Between the grained remnants of adolescence.

img_20171111_221855375989982.jpgI soared to new depths within these magnolia

spewed walls of confinement on brown plastic

chairs that burned liberation from the spirit.

We stared continuously through a blank canvas

of educational institution. Wall upon ceiling

Upon brown carpet squares.

And you were the devil.

Cloaked in Grandmas clothes.

Not my grandmother, but someone’s.

You drew air deep into your double breasted

lungs giving life to your outdated fancies of

corporal punishment.

You taught me only to fear those

words written

those thoughts driven

those ideas fit only for oblivion.

Where hung your creativity?

Lost in the sharp edge of a blunt fringe

cut and cut and cut year upon decade

upon the little girl trapped in the

grained memories of a war fought and survived.

Never a soul shone in your class

no spirits soared, no eyes feversihly

Burned beyond the dull ache of melancholy.

We were there,

but nobody knew where…

but nobody knew where.

You looked at me with the same disdain as others,

hollowed my name through pert lips everytime

you caught me smirking instead of working.

Till that day as rain fell and heat rose,

all around a collective sigh and dramatized yawns.

If ever a vortex existed

It was there, that day,

at the back of the class by the window

where the last rays afternoon of sun teased

goodbye like the ticking clock, freedom

draining its last dregs as words suddenly

sprung into life…

It all started here, her yellowing dress,

the cobwebs that consumed, love so great

pain greater still and tragic love

broken promises and tiny graves,

right here, this was the day.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

 

I contemplate…

img_20161212_091835.jpg

I contemplate a lifetime’s vocabulary,

the word-stock of my existence, I hunger

for the fruits of my expression.

In my mind I browse the sub folders of

reality, Shakespeares sonnets, tales

of love and tragedy.  Dickens victorian view

of love, I regard Miss Havisham

and her devotedness and broken heart.

Monetarily I ponder Estella, I pity her.

I glance through Marlowe, Byron,

Coleridge, Tennyson, Blake, Wordsworth

but alas even they have not written of

this love I have for you. I search the

lyrics of my souls melodies and listen

as the beats create chaos in my spirit.

Still I can not find the perfect way

to describe, that your love is my day.

Perhaps I’ll search a lifetime

to find the perfect way,

at least by then you’ll know,

my love was made to stay.

Karen Hayward ©2016