Dawn tastes like a moments
reflection in utopia, the silence
embraces my tired mind, the
warm rays reach across my cold
skin, like hands pulling me close,
like love holding me tight
in mornings new light. A flicker
of time, seconds, minutes,
solitude caressing the deep
contours of my soul. And the
moment is gone, yet for that
beat in time, I was whole, I was
me, I was free…
Karen Hayward ©2018 image and words
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
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
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*
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
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
I’m learning to hate the distance between us
Seconds feel like hours and hours feel like days
A moment without your sensual haze
Is like an eternity living among Satan’s dust.
My essence patiently waits for times play
for your essence to quench my lust.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words
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
A burden of poison spills from your lips
truths once held become mans labourous chip, “And still they have not apologised”
I ponder who ‘they’ are and beg they
stand forward with their fellow man
and plead requital in united stand,
But alas ‘they’ do not exist
A figmant of propaganda how many times
must we say sorry for the sins of
our fathers?
My hands are clean of blood, my mind clean of hate,
And still you condemn me to the devils gate.
Poison spills from the devils lips
As you recreate little bits, history told
from the sight of the blind, for the deaf
of muted mind, so little truth there to find.
And we say show us the facts
And you say jezeebel, hinderer of truth
Lies, mudblood . . . “look how they refuse
to listen, refuse to repent for their sins”
And still I ask you show me these things.
Hate is a heavy burden for any heart,
And lest we ever forget the trampled chains of regret from a life dug in the past, we etch unity now in the minds of our crying bairns. But for all our
whispers of love you tell them of
a hate that belongs not of this time.
You twist a truth to fit a crime a minority report not yet conceived, by a future stained in the blood of your hate. Future generations stained not by history or apologies from non existent entities, future generations destroyed by the hate of your tongue, humanities personal civil war, man on fellow man with your
propaganda proposals and
puppeteer strings, yet no one stops to
ask, from where came this mans
deathly sting.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Tell you everything?
My thoughts are stolen
snippets of wordless
beliefs built on
empty searches of
knowledge and you
scare me. I am the
raw essence and you
are the knowing.
I am a voice, meek,
reaching and you wear
the markings of
of many teachers and
many pages and
many books. . .
Tell you everything
I think. . .
It is fear
trepidation
I should own
no such thoughts
I should utter no
words
But I will, I fear
the shadowed
entity you see
when you look
at me
But fear is
my passion
Fear is my
strength
Fear is my
power. . .
Everything
next time.
KH ©2018
blossomsworld 