Jack be nimble, Jack be quick

On silent whispers of Jack’s
nimble fingers she feels the frost
clawing at her innocence. Blind
eyes and deaf ears, the street
dancers set eyes on prey, and
move and swing, in ancient ways.
As Jack’s nails etch and sketch
permanent scars upon the souls
delicate skin, this veil, oh so thin.
Oh so thin, as darkness frosts
and etches…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

Morning frost and Sunday melodies. 

Morning mist sweeping through quiet streets, kissing frost embraced blades of luscious Green grass as a pale sun hides from sight, gathering Sunday morning thoughts on gentle melodies of songs gone by. And I watch the magpie, watching me and I know the ancient symbolism of its soul like the back of my expressive pen that pours ink haphazardly across the blank canvas of a soul awakening, sleeping, awakening and I hear the whispers of higher thought calling through droplets of dew quenching a thirst I cannot see and she is gone, her song echoing still…I watch the mist curling, swirling thick and heavy as an ancient, Druid perhaps, corner of my soul awakens at the soft call of home.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found on pinterest. 

Jack’s nimble fingers. 

On silent whispers of Jack’s
nimble fingers she feels the frost
clawing at her innocence. Blind
eyes and deaf ears, the street
dancers set eyes on prey, and
move and swing, in ancient ways.
As Jack’s nails etch and sketch
permanent scars upon the souls
delicate skin, this veil, oh so thin.
Oh so thin, as darkness frosts
and etches…

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found on pinterest. 

Soft gentle memories. 

Winter brings new 

memories of old, 

the air scented with 

bonfires, log fires, 

first kisses, 

Tear filled goodbyes, 

cold legs and glances shy. 

Waning moons

Teardrops on ebbing 

Tides. Dark skies 

Oh the dark skies that 

Whisper to my soul 

‘you are home. Oh 

You my dear are home.’

Crystalised frost 

Beauty where only 

The devil plays, 

 And the soft gentle 

Echo of memories lane. 
Karen Hayward ©2016

Gone are the dreamers.

image

Forgotten are the wishes of old that stained the coins gold. On forgotten seeds that ride the morning breeze and dimming lights of stars long gone. Gone is the happy smilers that hear the morning song of the mutant birds of evolution gone wrong. As the owl hoots beneath a blazing sun and the moon can no longer rise, the knowing have long stopped their cries. Forbidden are the dreamers to be speakers in the realms of the lost where eternally our oxygen has converted to frost.

Karen Hayward ©2016