Aside the listless waters edge

Aside the listless waters of time
reflections fractured now stilled
in stagnant whispers of bleak void
an endless stream of magic borne
wars fought and promises sworn.

I see the contours of my soul on waters edge
Shimmering beneath the debris of existence
Illuminated by my darkest light
It reaches from out the depths of hell
to sooth the speckled witches spell.

But alas, I am neither elemental nor
celestial,
nor am I sister to Lilith or a soldier of the dammed
I am the waters curve, the rippled playground
as dragonflies dance upon my skin
stealing precious nectar for their King.

I am the reflection the mirrored voice
the distant echo of ancient blood
essence skimming on luna tides
the silent eyes suffocating in vivid blues,
drowning in the scent of knowing truths

I am the fractured, stagnated waters
curdled by minds descent
I am the Illuminated body of tides
empowered for my ascent
I am the lucid astral plane
the love of which you dreamt
I am the reflection, rippled in pain
I am the reflection, owning my pain.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Advertisements

Speckle me in dandelion seeds and set me free…

She’d always known she was the Weed, the wild flower growing between the cracks in half shadows of doubt. Never had she wanted to be the rose, except perhaps its fragrance and its soft hues of summer promise. But, no, she was the daisy growing wildly between lush blades of green grass. She was the dandelion dispersing seeds of herself on the evening scent of burning wood and she was the white clover, although she’d never admit to the fourth, petal shaped leaf that she hid beneath her smile.
Yes, she was happily the weed, growing in adversity, weathering the storms and nourished on the remnants of life. Surviving between crackles of static in rigid rips of concrete and across picture perfect canvasses where the roses stood, lonely, untouched, their wilting petals decorating the floor with death, their scent dying, their pollen stolen from beneath the blush red velvet blanket of their existence.
No, she was the white petals of survival, the yellow flesh of stubbornness rooting her to a cause, she didn’t need admiration to grow
Wild flowers need no nurturing
they simply exist between the vines
of splaying ivy and fierce troops of nettles, speckles of colour weaved between the muted greens of a druid yesteryear all myths, ancient remedies and calls of luck, the wild stems of hope growing in the dark shadows of dying rose petals wilting without whispered promises of entitled worship…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

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

Apocalyptic future of Sunday lunch

Be warned. These are not
the harmless swans of your
time, these ducks will not
quack around your feet
for bread when they can
instead devour your flesh.
No. Such days of balance
have passed, we live now
behind salvaged glass.
Oh the lulling nature of
serenity and the clockwork
beating of their hearts
as teeth gnash and wings
tear limbs. Still my mouth
salivates for what they once
were, their blood now
diseased, the chem trail
apocolypse the hunted
became the hunter. Bow
now before the Kings
of our time, death came
death took and left
only the zombie of mind.
The geese, the ducks
the royal swans. . .
the seagulls pecking still
at rotting carcuses across
our desolute shores,
and so we live now,
shut behind glass doors.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Propaganda spew

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

Daisy, dandy, buttercup kisses

I’d rather be a weed,
then a flower. I’d rather
be seen as ugly
then pretty, strong
then weak. Resiliently
stubborn fuels my
survival.
I’d rather grow in the
cracks of a beaten side
walk where the
old and the young,
pause before me,
then be lost in the
shadows of a
forgotten garden.
I’d rather be a weed
I’d rather be free.

Karen Hayward ©2017