Celestial tears cascading from the stars.

celstialtears

At last count I had at the very least,

A gazillion flaws. All of them beautifully

wrapped in red lace with purple silk

bows. I wear passion on my sleeve and

love on the soft whispers of an evening breeze.

I talk before my mind forms words the blind

leading the blind I see the horizon before

the setting sun. The atom splits in half

on the command of my voice as eruptions

tear through, I am the calm, I am the

Storm., I am the rain, celestial tears

cascading from the stars above.

Karen Hayward ©2017

 

Vulnerability of darkness.

As I wake in the dead of night,
Illimination my only light,
I see the sights from which I fight,
I am weakened by the deadly night.

As I sit in silent reflection
spectres evaluate their vulnerable selection,
I know my light will be my detection,
I am weakened by the gentle reflection.

As I puzzles how shadows move,
On a cloudy morn with no moon to sooth,
I wonder what the devil takes and what I lose,
As I puzzle over how shadows move.

As I sit in mornings glory
Life, another persons broken story,
I winder if darkness is always so gory,
As I wonder in mornings glory.

Karen Haywarf ©2016.

Curiosities of a mud filled sky.

image

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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 ©

More than a switch.

I like it when passion over runs.

When fingers fumble at fabric

and kisses are magnetically pulled

to the skin. When eye’s meet in a

knowing glance and nakedness

is purely chance. I like to feel the

need in your words to see the desire

in your body. I like to feel the wanting

against my skin

as we go

exploring in.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

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. ©

The wee mountains forever as I cook.

Memories.

The whole flat smelt
of aged tannin and
a low whistle could
be heard at all times.
‘Tea?’
There was always time for tea, sarnies too.
You might call her a feeder, she wasn’t but some might call her that.
Food was a sign of respect, you went anywhere they offered you sweet tea
and food. I used a cooker
for the first time there
in that kitchen with
windows that looked
down the hill past the subways and out toward mountains, my Gran always laughed and said ‘Just a coupla wee hills.’ They were mountains to my young
eyes. She spoke constantly
in her rich Irish roots peppered with her Scottish life, if I concentrated hard enough my English mind understood
some of what she said.
Her voice was soft,
a whisper a beautiful
melody, she spoke as I grated potatoes, carrots and onion, her smile told me I was doing good. ‘Eggs, Gran and flour and water too.’ I was reading thr recipe from my mind and hoping I had remembered everything, we had cooked them a few weeks before in school.
She wears a house coat,
she has many, a blue one,
a pink one a brown one,
every morning she slips it over her clothes, I have never seen her clothes, I can only presume she wears them. She told me once, ‘wash your smalls in the sink every
night. That way you’ve always got clean.’ I asked what if you needed them…’she laughed ‘Go with out.’
A frying pan black as death and thick with grease
sizzles at my side.
‘Listen child.’
My Mum also says this phrase.
‘When you cook, you cook. Stay sharp keep thoughts out’
I didn’t listen, I burn most of what I cook because my thoughts make me
wander.  We sat at
the table, the small
window behind me
and the radiator to
my left, I feel warm
and safe. I don’t
recall what the
food tasted like,
just her smile as she devoured the plate.

Karen Hayward ©2015.