Spring Seemed the Day When Love Came to Play

(By Michael J.Garland and Karen Hayward)
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My muse, my love,
I give to you the very soul
of my ink and the lifeblood
of my page.
Recto, verso…this blank canvas
is yours,
is mine,
is ours. Let us spill raw beauty upon the
cascading new horizons that befall us.

Our canvas splashed
with a riot of color.
We have a love to weather the hours.
A deepening beautiful,
Fated begins.
My love,
your love,
our love,
sit with me close ,
make love with our pens.
A lifetime of mornings to start it again,
is yours,
is mine,
is ours.
Spring seemed the day when love came to play.

Michael J. Garland ©2017
Karen Hayward ©2017
Michael J.Garland ©2017 Image.

Entirety.

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I’ll place you upon my page momentarily,

for the world to see us in our entirety.

 

I wont need beautiful words to recreate our fire,

or a vocabulary precariously  laced in desire.

There is no perfect rhyme or beat or flow

that can recreate this unceasing glow.

Imagery will only describe the contours of our love,

metaphors will compare it only, mundanely, to other stuff.

Poets of the past whisper of its nature in the blank spaces

of the pages where their own thoughts were  once traced.

I’ll place you on my page momentarily,

so we can see ourselves, entirely.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

 

 

I am the blank canvas.

 

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I never said you could take my page,

dampen down my internal rage.

I never asked for this haunting silence

a metaphorical pain that’s worse than violence.

I never said you could have my words

or make my page a fucked up blur.

I never asked for your opinion

so I tell you now you have no dominion.

Drop a silent atom bomb upon my soul

and gather up the thoughts you think you stole.

Steal away the edges of my sanity

and try your hardest to install some vanity.

Pull at the essence of my being

and blind me from feeling what i’m seeing.

Sink me into the abyss of darkness

beneath an emerald sky so starless.

Try your hardest.

Know what it is to fail as I rise again from the ashes

a seasoned traveler I’ve mastered the crashes.

I am not your blank canvas

a tired mind empty and planless.

I am the thoughts that spill to my page

that slip between the bars of the iron cage.

I am the essence of touch in the darkness of night

devouring with passion my every sight.

So go ahead do your best,

create the silence that I detest.

Erase the markings leave only the spaces

where actually you’ll find crimson red laces.

I am more than the words, the thoughts or the gestures,

I am the blank canvas just waiting for treasure.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016