Seemingly bottomless.

Art Work of Alice in Wonderland <3 <3

Perhaps the fall is
like Alice’s hole,
seemingly bottomless,
lined with trinklets,
jars of memories, speckled
stars of hope,
freckled fragments of
love.
And storms, of course storms.
Hazardous hailstorms of despair raining down upon
Queen of tarts,
of hearts,
of tarts and hearts
and perhaps the
odd King hiding in the
recesses of time.
Maybe, falling in love is
like the mad Hatters tea party, chipped china,
pretty pastels,
cucumber sandwiches,
forever there, forever gone,
always coming and
never wrong.
For, there is always time for tea, always a tomorrow,
another cup,
good and bad,
It’s a given,
a promise of a brighter
day, a loving embrace within
the sweet liquid nectar.
And yes, there will be
mouldy bread, curdled milk,
Flies of destruction.
There will be sugar
thieves and odd concoctions,
but there will always be
tomorrow,
another tea party.
Yes, perhaps falling
in love is just like
falling into
Alice’s world.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

The good ole days…

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I remember a time when I was young
When us kids went outside for 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.
 
Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,
As the promise of spring filled the street with mirth.
We wore hand me down clothes and 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
 
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 ones 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.
 
Karen Hayward ©2017 (Image and words)

Alice, please let me come too.

Oh what beastly demon, biting jaws, catching claws

and flaming eyes hunts upon my sanity.

Alice, take me from this place. Together we can

chase the white rabbit and catch the grains

of yesterdays sand as he hollows into the hole

of his lateness.

Oh please,

Alice,

let me come along.

I shall bring a fan and some gloves and

the white rabbit will be so happy he will pause

and time will monetarily pass us by. Let us

together explore the depths of the endless drop

as reality spirals from us.

Oh Alice,

please,

perhaps the caterpillar upon

his branch can whisper to me the secrets

of transformation and adaptation. Together

we can recite poetic glory from the pages of

greatness.

The smoke will engulf us as

it seeps into our skin.

Let him spite us

with his coldness

 enlighten us with

his wisdom.

Oh please,

Alice,

I can eat

mushrooms and sit

tidily inside your apron.

Please Alice,

for I am lost and I am hopeful.

I must, I must, I really, really must converse

with Cheshire cat.

Let him hear my pleas

so he may guide me through the blade

enriched maze of life and his wisdom

open the locked corridors of my mind.

Let his eyes fall upon

me, Alice, and his grin bless my soul and

lift this heavy cloud from my shoulders.

We must find him

lest he disappears,

leaving

behind only the fading

whisper

of his

lips.

Alice,

wait please,

do not leave me in this dismal

world of harsh realities

and evil intent.

The Hatter,

will perhaps find an extra chair and together we

drink tea sweetened with cubes of sugar

drank

alongside cake and cucumber sandwiches.

For The Hatter is not all he appears,

he will chortle as he spits

venom from his lips

then quiver before his Queen.

Let me stay near

together we will sit at the

table of the hat maker,

and watch as mercury

rots his faculties.

Please,

Alice,

together we can defeat her.

Her that rules from her collective

court as she rampages

through the hearts and minds.

She has power

but we have love and kindness.

Her respect is

the favour of self importance,

ours is the journey

of seeing beyond.

Please,

Alice,

take me with you,

let me leave behind

the harshness of reality.

My soul is slowly dying

 my spirit wanes in the tainted

fog of hate dispelled

about my legs.

My body is torn in two my mind ravaged,

please,

let us find the white rabbit.

Together.

Take me

from this reality.

Karen Hayward ©2016

 

Coffee and Cake.

This is a collaboration piece between myself and a great poet Ron Bergquist, you can discover his amazing works over here at his Blog Ron Bergquist  he writes raw and real no bullshit pretty bows, go check him out :). Him and his work is like a breath of fresh air :).

I say we wrote it, but actually he coaxed the words from me pulling them out from the depths of writers block he then spun his amazing web of thought around them and created this little masterpiece. He did all the hard work, I just sat about drinking coffee and looking pretty.

Thank you Ron, your encouragement was immensely appreciated.

 

Take me away on the whisk of a date,

Where space goats meet us drunk at the gate

sipping thimbles full of wine’

eat

Coffee and cake,

take  – this blank canvas,

make it our page.

 

I like the invitation to write verse together;

as we pause with a finger

to our jaw in awe

of each other;

ooze over each other;

as we contemplate the deeper meanings of life

 

These animals debate our fate:

feed us from the bars of our cage;

Let’s fill it together with creative rage,

In that perfect way that you and me engage.

 

If only I could speak as fancy as I THINK

as fast as I THINK fancy thoughts!

 

“little thimbles;

wine, coffee and cake”

 

We could speak our minds on the spot –

be energetic and kinetic –

let it all linger.

Or do

1 shot, 2 shots 3 shots

four,

oblivion knocks at the door;

 

The torrid torment of societies fucked up illusions!

The faceless sheep scrambling for the pedal stool of confusions;

fuck this delusion

fucking loud mouth intrusion

you’re in no position to be

dissin’ me!

so  please be still and shit!

Sit and spit ill wit –  as we contemplate;

plausible fantasy based off our torrid reality;

 

won’t you sit and sip wine from a thimble

with me?

Eat cake and drink some tea?

As goats sit pretty and try to define,

our destiny.

 

©Ron Bergquist and Karen Hayward 2016

Thr macabre show.

Pull up a chair,
grab beers from
the fridge.
Let’s find you a
dark and dreary
corner inside my mind.
Front row seats to the macabre show.
Don’t mind the mess.
The blood is long dried
and congealed.
But do watch the bones.
Walk around if you must
but do avoid the shadows
my demons have taken up
permanent residence there.
If you come across a bleeding
clown, machete in his hand,
be sure to wink and wink
again, for he is just a man.
Pull up a chair, grab yourself
some vodka, come, take my hand, front row seats to watch this fucked up show.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Create a pocket of escapism.

I need a hole in time.
I need to rip open the
vortex of reality and
mold myself a corner.
A creation of fantasy
based on reality that
escapes the daily grind
of realism. A safe haven.
Away from prying eyes,
where I can become lost,
lost in you, lost with you.
I need a crack in the universe
to slip through, a black
hole designed purely for
me. I need a pocket of sand
where I can connect, at
ease, at peace, guilt free.
I want a dark lagoon where
I can explore the darkness
where I can watch and show
and take and be, a little
space for only me, a little
place where we can be.

Karen Hayward ©2105.

Sweet Tea.

Sweet tea, the honey nectar of comfort.

Tiny grains of sweetness bleached beyond

recognition taste like unconditional love

against my taste buds. Thick heavy sweetened

milk turned golden brown by processed

leaves held together with mesh and draw string.

The teabag sits solemnly at the bottom of a

china cup, china to keep the tea warmer. White

grains of love sit waiting to drown, to melt,

to transform. Then wait. Patience as the

flavor devours the tasteless water.

Then the milk, enough to create

a shade that reminds me of passion,

enough to cool the water.

Sweet tea, unconditional love in a cup.

Karen Hayward (copyright 2015)