Category: spirituality

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.

Druid oracle, whispers of a past.

(Druid animal oracle reading in poetry form)

(Motive behind a situation or event)

Behind every reason lays motive whispering in the moonlight,

dancing on speckles of sunlight caressing the earths breeze.

Eala brings the beauty of souls of love, of great depth. In the

pureness of white feathers the swan, in her earthly beauty

brings divine love that can traverse to the Otherworld. She,

the cloak of the bards of the past, the whispered promise of

love divine brings blessings to the poet.

 

(effect, emotionally, socially, relationship level)

Perfected patience and the world becomes a restful

place of great beauty, the book of nature becomes

our life and we become one with the universe.

Our intuition grows, we grow and finally we are open

to becoming one. Corr whispers a chorus of patience,

perseverance focus and concentration as he walks you

through the inner realm.

 

(Effects in the tangible world)

Damh parades with such grace and majesty,

his protection a lulling calm, his strength the gaining

of independence. He comes to give freedom to a past

that haunts. With blessings of new beginings,

what means everything to him and so little

to her will become an act of dignity, an act of wholeness

draped in grace and power. A first, it is to be an act of love.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

Eala = Swan.

Corr = crane.

Damh = Stag.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Narcicist .

I recently had the pleasure of sharing private messages with a narcissist. By pleasure I mean soul destroying energy draining horror. I wouldn’t normally choose to communicate with such a person but in this case my eye was off the ball and before I knew it he was under my skin. I blocked him. Yet his presence has continued to annoy me. The fault lays entirely with me my intuition screamed at me that there was something wrong about this person, but this clashed with my beliefs that we shouldn’t judge a person on first impressions….what the fucking hell was I thinking!  I communicated with him for just under a week and in that time he shared anger, gas lighting, manipulation, obsessiveness, a desire for power and control as well as an ability to wield that power and control. All of these emotions convert to energy as an empath I pick up on that frequency of energy….the problem with this is that most other people can’t , so his public posts just appeared to them as harmless, quirky as us writers are, but harmless. Of course in his pm’s he was able to explore my vulnerabilities with more vigour, but it was also there in his public posts and replies. I should have been able to shake him off but the reality is his clear disrespect toward me has highlighted my vulnerabilities and taken me into a place of questioning. Amazing how quickly a narcissist can get in and fuck with your head. In short he disrespected me as a female writer, us females are already fighting enough stereotypical crap as it is we don’t need individuals to play along too. He did this in a number of ways, covertly communicating in such a way that he expected me to not notice. I did notice. The vulnerabilities he highlighted have been dominating my mind and pushing me into a corner to clearly stand up and define who it is I am as both a person and a writer. I guess in a way the situation has made me question whether he didn’t take me seriously as a writer, because up until this point I haven’t taken myself seriously as a writer.

Over the next few weeks I plan to explore the different ways in which this person was able to disrespect me as a writer. I could of course sweep it under the rug, shrug it off and pretend it never happened, but why the fuck should I, my writing style pushes the boundaries and I often explore topics that allows society to stereotypically label me. This is the problem.. I am who I am, I am not the words on page I am the spaces between them and for that alone I deserve respect.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Incandescent love of rain.

I dash into the overgrown garden

to grab in drying washing as drops of

rain pebble across the pink fleece.

For a moment I pause and let the

coldness fall onto my face, eyes searching

the skies as this instinctual pleasure rises

in me. I must decide. The dry washing

or a moment spent in utter abandonment.

My soul wins again.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

When I cannot be found.

When my voice is but a whisper,

when my days are very long.

When I retreat into my place

when I’m not feeling very strong.

When you look and cannot find.

When the page is looking bare

when you question if I care…

please know that I am there.

I’m looking in the shadows

for a moment spent alone.

I’m searching for the silence

in which I hope to own.

I’m staying out of sight

to watch the world go by

whilst I lay upon the floor

and watch a dying sky.

 

Karen Hayward © 2016

 

 

 

 

Deceit of a poet.

Emerald skies of burning blue as white tufts of wisdom float past on the rays of a flaming sun. Inspiration woke me before my eyelids fluttered and this mattered not for my eyes have not seen, truly seen since the last time my soul screamed from the other side to look. Ownership is the materialistic economy of a rich mans world and I am poor in possessions and rich in ownership. Floating particles of death shimmering in the morning light, freely rising, freely falling unaware of any fear. Words caught on the tip of my tongue that beg and beg to be spoken and if destiny is true if our map is drawn out in blotted ink before our soul even contemplates this life, then why fear unsaid words? If all of life’s fine events happen for a reason then I am free to utter thoughts of fantasy and reality and own my day. I am free to own these intrinsic words I splatter across the page that I pull from the empty wardrobe of lost hope covered in webs and crawling with spiders. Hearts break on the beating of the roach’s wings and shattered dreams are scuttled onto a breeze of dark shores. A poets self deceit cuts deeper than any mans lies. The creation of a story based upon a false prophecy stretched beyond the realms of reality searching for the nicks, nooks, crannies something to hold, to grab to elevate the soul toward the summit. The glorious summit, and I wonder why it is that I fight this need for the summit. A thousand definitions can be formed from the utterance of thoughts based upon chemicals. A million different ways to be and I have never been A typical. Blue is red, red is green and all the colours need to be seen and my heart beats. My heart beats and beats my stomach flutters as a swarm of bee’s buzz through my soul and I am okay with this. I do not fear living. Personal autonomy and the thought tank of morality hand in hand coding for that predestined reality. Free me. Put a label on this box and clarify the meaning of interactions. Thoughts, a maze of indifference in a storm of magma a molten mass of dissected words, cut and pasted letters, broken images from a a black and white stills devoid of colours that will one day become igneous. Rocks of life. Beaten down beneath the feet a thousand life soldiers, ground into the dust of oblivion and lost deep in the outer realms of space among the dying lights. But some, some have the power to become, to be the flattened stones skimmed across an ebbing tide, to be the crystals held close to our hearts, to be the stone we never throw and never look at that attracts dust the way it attracted you, in multitude in broken thoughts and fears of unknown origins.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016