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.

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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

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Cinders of yesterday thoughts

My thoughts would likely
set ablaze the page,
Perhaps best I let them fester
In silent implosions
dot to dot conclusions
and solid doubt
of realities illusions.
Delusions
My thoughts would likely
tear holes through
constellations
rip apart solar systems
Redesign the universe
and yet, would
surely quench this
burning thirst
A cure for perhaps
mothers tongue, a curse.
My thoughts
My thoughts
My thoughts would surely
set ablaze the page
Crimson flow,
nature’s rage
Not wrong not right
Blinded by terrors sight
upon my tongue then
I shall bite,
whilst quietly waiting
for the emptiness
of night.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

Find me on MeWe

https://mewe.com/i/karenhayward

Will you still when I am aged

Will you. . . ?
When my skin wears the markings
of my days and the lines of my nights
etched upon my face in a constellation
of battles won and wars lost.
Will you…?
When my hair is peppered with storms
meant to crush and dances meant to
drown. Leaving a trail of suffocated
colour, speckled through my timeline.
Will you…?
When my essence is muted grey in a
room full of rainbows arching to
perfection as I stumble to stand but
manage only to fall… Will you?
Will I?
Yes, when life is tattooed across your skin
in the distant echoes of battles, knights and Kings,
Yes, when age holds you within its grasp,
hair disappearing rapidly fast.
Yes, when our minds are a riddle
of yesteryears, lost thoughts and a need to tiddle,
Yes, when presence is historical in fresh blooms
among young meat in crowded rooms…

And suddenly I understand the depth of ‘of course’
the reason behind loves universal laws
We are all of our good bits, all of our flaws,
And age is the key to a souls longing need,
together we’ll blossom, starting from seed.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via wordpress

Let me…

img_20161110_142542.jpg

Let me love you the only way I know how,
With one foot among the flames of hell.
My halo hanging from the door as Satan bangs down upon the floor.

Let me cherish your being the only way I’ve sought,
In whispered tones of unsaid thoughts.
In the endless space of empty words,
And the blank spaces that go unheard.

Let me adore the softness of your inner soul,
With shy blushes and a rising tide of a love I know.
With gentle thoughts and the slightest touch,
As the devil screams this is all too much.

Let me desire the very all of your being,
In broken sleep and heated dreaming
As need escapes, transforms the room,
and I beg and plead, take me soon.

Let me relish in our touch the only way I could,
With devil kisses in those places I never should.
In a trail of unforgiven memories across your skin,
Tainted now by our enchanted sin.

Let me devote myself to your spirit, with empty vows of love,
And let us hope this alone is enough.
My succubus soul and hearted sleeve,
And let these be the mortal sins of life we weave.

Karen Hayward ©2016. (Image and words)

Take the floor.

 

Take the floor. It is yours.

Dance beneath the heavens

with a love divine your future

is set, you my dear are flyin.

Take the floor.

Devote all that you are,

leave behind

whimsical thoughts of passion,

take the floor,

dance to the tune of love that

filters through your mind.

Take the floor, look back no more.

Take the floor,

look back no more.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

Blood tinged forgotten fun with the glorious Beezlebub.

Spare me the history making class.

This is history in the palms of my hand.

Writing itself in the blood of my sins,

smeared across the empty page.

There’s no reason for the rose hue tint,

let’s not glorify the facts.

Let us speak with a double edged sharpness,

free ourselves from the grappling hands of a fucked up society.

Stop listening to the screams of the fallen.

Let them become the echoed stepping stone of reality.

Their sweat dirtied with the mud of indecision and regret.

Guilt etched into every breath they take.

The stench rising from their mangled bodies.

Breathe in death,

let the those floaters become you,

swimming in your lungs as your heart pumps.

Death, life, death, life.

The constant beating of fear.

Close your eyes feel that darkness.

Know in your soul that Satan too is an angel of God,

carrying out the work of him almighty.

So I sin in the name of the Devil

as he drags me down into the depths of hell

glaring deep into my soul,

he searches but cannot find,

for I am broken, but I am found.

The only blood upon my skin is self made luminous sin,

tainted in the beholders eye .

Let’s not dirty with the sweat and tears of a foxes tongue

the beauty of our blood tinged forgotten fun.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016