Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

Stars Hidden By Storm Clouds.

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Light illuminated skies, clear crisp crackles of
plasma splitting atoms. My hand slipping into
yours. Fingers fumbling. Storms raging, rain
falling. My heart beating, a rapid
symphony of fear, of love, of fear, of love.
Silence. Your strong arms holding me near.
The infinite calm of your voice and the abandoned
trail of lust in your darkened eyes. A moments pause.
Chemistry in motion beneath dark skies with
stars hidden. . .

. . .behind storm clouds I can see
your silhouette because of those clear,
crisp crackles
of energy.
There’s not a cloud too stormy to keep
me from reaching for you. Your rain soaked dress
as it clings to your stars and galaxies . . .I pilot vessel through your
Milky Way.
As it clings it provides me with enough mental stimulation
to write sonnet after sonnet.
Sonnets of lust
of intrigue.
Consummation ensues.

My spirit sings at a star filled shore
and by your side I know, darkened
skies are no more.

Words & image(c) 5-2017
Karen Hayward/Locthiese

You can check out more work by the extremely multi talented Loc Thiese here

IMG_20160105_105805 (2)

We’ll meet again in an Arcadian dream…

 

pan

We’ll meet again in an Arcadian dream…
one man’s…is another’s nightmare.
Oh Lord give me not this phantasm
spectacle, high on Poppy seed euphoria
where fear is life itself. Utopia becomes
annihilated by my existence where
I dare no motion beyond that of breathing,
stranded within a non-tactile cage,
suffocating within my own
anosmia…bucolic?
No, to a soul such as mine
beauty is found in the falling droplets of rain
on the far edge of thunderous
clouds, among wild flowers and ruling weeds. I
long not for Virgil’s divinity but for the homelands
of Pan and his impromptu essence worn by the
nymphs that walk at his side.
My horizon is cursed were it blessed
by a white Knight drawing to stand by me,
for is knowledge not wisdom?
Was it not always known?
Arcadia, home land to Pan, rustic beauty and wild music,
where the Dark Knight shares my throne.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found on pinterest

 

 

 

Te amo.

*word of the day…Te amo…I love you.

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Te amo? Why of course, cursed presence the
distant echo of discord, fight or flight
to the corner I was forced. I pondered
broken thoughts disillusioned I fell hoarse.
Te amo? Utter disgrace, speak English.
Respectively you ask, my quaint anger
your passion fueled voice, assurances
that roots spoken, true essence…Te amo,
my love, calm waters among ebbing tides
Te amo? chaotic swirl, tragic tales
Shakespeare’s quill, ink dipped the heroine
in storms of fractured love and life’s repose,
Te amo? Such depth of understanding,
hindsight, patient echos, those stormy days.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Aleppo…is it wrong that I sometimes despise humanity?

 

Is it wrong that I often despise humanity?
The falsity of manipulation painted on faces
drenched in chemical fragrance to numb the
fresh stench of faeces. Everyone scrambling
for the pearly gates, lists in arse pocket detailing
the souls they used as stepping stones to reach
utopia within their poisoned minds.The false
echo of television, propaganda spoon fed to
the masses. Is it wrong that some days I despise
humanity? Hate speech wrapped in a silk bow
and sealed with a kiss of death, as children starve
for our fears. As children die for our silence…
worse still, as children survive for our ignorance
such sadness they must know.
Blind rationality, fools leading
the fools where is the compassion in my fellow
human? All out? Upon land upon oceans upon pixels…
not our problem. Not our problem. Not our problem.
Since when did human lives become…not, our, problems.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Photo prompt Photo credit Maricris Cabrera

https://plus.google.com/communities/111588592239991810437/stream/7b337499-5c20-4cff-b0bd-2de90739ee0c

Among the soft silence.

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Can I live here? My aged soul

yearns for the quietude

of nature. Winds as they

whistle through reeds

as they move in

perfect fluidity,

ripples gently

dancing across water.

The soft hum of a Bee

the delicate echo of blue

skies, warm glow of summers

sun as he lavishes me in love.

Tell me dear, can we live here? Will

you give to me such beauty, such silence

will you grace my heart with a poetic life and

birds that chirp my song, flowers that bloom to my heart

tell me dearest, let us live in natures quietude,

can this be our path? Where waters flow,

ebb and stagnate and my druid soul

creates, in ancient callings

and darkness’s light,

tell me least,

we might.

Karen Hayward ©2016

(Image and words)

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.