When love tastes so good damn pure …

I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs.
Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

Will you still when I am aged

Will you. . . ?
When my skin wears the markings
of my days and the lines of my nights
etched upon my face in a constellation
of battles won and wars lost.
Will you…?
When my hair is peppered with storms
meant to crush and dances meant to
drown. Leaving a trail of suffocated
colour, speckled through my timeline.
Will you…?
When my essence is muted grey in a
room full of rainbows arching to
perfection as I stumble to stand but
manage only to fall… Will you?
Will I?
Yes, when life is tattooed across your skin
in the distant echoes of battles, knights and Kings,
Yes, when age holds you within its grasp,
hair disappearing rapidly fast.
Yes, when our minds are a riddle
of yesteryears, lost thoughts and a need to tiddle,
Yes, when presence is historical in fresh blooms
among young meat in crowded rooms…

And suddenly I understand the depth of ‘of course’
the reason behind loves universal laws
We are all of our good bits, all of our flaws,
And age is the key to a souls longing need,
together we’ll blossom, starting from seed.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via wordpress

Too old to dance too young too die.

Too old to dance
too young to die
caught within a
glass vase of timeless
love, the body has
aged but the mind
remains spinning
at the tea dances
of yesteryear.
Passion dances in
the front seat of an
ancient car, kisses of lust,
desire. Her lips speak
of Dionysis his
tongue Aphrodite
and their wrinkled
skin tells of a lifetime
of need consumed
through the presence
of touch.

Karen Hayward ©2017

The seaside lad I knew.

Whispering like a dormant field mouse,

but roaring like a fucking lion.

You loved from your soul and nothing less,

And happily fucked up and cleaned up the mess.

To be loved by you in any form

was protection, an absolute norm.

And I look at Tish,

and I know the wings you spread about her,

No one’s gonna get there,

not with you about her.

Fire in your spirit that burns throughout your skin,

A devil’s little angel always teetering on sin.

The girls they fell about your feet,

swooning, every time you meet.

You were fucking fit

And boy did you know it.

Yet to be your girl

was to be your world.

And now age has fell upon us creeping up the rear,

and murmurs of your name I do often hear.

You left us far behind, a memory of your past,

Your life began unfurling all so very fast.

Your whisper still is there, it hides beneath the roar,

and your name now opens up metaphorical doors.

You reached beyond the skies,

never scared to stop and try.

You walk another beat that drums to just a few,

you’re a nutter, braver still,

but always the seaside lad I knew.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Old man.

Old man I see you walk the broken road

as morning rays of sun delve into the

shadows to reach you. Look up. Look

up and see what the world is offering.

Old man I watch you as you hobble past

your coat pulled in tight, I see the pain

that festers in your bones, I feel the

shame that rots inside your soul.

Old man, you know that I do see,

the glimmer is in your eyes that avert

and search the mottled concrete.

Old man, blessed are you with the beauty

of grace, I wonder now who you were

in your younger years when your body

was your own, your soul is etched

upon your face, in the eyes that do not

look, in the steps that back away, in the

hesitation at the world.

Old man look up, see you are not alone.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016