He, My Love, My Soul, My Home.

He is home, an island shroud in silence,
cloaked from prying eyes and dying hearts
where fairies dance in natural semblance
beneath Jasmine petals of endless stars.

The oceans crystal kiss and gentle ebb
lovers fragrant melody caressing
opal rays on my moonlit sands ahead,
and silken leaves forever confessing

He is the Wren, the Robin and the owl,
the morning sly fox and twilight whispers
He is the bear, the storm, the dark eyed growl
He is the lake that silently glitters

Painted skies of burnt peach and navy blue
loves embers on the evening rose breeze
a Velvet blanket of stars, warm and true
A percussion, symphony through green leaves.

He is ancient relics and crumbled life
Druid memories seeped in evergreen moss
Spectres of the days of zeus’s sharp knife,
a healing home to nurture my souls loss

Rustic essence of Pan and dancing nymphs,
Heather swaying between crags singing grass
Arcadia in distant dreams and links
Xanadu, I am home, my love, at last.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words
He-is the personification of xanadu

Amber and Blue.


Amber and Blue

When you think of me before I do
When you think of me instead of you
my everything in a world untrue
You are the silver and the gold
The amber and blue
A crescendo of rhythm in my heart unfolds
the little things you do,
is the everything I hold.
From amber and blue
aura everlastingly bold
I can feel love’s brightest glow
Let the the notions of love
be the binding glue
in you i find the beauty
In all that you do
Vibrant and alive..
like amber and blue
I can only cherish the fates that made you mine
A flaming joy in crystalline time
You are the sparkle the starlight sublime
The gravity that holds me close to you.
the beauty of love in the amber and blue

(c) 2016 Michael J. Garland
(c) image Karen Hayward

More of Michael’s amazing poetry can be found on his Google plus page…


Sweet love in liquid heaven.


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)

Image from Pinterest.



Beneath illuminated skies

waning moon and starless blues,

I ponder of home. The blessed place

that humanity yearns for.

The end to a search when all

walls have your name scrawled

across them in invisible ink written

before your first breath was even taken.

And I wonder where my walls are?

Is home a place?

Or are my four walls an endless sky,

a turquoise ocean,

two arms holding me.

Is home a place or a person?

Never to this day have I have known of home,

no safe haven,

no comfort zone that was mine,

no four walls with my name scribbled

upon them in permanent ink.

I wonder if ‘home’ is a dream.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Images and words)

Blue skies behind a hue of white clouds.


My soul feels in a constant state of chaos

and it feels like home.  With odd socks

and mismatched undies, with pony tails,

plaits and wildly, messy, hair. Shrills

of delight as the stars warm the night.

What the world see’s as plain I see as

divine beauty, a snail and his broken shell,

a lonely pebal on the beach, a petal floating on

the breeze ignite fires deep inside of me that

otherwise lay dormant. I skip through the

seconds in the day searching for new flames,

some burn on recognition of the soul and refuse

to burn out, flaming slowly day after day without aid.

Others burn in a millisecond flooding my soul

with passion that seeps into my fingers and onto

the empty page. Some days I search tirelessly

but the blue skies sit behind a hue of white

clouds and my soul feels momentarily empty.


Karen Hayward ©2016