Between the grained remnants of adolescence.

img_20171111_221855375989982.jpgI soared to new depths within these magnolia

spewed walls of confinement on brown plastic

chairs that burned liberation from the spirit.

We stared continuously through a blank canvas

of educational institution. Wall upon ceiling

Upon brown carpet squares.

And you were the devil.

Cloaked in Grandmas clothes.

Not my grandmother, but someone’s.

You drew air deep into your double breasted

lungs giving life to your outdated fancies of

corporal punishment.

You taught me only to fear those

words written

those thoughts driven

those ideas fit only for oblivion.

Where hung your creativity?

Lost in the sharp edge of a blunt fringe

cut and cut and cut year upon decade

upon the little girl trapped in the

grained memories of a war fought and survived.

Never a soul shone in your class

no spirits soared, no eyes feversihly

Burned beyond the dull ache of melancholy.

We were there,

but nobody knew where…

but nobody knew where.

You looked at me with the same disdain as others,

hollowed my name through pert lips everytime

you caught me smirking instead of working.

Till that day as rain fell and heat rose,

all around a collective sigh and dramatized yawns.

If ever a vortex existed

It was there, that day,

at the back of the class by the window

where the last rays afternoon of sun teased

goodbye like the ticking clock, freedom

draining its last dregs as words suddenly

sprung into life…

It all started here, her yellowing dress,

the cobwebs that consumed, love so great

pain greater still and tragic love

broken promises and tiny graves,

right here, this was the day.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

 

Decaying Lace.

IMG_20151102_114056 (2)

Broken mortar crumbling away.

Glass squares that make a pane.

Saw dust where once was wood.

Knock it down, they really should!

Lost memories and stolen kisses

whispered thoughts and true misses.

The firsts the lasts

the forgotten memories of someones past.

A decaying world now unsung

contents lost probably flung.

Home to critters the lost and quitters

filled now with decades old litter.

It started here, it started there

surely someone out there cares.

The broken soul of this decaying place

is someones memory of perfect lace.

Karen Hayward. (copyright) 2015.

Vanilla and rhubarb.

You got me thinking the other day
as we sat talking
about the first day
we ever met. Only,
it wasn’t the first time,
we had sat in the same classroom day after day,
me at the back
with too much to say, and
that was only, on the days when i wasn’t away.
Your hair was brown,
mine dyed black or blonde maybe,
Your eyes grey,
Mine a deep eternal blue,
Neither of us had a clue.
Your voice a whisper,
As my laughter echoed between the brown plastic chairs.
Your eyes pleaded and I could sense your fear,
So I told you yes,
What you wanted to hear,
I warned you to stay back,
He wasn’t your type,
He was rotten to the core,
You told me you wanted more,
asked me to go with you
We were opposites, it’s true.
But that day,
In that class
When you timidly asked,
you had no idea of the
World,
That this girl,
Walked in, with its,
Drink and its drugs,
And friends, that were thugs.
We drank through the nights,
Slept in abandoned sites.
I soothed your tears,
told you,
What you needed to hear,
As he broke your heart, like i said he would,
From the start.
I helped you up,
You wanted more,
It wasn’t enough.
We danced with the universe,
Drank with the stars,
spirits woken, we
Met the broken,
All because,
we had finally spoken.

Karen Ann bread and jam!

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,
Cos it was never me,
I used to run and flee,
When the pans came out,
And dad did shout.
I remember calling you up,
To find out,
How to bake a potato,
Yep,
A potato,
Cos i didn’t know.
And how to make
Cup cakes.
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 dads dinners,
I missed vegetables, bolognaise,
I missed bolognaise the most,
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 was a flop.

I remember a time,
I tell my daughter
As i take the fruit strudel
Out from the oven,
and turn the cheesy scones,
A quick stir of the thick tomato sauce speckled with basil ,
I remember a time, when 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.