Between the
opposing vines
and strangling ivy,
under the
thorned blackberries
and
spite filled Holly
lays the
naked undercurrent
of my thoughts,
battling nurtures
insects and natures angels
And we are
what we create
in the devils flames,
branded souls
whimpering for the deed
they long forgot they
up and sold.
Once an angel
always a whore
Echoing in the broken
beads of thoughts
taught
on a death man’s wish
once brought.
Don’t you see the
shadows that suffocate
feeding from the sins
I’ve sort,
Yeah, once an angel
always a whore
pacing the sinners
catwalk shore
I am my flesh
do as you please
I am my gasps my moans
desire and lust.
I am nothing more.
Once an angel
always the whore.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Aside the listless waters edge

Aside the listless waters of time
reflections fractured now stilled
in stagnant whispers of bleak void
an endless stream of magic borne
wars fought and promises sworn.

I see the contours of my soul on waters edge
Shimmering beneath the debris of existence
Illuminated by my darkest light
It reaches from out the depths of hell
to sooth the speckled witches spell.

But alas, I am neither elemental nor
celestial,
nor am I sister to Lilith or a soldier of the dammed
I am the waters curve, the rippled playground
as dragonflies dance upon my skin
stealing precious nectar for their King.

I am the reflection the mirrored voice
the distant echo of ancient blood
essence skimming on luna tides
the silent eyes suffocating in vivid blues,
drowning in the scent of knowing truths

I am the fractured, stagnated waters
curdled by minds descent
I am the Illuminated body of tides
empowered for my ascent
I am the lucid astral plane
the love of which you dreamt
I am the reflection, rippled in pain
I am the reflection, owning my pain.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Speckle me in dandelion seeds and set me free…

She’d always known she was the Weed, the wild flower growing between the cracks in half shadows of doubt. Never had she wanted to be the rose, except perhaps its fragrance and its soft hues of summer promise. But, no, she was the daisy growing wildly between lush blades of green grass. She was the dandelion dispersing seeds of herself on the evening scent of burning wood and she was the white clover, although she’d never admit to the fourth, petal shaped leaf that she hid beneath her smile.
Yes, she was happily the weed, growing in adversity, weathering the storms and nourished on the remnants of life. Surviving between crackles of static in rigid rips of concrete and across picture perfect canvasses where the roses stood, lonely, untouched, their wilting petals decorating the floor with death, their scent dying, their pollen stolen from beneath the blush red velvet blanket of their existence.
No, she was the white petals of survival, the yellow flesh of stubbornness rooting her to a cause, she didn’t need admiration to grow
Wild flowers need no nurturing
they simply exist between the vines
of splaying ivy and fierce troops of nettles, speckles of colour weaved between the muted greens of a druid yesteryear all myths, ancient remedies and calls of luck, the wild stems of hope growing in the dark shadows of dying rose petals wilting without whispered promises of entitled worship…

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Heatwave Central

Does it make me a traitor to the cause
To say…
Are my words stained in ancient curse
If I declare…
Will I be banished to the outer realms
for my freedom to speak?
Am I a hypocrite?
I’ve spent my months, my weeks, my days
demanding it.
And now, I need a reprieve
a moments cooling
s seconds shade…

… Or rain.
Anything to cool the heat
this heatwave is bloody insane
staying cool is all in vain
Scorching Heat all through the day…

An ally to the cause I’m not,
This weather
Is just too
god damn hot.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Actually,
what I’d like,
Is to see them all.
Perhaps one day,
with sweet tea,
scones, strawberry
conserve and clotted
cream. Bare feet,
plush velvet cushions
and hours to spare…
Actually, what I’d like
is to see the way your eyes
flash with excitement
as you tell me their
stories and the way
your voice skips up
an octave as you recall
the days. And of course
we’d need to sit real
close, so I could see,
I’m thinking, my cheek
against your chest,
my hair spilling over
you and your arm
wrapped around
my shoulder…

… Clothes would
be entirely optional.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Ever a sky as blue…

Has there ever been a sky painted
so deep a blue as that day
I was sat upon the melting black tar
poking holes for the adults to despair at.
The sun, a ball of magnificent flames
branding his name into the pale skins
of the wild children out from dawn till dusk,
in the days when the street lights kept time
and text messages came in the form
of the smallest children pinging
between playspots through the
Abandoned streets of poverty.

A sky so dark it fiercely roared
so bright it encaptured imaginations
so angry it promised storms
yet no cloud in sight
just the gentle swish of a summers breeze
tickling through the cornfields
and the distant echo of solitude
as we melted into our surroundings,
languid and swollen with inactivity
as we collectively prayed for the rains,
in the form of pennies found for a new hose pipe
or paddling pool, water guns or balloons so we could hydrate our souls.

But I digress into the days canvas
was there ever a sky as blue as that day?
Empty streets scattered with the remains
of the lunchtime rush,
Abandoned, thud – less footballs
crying dolls in plastic buggies with empty bottles
and dry nappies dressed in woolen tights,
bonnets and dresses fiercely wrapped in knitted blankets
… And bikes left foolishly strewn across street corners.

A bike lays abandoned,
shroud in the rose Bush shade
where I retreat for a moments breath
I am five,
I am timid and shy
and yet to learn how to ride.
Was there ever a sky so blue
as that day
no one there to applaud or cheer
or push or balance me
no one there to celebrate my
coming of age.

… Just that roaring blue sky
So deep it embraced my
mind in tender kisses,
etching itself into the recesses
of memory, between the
spearmint mojos and daisy chains ready to be re-painted
in the drop of a moment…

Just me and the whistling heat shimmering
across my horizon dancing between
busy buzzing bees and fluttering delights
Just me and those burning handlebars
beneath soft tender fingers
just me and the scorching seat against bare legs
just me and peddles never known
Just me and that bike.

I forgot to breathe for a millisecond
of time,
as I lost myself in the bikes motion
beneath that roaring sky
So dark I wondered
who had gotten the heavens so angry
So dark I believed the end was imminent
So dark, my inner voice rose
drawn to it’s promises
of magnificent power…

… Has there ever been a sky
so blue, as that day…

Karen Hayward ©2018

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