When love tastes so good damn pure …

I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs.
Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

They’re Catholic, does it matter?

They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, him in cut of shorts, a baggy shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?

Karen Hayward ©2018

The brave among the good.

He told me society had become so fast paced people couldn’t see outside of themselves.

I told him the good need to be braver than ever for the lost are merely scared.

He smiled a little.

You could be right he said as his thoughts wandered back to his childhood with lock free doors and welcome signs.

His smile was sincere but his eyes had lost all hope.

I watched him pass a cup and saucer to a young girl with four children, they’re lovely he said, so polite and well behaved.

Thank you, she replied, her smile insincere, but her eyes shone with hope.

I watched him for a while as he spoke, made tea, smiled and I wondered whether he knew he was one of the good that needed to be braver than ever.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

nonsensical bible stories.


The inspiration for this poem came from a story that was told at Messy Church on Saturday. Messy Church is an amazing venture where by different churches do arts and crafts for children on different days. The children get to play and learn about God at the same time. It’s fun, I like it, my daughter absolutely loves it!


Bemusement settled in my mind well before we were asked

to put our hands together,  I looked toward Jesus on the stained

glass that gleamed in the sun and listened as the children

recounted the story. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I told myself it was a kids story, I had no reason to understand

its purpose, perhaps it was purposeless!

Sitting inside the hall where I dance to the beat of old songs

I can hear the empty echo of Thursdays pain vibrating through me,

today is Saturday, today the hall is a community setting.

I gaze across the tables wondering if any of the other

parents had understood the story, they probably had I told

myself. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I am greeted by name and smiles reign upon me the

sweet tea tastes of comfort and the cake of friendship.

I am happy, I like these people and I like this…church.

But I am not religious and I cannot turn a blind eye to

stories that make no sense, and I remember, for me,

religion makes no sense. Awake alone at the kitchen table the

streets lay empty and quiet, I wonder does it matter

that I did not understand the story told to the children.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Soft mumblings of an angry sky.

The distant mumblings of an angry sky can be heard hiding behind the incessant tapping of rain falling down upon my roof. It’s rhythm like a marching band as they beat down on their ferocious drums. The distant angry mumblings a roar of protest. The skies remain dark yet I feel a certainty that if I were to search the abandoned skies I would discover small flashes of speckled light brightening the night skies. Instead I search the insides of my eyelids hoping to find comfort.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Blind faith in the poor.



I saw a man today picking litter of the floor,

a dog at his side I guessed they were poor.

He never said a word just got on with the job

never seen such a quiet and beautiful dog.

They say think of others and not just of you, so

I prayed he’d go unnoticed beneath a cloak of blue.

I watched him move his stuff to form a perfect pile

it took a few minutes, the dog waited all the while.

I watched the cars go by and people walk the street,

everyone too busy to even stop and greet.

He never paused to look around he busied with his hands

He stooped a little, walked in pain, yet tall, as if he

owned the land.

I watched this man rummage through the bins

they tell me feel no pity, for his cause are his sins.

‘He probably is an alchy, a druggie there’s no doubt.’

About this man in honesty they know absolutely nout.

‘He brought it on himself, addiction is a choice.’

Your self righteous words founded in fear spilling in your voice.

So I prayed you wouldn’t see him, blinded to your eyes,

for i’ll never change your thoughts no matter how hard I try.

I watched him fill his bag and feed that little dog,

I whispered to the skies, thank you, God.

They wandered on their way, slowly up the road

bin bag filled to the top with all he could hold.


Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)





The crimson Lake of Lust.

I will…

if you will.

I’ll show you the truth

with an honest account

of the days and the nights

that we no longer count.

I’ll bare you my soul the root

of my heart,

together we’ll find the

place where we start.

We’ll take down the walls,

and the flowerless thorns

burn up the halo’s

and put on our horns.

Together we’ll touch the essence

of life, the crimson vein

of beating souls deep in the

woods beneath the cleansing rain.

I will if you will, i’ll leap with my faith.

Blindly i’ll jump into the sensual lake.

I’ll give and i’ll give,

and you’ll take and you’ll take,

and memories of lust is what we

will make.