Wishing upon planes thinking they are stars…

From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest
#sonnet

Blue eyes Husky

Old man up my road
owns a white
Siberian husky.
He pounds along
the path chasing
cats, pulling old man
here, there
everywhere.
His bark is fierce
splits atoms
demands attention.

Old man up the road
pauses at our gate,
for Husky blue eyes
searches for his
Princess blue eyes and
he finds her.

Husky stands tall
with his front paws
perched atop the
Black iron gate.
Head bowed.
He does not bark,
jump, skip or
dance with
excitement.
He patiently waits.

Small girl squeels
with delight
‘our friend, mummy’
she looks to me
for permission.

Permission granted.

Small girl walks steadily
to the gate leaving
behind her fears
and anxiety.
Husky holds his position.
Pausing a foot away
she reaches out small
tender fingers…

Husky smells, a small
dance in his back paws
as her fingers delve
deep into his fur
they rub heads for
a split second
then husky is calm
blue eyes searching
blue eyes, she smiles.

Old man tells me
he ain’t never seen husky
like this with no one…
She must be special he says.

Old man knows.
Husky knows.
I know.

One day she too will know.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words ♥

..and they bottled the good the bad and the ugly

… And so he collected pain in small jars and labelled them the past, with a footnote for the future…

… And so she collected pain in small jars and labelled them the future with a footnote for the past…

… And when she appeared he knew within his core…

… And when he appeared she knew it was her call…

… And those jars of pain that belonged to another, they whispered, shouted, screamed and demanded take cover…

… Believing her to be the devil…

…he opened up their lids at the first hurdle and let their essence spill…

… But she was the angel sent to save him..

… And so in fear she tumbled, the jars fell smashed upon the floor…

… And now she drowns in his despair no hand reaching there…

… For he was the angel sent to save her…

… And now, alone, she wonders if he was the devil.

…and they collect pain in small jars upon a shelf…

KH©2018

Image found via wordpress library

When Helios Paints

I wonder will I ever paint the page
the way Helios paints the skies,
His brush stroke smoothing the sharp
edge of night, erasing the darkness,
Lush blades of grass crying dew drop tears
as the horizon sets ablaze in vivid screams
of orange spilling between the
dank scent of nature waking
tiny birds with tickling rays
caressing Gaia into life
and for a brief moment there
is only her, only nature,
only beauty and my soul breathes…

..and I wonder will I ever
paint my page in the same way Helios paints the dawn.
Karen Hayward © 2018

Image copyright Lothar M Kirsch

Shattering essence of voice

For a fleeting moment space was mine
designed beyond sight
Vulnerability of heart, takes flight
as thought and words soon fly.

If asked, I’d sit three seats to the left
Somewhere between here and mars
I’d converse silently, just me and the stars
and declare my wishes to skies of dark.
It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

Those twinkling lights have long known your name,
In twilight battles to drive the devil insane
I tell Selene my secrets
I’m not sure she hears and never certain it matters…

I’m not always sure anything matters Living seems only to flatter
We’re specks trying to etch our names into the infinite
spending lifetimes searching
hopelessly for the lost scent of a love we once had
And in the grander scale of things

…I’m never certain that anything matters

Then he whispers and my darkness shatters.

Karen Hayward © 2018