The lonely path.

How i’ve longed to love you so,

for days to pass, to come and go.

How i’ve wished away the stars,

to keep myself upon this path.

Silent words to the universe,

promised wishes and muttered curse.

But never did you see me so,

and now my love, I must go.

The end has come,

for this lonely show.

Karen Hayward (Copyright 2015.)

Sunday…the day of memories.

Sunday’s,
are the day,
When my world used to stop,
We’d sweep
and we’d spray,
And clean the week away.
With sweet tea and toast,
I loved Sunday the most.
The Beatle’s the carpenters, and day dream believers,
As you whispered,
Behind me,
To avoid the deceivers.
And when we were done
We’d walk in the sun.
Walking,
talking.
Climbing,
running, laughing, loving. I was a child,  a teenager, all in that day.
When you made me stop,
To let, my heart play.
I wasn’t the rebel,
I wasn’t in trouble,
Or in a muddle.
We picked flowers,
From the gardens,
And got sand in our toes,
Sometimes we picked shells,other times, pretty coloured stones.
Beautiful memories,
that i add
to
my throne.

Seven little sheep, to help me sleep.

I still remember the long coach trip,
Hot and muggy,
I curled into a tiny ball,
My head resting on his legs,
As the wheels turned,
Pulling us closer to home.
All of us together,
Her,
him,
Him,
My father,
And me.
He saved us
In the dead of night,
On new years eve,
It was a welcome reprieve.

Four years passed,
You were an image,
Of the long forgotten past.
I remember the station,
So many faces,
My tiny little heart, racing.
You handed out hugs and delicate kisses,
To him,
And
Him
And her.

Blood.
Blood was the first thing i saw,
Standing at that door,
As intoxication filled my eyes
And i hung back, shy.
You gave out gifts,
Our every wish,
And brought what money
Cannot buy.
that night, i cried.

And four became two,
My heart turned blue.
Alone in the dark,
The dark biker parked,
Watching, waiting
To tear us apart.

Alone and afraid,
Our futures were made.
When darkness fell,
And from the depths of sleep,
I yelled,
He, with the blackberry hair,
Whispered to me,
‘It’s ok, i still care.’
he taught me to count,
With the numbers i knew,
The little white sheep,
that kept away hell.

I remember the nights,
when i was full of fright,
Without brothers or sisters,
To make it alright.
You took away her,
You took away him,
And you took away him, with the blackberry hair.
I was just a little girl,
With a strawberry blonde curl.

Towers of Blackberry and apple bits.

This is a slightly edited version of an earlier post, Blackberry Towers, I like both poems equally, but I think this one delves in a little deeper to those childhood memories. Enjoy.

I remember a time when I was young,
When us kids went outside to have fun.
Our mums drank tea, had a natter,
Their laughs echoing over the kids chatter.
The men earned honest money, with hard graft.
They were the days, but they didn’t last.
I remember it fondly…

Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,
As the promise of spring filled the street with mirth.
We wore hand me down clothes, real leather shoes,
played in the growing corn, had lunch on the kerb
We played kerby and footy, bulldog and chase,
Everything we did was always a race.

On the summer days, in the summer haze.
The field of corn lined with trees, no hint of a breeze.
Daisy chain ropes that reached to the skies,
Dandelion clocks, oh how time flies,
Purple fingers, tell tale lips,
Blackberry pies with apple bits.

Bonfire night, the woolies are out,
In before dark the mothers did shout.
Sparklers, fireworks, penny for the guy,
Halloween sweeties an endless supply.
We play on the cornfield, so empty and bare,
Its hard to remember what they grew there.

Snowmen so big we stood in awe, then
took turns aiming for the highest score.
One in each garden, some on the path,
A pile of wet socks, gloves, hats and scarves.
In the cornfield trenches were dug, ammo created
The older kids, always, dominated.

I remember the cornfield swaying in the breeze,
Before they laid brick, took away the trees.
Everyone got busy, the air grew stale
And nobody noticed when the kids grew pale.

The Holidays.

Grey clouds and raindrops,
tip tapping at our day.
A fierce April chill,
is on its way.

Paint pots and paper,
glue sticks and pens,
cushion built forts,
and a princess den.

Soft sheets of felt,
so pretty and bright,
cut into piece’s , to
be what they might.

There’s glue in the
carpet, paint in my hair,
It’s only day one, and
we don’t really care.

Blackberry Towers.

I remember the cornfield from when I was young

The place that us kids would go to have fun.

Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,

As the promise of spring filled the air with mirth.

We played kerby, footy, bulldog and chase,

Climbed trees in the hope of reaching space.

Our knees were bloodied, elbows bruised,

We wore hand me down clothes and real leather shoes.

Daisy chain ropes that reached to the skies,

dandelion clocks, oh how time flies!

Purple fingers, betraying lips,

Blackberry pies with apple bits.

Bonfire night, the woolies came out.

In before dark! The mothers did shout.

Sparklers, fireworks, penny for the guy.

Halloween sweeties in endless supply.

Snowmen so big we stood in awe. Then

Took turns aiming for the highest score.

One in each garden some on the path,

A pile of wet socks, gloves, hats and scarves.

I remember the cornfield swaying in the breeze

Before they laid brick, took away the trees

Everything got busy, the air grew stale.

And nobody noticed when the kids grew pale.