My global map is only local

My radio lies,
it deceives me
radio waves
happily received
It sings me
lullabies of life
But it seems to share
a different
global map to me.

So empowering to
Innocent ears,
and in the whisper
of a background song,
the damage is done.

Karen Hayward ©2017

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And when the children cried
the world silenced their
tears in the bitter kisses
of politics, embraced their
fear in the suffocating
Grasp of greed, nourished
their empty bellies
on yesteryear fears.
And when the children
cried the enemy soothed
their tears with the groomed
thoughts of revenge,
lined their innocence
with the intrinsic webbings
of hate, they took away
dolls and gave back guns.
We took away hope
and gave them darkness.
They sculpted the
darkness into worth
Worth that we had squashed
in the grand parliament
of riches
When the children cried
we wiped their tears
with disdain, branded
them so the enemy
could learn their names.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Chrysalis transformation of beauty.

The switch came with a level

of ease that only the broken know.

It had lay there dormant before your

eyes

you never saw and you never see.

I always wondered how the transformation

would occur,

and when,

and now,

now your eyes see an

entire world and no longer

they see me.

Did you ever see the chrysalis?

It was always your creation,

never could you have dreamed

of the butterfly I would become.

Softly I fall.

Once fresh and vivid green with

flushed pink cherry blossom petals

dancing at her side.

The small leaf was transformed

by autumn. Her soul the

deepest red of a dying heart.

Winds charged past her,

in a twirling swirl of immediate

urgency.

Each gust pulling her

toward a subtle breeze.

Each breeze pushing her back

toward the growing storm.

Will she ever stop falling?

Will the soft breeze ever catch her?

A constant cyclone

as she transforms and withers

into a  winter leaf.

Poor no more.

A tale of the times,

of unspeakable crimes.

The rise of his word,

above the screams can be heard,

from the tops of the buildings

where they watch for the killings.

The poor on the ground,

what a muttering sound.

Confused and alive,

no one hears their cries.

They’re not the poor of the poor,

they’re the poor that did more.

They worked all the hours,

grasped hold of the power.

They bettered themselves,

looked after their health.

And the man on his throne

did not see as they roamed,

as they heard and they saw,

what it was to be poor,

in this world full of law.

So they rose,

when?

nobody knows.

They stood side by side,

refusing to hide,

held their heads up on high,

no longer they sigh.

They screamed through the tops,

battled the cops.

There was one there was two,

the numbers soon grew.

A revolution of sort,

some of them caught

held up in a cell,

still they did yell.

The coming was soon,

at midnight? at noon?

The poor had a voice,

the poor made a choice,

they were poor,

for sure,

but they knew what they knew,

were no longer a few.

Together they stood,

as they always should

an abundance of mass,

they had listened in class.

They stood for it all,

they refused to fall,

the poor are the poor,

one day,

no more.

The peacock butterfly.

I thought that I was numb,
void of the illusions
of societies suggestive reactions to the evolutionary
process of feeling.
But I see now that I wasn’t.
I was simply holding back
Letting the over whelming
instinct of protection, guard
Against intruders, I simply didn’t want people to see,
Me.
I wanted to remain hidden behind the facade, the
Masquarade.
Unseen, un blemished,
Untouched,
There has never been a rush.
Although i’ve never cared,
For anothers thoughts on me,
I ‘ve seen what it is that they see,
And defended myself, one too many times,
Whilst always staying on that little thin line.
Now I have conviction in my voice,
Hiding, is another persons choice,
Im not scared, i was never scared,
To feel,
I simply never believed, they were real.
But as I explore my own mind,
Curious with the finds,
I know, I am not numb and void of the illusions of socities suggestive reactions to the evolutionary process,
Of being alive.

Karen Ann bread and jam!

I remember a time when all I could cook was toast.
At the very most,
Toast and jam,
Which pleased my elders,
As they flew down memory lane,
Karen Ann bread and jam,
It’s all she ate then,
It’s all she eats now.
I remember a time when
It was you in the kitchen,
Bitching,
Cos it was never me,
I used to run and flee,
When the pans came out,
And dad did shout.
I remember calling you up,
To find out,
How to bake a potato,
Yep,
A potato,
Cos i didn’t know.
And how to make
Cup cakes.
At first, she, would make me
Rhubarb crumble to take home,
I certainly never moaned.
Dad fed me, at every opportunity,
Always ringing, to see
Whether i was free.
Then I realised I missed
real food,
I missed dads dinners,
I missed vegetables, bolognaise,
I missed bolognaise the most,
Dad made one, of which to boast.
So I set out to cook,
Didn’t use a book,
There was always the chip shop,
If it was a flop.

I remember a time,
I tell my daughter
As i take the fruit strudel
Out from the oven,
and turn the cheesy scones,
A quick stir of the thick tomato sauce speckled with basil ,
I remember a time, when Grandad let me be, so I could play, till the day that I was ready. I remember a day when I couldn’t cook,
not even with a book.