See what they see…

He stroked tangles into her once luscious mane,
and peppered it in the muted hues of time.
He smoothed the years across her brow
and etched his hate
within her blunt laughter lines.
He left a thesis of his dysfunction written between the grains of her invalid groin
and ringed the spoils of her scars in red ink.
He left her skin bare of kisses, of love,
of exploration or pleasure
he tamed the primal beast
he groomed her into silence
then gave her a mirror
and said…

See? Then grinned menacingly.

He stroked tangles into her once luscious mane…

Karen Hayward © 2019

Image via Google search.

In a second of a moment

In a single second I have a thousand thoughts.

I visit a thousand places

and see a thousand faces.

I see a thousand sights,

my feet walk a thousand miles

and I see a thousand smiles.

I touch a thousand hearts

and see a thousand stars.

In a single second

I am everywhere but here.

Then in a single glance I see you,

and I know I have found home.

This home has no walls

and it has no floor.

This home is not a place

but a response to your face.

A journey, an honor placed upon me

and when I look upon your eyes I see my destiny.

And in the beating of our hearts i know;

that every path I took,

every darkness bestowed upon me,

every tear that fell,

was for you.

In a single second I am everywhere

but here,

in a single glance I am always near.

Karen Hayward ©2015. Image and words.

The truest of beauty

I looked for the stars in an empty sky,
then I see them twinkling in your precious eyes.
I looked to the world for beauty unseen
I find it right there in your fearsome belief.
I looked in the faces for pure kindness you see,
then I saw it was all that you were able to be.
I looked to the universe for a reason to see,
and the universe gave you, to me.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

The days when…

I remember a time when all I
could cook was toast.
At the very most.
toast and jam.
Which pleased my elders,
As they flew down memory lane.
Karen Ann bread and jam.
It’s all she ate then,
It’s all she eats now.

I remember a time when
It was you in the kitchen,
Bitching,
because it was never me,
I used to run and flee
when the pans came out
and our dad would shout.

I remember calling you up,
to find out how to bake a potato,
Yep,
a potato.
Because I didn’t know.
And how to make
cup cakes too. . .

At first, she, would make me
Rhubarb crumble to take home,
I certainly never moaned.
Dad fed me
at every opportunity,
Always ringing to see
whether i was free.

Then I realised I missed
real food,
I missed my Dads dinners.
I missed vegetables,
bolognaise,
I missed that the most.
My Dad made one of which to boast.

So I set out to cook
didn’t use a book.
There was always
the chip shop,
If it came out a flop.

I remember a time
I tell my daughter,
as i take fruit strudel
from the oven
turning cheesy scones,
A quick stir of the thick
tomato sauce speckled with basil. . .
I remember a time
when your Grandad let me be,
so I could play,
till the day that I was ready.
I remember a day when I couldn’t cook,
not even with a book.

Karen Hayward ©*2014*

Caressed by ebbing calm

Skin wore the essence of summer,
Kissed by waves, embraced by currents
A taste of salt and golden glitter.
Hair a tangled web of curls
Yellow weaves of Destiny
ocean eyes deep and fierce.
Those days were our making,
Druid souls seeped in Poseidon’s kingdom.
Bare foot stamping our mark upon this world,
etched forever into spirits
energised by Helios,
soothed by Selene
caressed upon those shores
by the oceans ebbing love.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image and words

Time ticks and tocks in the silent beats of ego

Slowly it falls into oblivion
smashed glass shattering
memento.
A brief pause when it hits.
The cursed pleasure of karma.
The jar becomes my integrity
Piercing decades of time,
the coffee grains, my dignity
spilling openly at his feet.
I count my blessings looking
at the tattered remains
of myself, it could have been
worse. He bent to gather
the shards of glass.
It could have been
tampons. That look,
the one that says twenty years
and still she’s as clumsy
as ever. . . too late, the look
lost now among the poetic
irony of a dropped jar
of coffee.

Karen Hayward (c)2017
Image via wordpress library