Golden Rays

To sit among the golden rays,
feel the whispers of your
lips as they graze in
complete silence,
solitude of lovers ebbing as
the river flows.
Desire rising, need spilling
as mouths explore evening
constellations mapping
across bare skin.
Fingers trailing glowing
thoughts, growing passion
tongues entwined
bodies moving
As the river flows
As the sun dips down low
As night time comes and
evening goes
As forgotten love
begins to grow.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words 

Graphite girl…

She was graphite, rough and raw.
She’d erase rough lines of guidance,
use the indents as a reminder of where not to walk,
how not to cry,
when not to break.
She’ll sit up into the wee twilight
Hours curving letters across
nipples pert bud,
gently caressing sensuality,
as the sharpened pencil defines
contours of need,
black lines of repression smeared by charcoal nips and probing tips.
Blurred definitions
tainted revelations
deceitful realisations
Graphite creations… how she pondered
now the way we draw our lines
in pencil, temporary markings
leaving a gentle trail
of destruction across
naked bodies beneath Lunar glows
Wild oats, taken, made and sown
Pick ups and throws…
The allure of graphite, need
erased, redrawn… Redrawn.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

The cracked remnants of tomorrow’s dreams

Can it be that love exists ‘neath blue skies
between the forest green vines of ivy
or on ancient mists of a moonlit sea
I find a tomorrow deep in his eyes
the speckled remnants of new paths aligned
between the broken cracks of history
a presence preserved in serenity
my love dances with singing butterflies
on nights empty echo and fierce rhythms
Our Selene hears the whispers of my soul
Whilst I drown in pearlescent kisses
configuring broken algorithms
beneath these blue skies I am whole
wondering about loves existence.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words
First attempt at a *#Italianpetrarchansonnet*

A carefully compiled list of quirks

I am a carefully compiled list of quirks
Please do not kiss me with vacant lips
I am a forgotten library of ancient works
Do not touch me with tender finger tips
I am a self made bookcase of insanity
Do not stain me with a silver tongue,
I am organised to my own conformity
Please, do not think I can be undone.
I am a catalogue of first editions
Please, do not think me second choice
I am all the eccentricities of my vision
So please, do not silence my only voice.
A lifetimes worth of precious works
I am a carefully compiled list of quirks

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Google search

Sometimes I sing your tune…

Black and White house, number sixteen,

what were you doing deep in my dream?

What wisdom do you deliver in those deep

brown eyes,

perhaps so I might ponder the reason I try.

You see that, right?

Perhaps you were my lesson learned,

regret created and thoroughly earned.

Or perhaps…to show me the truth

that my choice was right, your smile the proof.

You are the benchmark I use to decide

what i’m willing to lose on this lovers ride.

For it’s kinda the same, except this time I fight.

Remember the song? You always saw my light

whispering still that I stand up to the night.

I guess I can see why my mind  set on you

a reminder maybe of days that were blue,

regret, karma, wrong paths walked

so many thoughts never talked.

You made me promise i’d step out from the dark

follow a new road my unknown path.

I couldn’t see it but you surely did,

years ahead you told me,

that’s where your Cleopatra

was hid.

Alas, we no longer talk,

I angered you when I finally walked,

I severed a tie that transcended the earth

tore a hole in your universe.

Oh but the lessons you taught

perhaps this is why in my dreams you were caught.

Love with pride,

never let it hide,

there is no wrong only right.

Regret. Love is always worth the fight.

Perhaps this is why in my dreams I caught sight

as I pondered life after the flight.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Labelled lubricant of liberation

The smoldering kiss of suppressed
thought, silent flames, burning
memories, (inse) ‘curities fueling
the empty hours that were once
seconds. The vile shadow of intent
for all thoughts have a root, all
words have cause and I feel for the
distant tug of space beyond
prostitution of the flesh. But alas,
some pages we rewrite in frenzied
passion and label it liberation,
erasing our markings with the
over chewed end of a HB pencil
till pages are torn and the canvas
becomes a hue of melancholy grey.

Karen Hayward ©2017