Category: thoughts

Poetic glitch.

The perfect arrangement of the alphabet,
the algorithm of communications.
A repetitive pattern that forms words,
any, all. We have full access.
The algorithm of life,
stories created and lived breathed in each morning and sighed out each night as we sleep.
Some stories are ours to tell,
to share,
to believe in as each word is formed.
Some are not. Some cannot be spoken.
Some must remain silent, whispers in our mind.
The glitch in every system.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Heavy and bleak.

Some days feel so heavy and bleak,

A scented haze for the muddled and weak.

 

But what if tomorrow is all that I seek?

But, what if tomorrow is just another day in the week.

 

What if tomorrow I wake up and can fly?!

Or perhaps I will sit and watch stars shoot by.

 

But what if it rains from the skies up above?

What if it cleanses the hurt and leaves me just love.

 

But if tomorrow I fall, I trip or I lose?

But what if tomorrow just simply soothes?

 

Some days are heavy and bleak,

but tomorrow may hold all that you seek.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

333

The universe is all up in my face,
Repetitive numbers all over the place.
Orange skies where pinks once lay,
Songs whispering the words I need to say.
Opening doors and closing windows,
Poems to read with perfect flow.
They’re in my dreams the calmness I feel,
As I wake and realise it isn’t real,
But that warmth lingers on my skin,
A hinted touch of what life can bring.
They do not guide me they intervene,
Which by the way is a little mean.
Places I have to be,
Sights I need to see.
Hidden treasures to divert my attention,
I’m moving now with apprehension.
The universe is all up in my face,
Whispering that it’ll be okay.

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. ©

Futile resistance.

The conservation of energy so that I may survive,
a colony of destruction no shadows in which to hide.
Darkness fell and flames flared,
the corruption of memories never truly shared.
Oblivion denied frolicking with hate,
an illusion of pretence to celebrate.
Automated response clicked into place,
I wonder if I can wander without leaving a trace.
Silence erupts from the neck of brown glass,
repetition the new pattern learnt from the past.
I’ll sit for a moment take heed of the day,
before resting my body in the bed where I lay.
I’ll look to the window where the moon does glow,
I’ll ask her to help me so that I may grow.
I’ll speak with the angels and beg them for strength,
Metatron will show me in my dreams at great length.
I’ll listen to the silence as it screams into life,
Piercing reality like a sharpened knife.
No words I will say and you know this is true,
You’ve trampled my dreams
and I have nothing new.

Karen Hayward 2015©.