What am I?

Descriptive prose…

I am small and edible. My skin is a mixture of Black (but could be considered brown) and muted white. I am life, I have the ability to bloom and procreate. Some of us are eaten, some are not. Those of us who are not eaten, start life  in a dark, cold and damp environment. My new home needs heat, and as long as I am kept damp and warm I will begin to grow.

My body arches towards the warmth that motivates me, pushing against tremendous weight, I stretch until finally the darkness is gone and all around me is light. But  my fight goes on, I  need more heat, more light and so my body stretches even more so. I am faced with challenges, my home grows dry, dehydrating my body, slowing and sometimes stopping my growth and from above cold drops of water are poured heavily down upon my weak body, only the strong can with stand the pressure.

As my body grows and reaches for the skies, the wind whips around my tiny frame, threatening to snap my body beyond repair. Evolution has prepared me, and my body thickens, the heat grows more intense by the day and calling me  closer, it is  love, and I must go to it.

I am growing taller now, green, my skin is rough, my body thick and my limbs growing larger everyday. I do not have a look of anything spectacular, I have a head green, rough, but shapely. And still I grow. I am stronger now, but need help to stand alone,I have outgrown my environment and can see beyond the walls that cage me.

I can grow no more, I am becoming weak, I open my heart.  It is now that I shine, my heart is open, and there I reveal new life, so small and perfectly placed, my true beauty revealed, I am spectacular, vibrant, my crown glowing among so much green.

 

Answers on a post card…. 

Karen Hayward © 2012 – Edited 2020 Image and words

The battleground of silence

If her words are to be cut from her tongue, if her silence is to be cut from her soul, she has only her ink. The solace of her page, the sombre flow of thoughts carved into yesterday’s canvas. The freedom of poetic expression…said here, said there, the effect is the same. The cause falls on blind eyes, a defensive soul guarding against… The only one he needs not. For those words silenced in reprimand wanted not to talk of command, demand or dictating, just love. A silence that wished not to hurt, offend or harm found an unwanted battle ground of misunderstanding and trust questioned on the balance beam of expectations, emotions, a kaleidoscopic rainbow of scars
itching to rip open, and she is not trusted to itch them, she is not trusted to express the way they scratch, they bleed, perhaps such a thing is for children, for the weak..for they are the adults. Then she stands in all her glory for she holds no shame in her weakness. Her silence sought only his love, the tender touch of his words the reassuring tone of primal need on carnals vice. His defence, guarded, angered.. the unnescasary ripples of his own scars, as he scratched them into life. For an unexpressed thought will ricochet through existence slowly crumbling foundations. A recipe for disaster, one part love, one part lust, one part the closed eyes of a pretence, a locked vault of despair, a curse she never once wished upon him, never had she bound his tongue never had she silenced his silence. She holds all trust in their love, all belief in their truths. In the silence of no words said, she ponders the irony that of all the things he did not trust, it was her need to express without consequences to him, her need to understand the pain that drives, her need to have the freedom to be vulnerable, safe in the knowledge he’d catch her…

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

A calm

…and there before me is the distant echo of eternity,
whispering through vines, skipping past branches
and I am lost in a hue of blue sky and soft white clouds.
My vulnerability on show, my wild streak at rest,
tamed amidst the gentle breeze of love. I am raw
and I am naked but the dress I wear and I am childlike,
the damsel, the rose and the finest petals…
and I am the purest crystal and the
finest china with a vintage glaze, cracked
and worn. But I am free here among the trees.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Wishing upon planes thinking they are stars…

From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest
#sonnet

Slicing through the echo of my own perfection

The body, when perfectly whole
Without cut, scar or gaping hole
Is a vessel of beautiful perfection
Radiating aura without detection
of cast of entities from darker sense…

Each cut, scar, hole leaves open essence
protection fails as they seep in
heavy thoughts they always bring
feeding on energy, power drives on
reality is rewritten, they become strong.

To cleanse, to hide, to meditate
is never quite enough to fight
for holes in auras outer shield
are the reason for the magnetic field
They deceive, come in many guise

Such power they feed from mine so wise,
S’not you s’not me, they choose just feed
are blind in choice beyond holes of sieve
Such holes they must be healed
To regain your protective field.

Even in distance across time and space
healing occurs from source trace,
All is needed, permission granted
intent is thought a decision planted
Allow me, and I will remain silent
till thoughts quenched end of violence.

KH©2018

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The pinkness of my singing soul

… And as the pale sun burned fiercely through wandering thoughts she tucked away the delicacies of her soul, ran her fingers through blush pink silken threads, muted green satin bows, gently stroked rich purple velvet and pressed delicate feathers to her lips. She closed Pandora’s chest, not turning the key. Her secret? Beyond titanium lays the intricate threads of a candy floss soul. Rays of sun upon deep breaths tickling her tongue, she knew, with trust must come vulnerability… And as the pale sun burned fiercely through wandering thoughts she left the chest open,
knowing it was time…

Karen Hayward ©2017

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Sharp edge of poverty

We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebel with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cider from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychedelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.

Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.

There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…

But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…

They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…

My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…

Karen Hayward ©2018

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A proposal of thought…


… to know my worth exceeds the grave and cradle, that each breath holds meaning and each second depth, yet,
When I ponder of my existence I feel more alone than ever.

I do not wait for the apocolypse; neither enlightenment nor end days for both it seems to me pander to the reaper…
… And I find no sense in surviving the darkness in wait for God’s mighty hand of justice, for what point lays in waking, breathing or ultimately kindness.

… I do not believe my woes to be the karmic debt of my Father or his before, have you ever met these men? To spend a moment in their presence is to know the strength of my conviction.

I tear holes in the ideology that we are born to die, that greatness is achieved on death, I ponder how many false martyrs are formed this way.

The same sun that will warm my soul will also burn my skin, and the same snow that ignites my spirit will freeze my heart, yet still I can be found dancing beneath them and when eventually I die, I will tell great stories of the way Gaia touched my soul, the way stars ignited my heart, the way darkness gave me light and light gave me darkness.

… And when I am before my Diety,
when I am asked,
am I happy to be home,
I will say yes..

“But to have lived, is the greatest adventure of my existence.”

Karen Hayward ©2017

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