Drunkenly drinking

If I were a
my petals
would furl
in toward
my center.
from my
own nectar.
Blanket me
in abounding
love, cocoon
me from this

… If I were
flower. But
Alas I am
a weed, a
wild flower
growing in
the breeze
between the
is my
The whirring
tides of stars
are my
they cocoon
me from this

But if for
just a
I was a
My petals
soft against
my skin,
into a ball
of fragrant
on my
own sweet
to bloom.
What a
would be.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Speckle me in dandelion seeds and set me free…

She’d always known she was the Weed, the wild flower growing between the cracks in half shadows of doubt. Never had she wanted to be the rose, except perhaps its fragrance and its soft hues of summer promise. But, no, she was the daisy growing wildly between lush blades of green grass. She was the dandelion dispersing seeds of herself on the evening scent of burning wood and she was the white clover, although she’d never admit to the fourth, petal shaped leaf that she hid beneath her smile.
Yes, she was happily the weed, growing in adversity, weathering the storms and nourished on the remnants of life. Surviving between crackles of static in rigid rips of concrete and across picture perfect canvasses where the roses stood, lonely, untouched, their wilting petals decorating the floor with death, their scent dying, their pollen stolen from beneath the blush red velvet blanket of their existence.
No, she was the white petals of survival, the yellow flesh of stubbornness rooting her to a cause, she didn’t need admiration to grow
Wild flowers need no nurturing
they simply exist between the vines
of splaying ivy and fierce troops of nettles, speckles of colour weaved between the muted greens of a druid yesteryear all myths, ancient remedies and calls of luck, the wild stems of hope growing in the dark shadows of dying rose petals wilting without whispered promises of entitled worship…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Dandelion trails.



If one day I was so inclined
To leave a trail of me behind
Of tiny seeds to nurture so
and fragments of myself to grow.
Would a path of me evolve
In peppered flowers to dissolve?
Sprinkled petals speckles delight,
A seeded journey ablaze with light.
Twisting, winding, dipping and rising
Would my seeds become the horizon
Would Monica joan stand guard,
Protecting weeds near and far.
Tread bare dirt and dying land
Sahara tears in the devil’s hand.
Yet, between the dock leaves
nestling at the base of trees,
Perhaps would lay a daisy
Seen on summer days so hazy.
A gentle constellation of my presence,
Gaia kissed by my loving essence.
A sinful trance of naked song
Weeds growing where flowers belong.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image and words

Wild Ginger.

English / Shakespearean Sonnet


Afresh, the past a lingering shadow

lost flowers among a field of old weeds.

Creeping through life’s journey, poison grows

for blossom always, do the fears we feed.

Alas, I must abstain from dark beliefs.

Water not those drowning in fallen tears.

We shall tend our petals, water our leaves.

With love, adoration, our future clears.

This bloom upon my heart, your honeyed touch

loves gently imposed photosynthesis.

Clarity!  I see you have tended much

beyond dark shadows of lingering mist.

Be us not lost flowers in life’s treason,

Be us weeds, loves blossom beyond reason.

Karen Hayward ©2017 (Words)

Michael J. Garland ©2017 (Image)

Summer explodes into the day.


Crying bairns;
Screaming mums,
the heat is up
summers come.
Flowers bloom
Insects fly,
I pause to write
beneath a topaz sky.
Hooting cars,
shouting men
giggling girls
meeting freinds.
Pale legs
cleavages out,
wolf whistles
and bored men about.
Burning heat and
barely nine
weather today
Is truly fine.

Karen Hayward ©2016