All the things I cannot be

Alas, I cannot give to you the transcendence of celestial grace whispered on the warm sigh of the universe. I cannot make promises of eternal oneness our souls lost within the essence of same. The heavens may not be ours and the skies may never rain tears of joy for solace of our unity. I have no power to wield such fantasies, I have only the now. I cannot command the universe, I can only command my heart. I know not the frequency of existence, I know only the love I have for you. I cannot give you transcendence, for I have only the power to love. I have only love to give you. I have only love to give you. It is raw and lacks the boundaries of beauty. It is real and lacks the veil of falsities. It is love and it transcends the edge of time it wields the power of life. It is all I have. My love for you is all I have to offer.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

Fairy-tales do not exist

Image result for steampunk art

Fairy tales do not exist
and cupids arrow will always miss.
The evil queen will always win
and every girl is filled with sin.

There’s no golden fleece to protect us all
no fairy godmother to stop your fall.
The birds don’t clean and cats don’t talk
and there’s no such thing as the perfect walk.

There’s no bread crumbs to find your way
and no fire breathing dragon for you to slay.
Hearts are real and cannibalism does exist
and there’s no such thing as the perfect kiss.

The emerald city and the world of oz are just a dream
and yes, people really are that mean.
Parlour tricks and a clever tongue
and no the spell won’t break with the morning sun.

Fairy tales do not exist
but I think I might
just take that risk.

Karen Hayward ©2015. Image downloaded via google

Caught between sleep thought

Caught between two planes of existence,
slumbers promise a far of lie,
lost within the realms of my dreams
all fingers, eyes, smiles and presence,
held captive within your essence
as spectres draw me from my sleep
fingers cold dragging, pulling
gasping as touch becomes real
and I am awake, in the darkness
of eternity,
caught between the two planes of existence,
again and again and again
you are there, waiting for me to dream….
again and again and again
they are there waiting to pull me from my love.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words

Photo

They’re Catholic, does it matter?

Their love is different. Perhaps it matters.

They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, the broken hip a memory of the past that remains in her gait, him in cut of shorts, a baggy office shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

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.

Photo

Atoms folding in

We are all broken
fragments of hope,
scattered tirelessly
through times
path across linear
dimensions
weaving through
planes of existence
here upon Terra.
Poor ageing Terra.

Then Gaia kissed life
into us, the skin
was her canvas
and the scars the
colours as Mother
painted energy
between the deep
rivets adding gentle
brush strokes of
silent hues
and vivid screams
of life.

Her paints run low now,
her waters are dry,
the air dirty,
her creation is
decaying, compromised,
the canvas rotting…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via WordPress