day when we would reconnect?

Cidar chasers and bong in hand.

Do you remember? I was ninteen you were twenty one. UCAS letter in hand,
I had the world at my feet.
Dole check in your pocket,
you were already beat.

Lost souls we met in the dark,
Cidar chasers bong in hand
Sexual energy flowed between,
Whilst I called all the ones
You walked the miles
To meet me beneath the sun.

Escape for you was futile,
Your kin my kin,
Deprivation their everyday,
So when it came that I should leave,
together we packed for an adventure,
You see.

UCAS letter in the bin along side my forgotten dreams,
Mystery became secrets are darkness fell,
My body became flesh disconnected from spirit.
My beauty lost, I could see no light,
As you ripped apart my fragile belief,
and stole away my strength to fight.

I worked, you slept, I cleaned, you searched,
Eyes wide open identity broken,
you sat on that couch and he uttered the words,
and I never understood, but for the thrills,
Dysmorphic belief,
the soft tender eyes captured in stills.

But to wander and wonder and despair at the love,
the anger that reigned
the lies that fell true,
you begged and plead
and you told me a lie,
I asked that you be the thing that I need.

I see you sometimes, you came back to this place.
You live a life of pretance where i’m the mistake.
I wonder still if strength found you at all,
did you admit to yourself,
or did you let yourself fall?

Karen Hayward ©2016.

I never used to iron.

Ironing. For years I refused to be a slave to the mould of hot steaming iron. I refused to smooth away the crinkles, press creases and stand in the ultimate housewife position. Legs spread, board out, piles upon piles of  stylistic statements before me, all of them requiring attention, all of them requiring me to become the atypical label. A housewife, a wife a mother, a female, a girl a lady. We iron.

We stand for hours, up the board, down the board, bored, bored, bored.  You were in or you out. I was out. I was the black death of womanhood my views contagious, my opinion death like. So I ironed less and welcomed my self induced plague. 

I iron. I became the label that society imposed on me. Sickened by my acceptance I remove my bra in protest.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

Flowers in the attic where do you hide!

The feeling creeps in slowly.
Panic, as I flip through once, twice, three times. I search the normal places, beside  the bed, the couch, at the top of the stairs, by the window in the kitchen next to the heater, the window that shows me the sun as he wakes and the moon as she wakes. It’s not there and not even the sparkling stars in the clear skies can make me feel better. I search inside bags and tucked beneath the mattress, I pull out the bed and feel my heart sink, my eyes prickle and for a moment I question my sanity. What if. What if I didn’t own that book, what if I just borrowed it, that would certainly make sense and suddenly it feels like my world is crashing, I just want to read the book, now, I search some more determined to be sure that the book is at least not here. Emptiness envelopes around me, darkness falls upon my heart, I feel a great void where a story should be, not any story and certainly not a recall from the many times I have read it before, a void created through the lack of pages to turn, the lack of worn out paper in my hands. The emptiness has become me.

Karen Hayward 2015. ©