If the chaos theory were a caterpillar.

If for twenty four hours

you acquired a direct link

to your soul, would you

still be you when the clock

struck twelve?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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©.

Coke and wine.

I hear the wine flowing and the glasses chink

as you miss the table and hit the sink.

Mother and daughter addictions together

thrown in the garden whatever the weather.

You talk above the same old songs, and I wonder

if you know that your behavouir is wrong

or that there’s a rat in your kitchen running a mock

it’s a matter of time, tick fucking tock.

As predictable as the sun that moves the dial

smeared face and blood shot eyes is your style.

Mother dearest your spirit is broke

I saw this in your face the moment we spoke.

Fuck this and fuck that ‘cos the world is so screwed

but you never consider that the problem starts with you.

Ten green bottles sitting on the wall

every single night I hear them fall.

A knock at the door and the bed springs go

Daughter dearest, do you think we don’t know?

You sing as it moves to cover the sound

to hide the white powder, another round?

Your a tight knit unit all full of love

broken souls that are fucked up and stuff.

Excited greetings and laughing galore

filling the glasses who wants more?

Voices go up voices go down

I can actually hear when you’re wearing your frown.

The music begins and everyone sings

till the spiteful tongue brings out its sting.

Tears are falling and the mask no longer fits

true colours shining none of you give a shit.

The lamp is broke, the glasses shattered

not that any that truly mattered.

You scream you push, so much pressure

you lose the very thing you pretend to treasure.

Flashing lights and a friendly face

an easy call for them to trace,

again today, again tomorrow

mother and daughter full of so much sorrow.

Scorpion’s cusp Sagittarian’s rise.

Neither the centaur nor Scorpius.

The mythological bridge with a tail

that stings.

Both wanderers searching for truth.

Feed her sting with secrets so dark

and you’ll fuel the archers love for life.

The Scorpian will regenerate to keep

control over her destiny whilst the Centuer

fights the hemmed in corner to regain

freedom. Either way she rises.

The King of Gods oversee’s her whilst

the King of War whispers in her ear and

the King of the Underworld takes her hand

and leads her into temptation. The Scorpius,

unafraid will walk away unscathed as the

Centaur chalk’s it up to exploration.

Let her breathe if you have been unfortunate

enough to cross her, or bow down and take

the angry words, for they will come as she

searches the deep waters of her captive emotions.

But beware the Centaur does not rise and lead

the way, the fire moves so quickly and those bows

can move so far.

She’ll flirt with you till passion bubbles motivated

by her desire to play. Remaining devoted

whilst the Centaur is mindful of her tongue.

Together they explore your mind. Between them

every dark corner of it.

Together they rarely leave without their chosen desire.

Scorpius will use her passion to manipulate your eyes

whilst the Archer sets up bow and the Centaur

captivates your mind.

Escape is futile, unless she changes her mind

which she is known to do.

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Only secrets need blocking from sight.

Lock down, when once I could see it all and now

I’m blocked from view. And I wonder what it is

you hide from me and why it is it needs to be hid.

Where once was one is now…how many? And words

reserved are now shared without the precious trust.

What’s felt can always be undone and curiosity will

always out smart and it is the turning of the key

not the shutting of the door that breaks the precious bond.