The silent mist calls me home…

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I have a deep yearning
within me
for solitude
silence,
for the
swaying grass,
and whistling leaves
for rolling hills
endless skies of blue
and the rising
giggle of the days
sun spilling across
lush green grass
just beyond
the railroad
and her one
a week station
that sits patiently
without sound,
yearning for the
hustle and buzzle of life.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on Pinterest

The matrix of paper cut souls

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I wonder if we listen carefully enough

will we hear the distant whir of machinery.

A computerised filing cabinet,

blossoming leaves stained with the ink

of fallen tears.

A matrix of every decision I have made,

every indecision,

every heart break shared in solitude upon that bench.

What pain, fear, self esteem and lack of belief have

those frozen petals collected over the years.

And yet I never came back and told you.

I never told you that I passed those exams

you watched me study for, I never told you

I failed my history A level, I never told you

I failed my Maths…again.

I never came back to say I had sorted it out,

it was fixed, things were better,

I was hurting less. I wonder if these

fallen leaves are the half tales I recall.

If for a moment the thin veil

between worlds were to separate,

would I find here drawn against the

crumbling walls of this ancient castle,

the blueprint of my resistance

paths walked, destinies lost,

fates forgotten.

And who guards my precious data?

For I feel the ancient call tug upon my

soul as I wander close by, a core need

whispering on winters breeze carried

upon frozen dust particles,

calling me home.

But who is it that calls unto my soul?

Karen Hayward ©2016

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a genetic mutation…

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I sometimes wonder, am I wrong?

Am i wired faulty,

do I have a genetic mutation a

neuro-developmental glitch.

For no matter how hard I try,

I cannot see the world through

positioned eyes.

Words fail to slip from my tongue in

control of another,

I do not perceive a finishing line

that I must cross, or a spiritual path

that I must bless. I will not use my

gift to harm others…No matter what

weakness I know to be true, never will

I use them to hurt another like you.

My fault lays within, it’s the power to feel,

when pain has been felt,

it changes your view.

A mutation

a glitch

a malfunction of sorts,

to perceive beyond normal thoughts,

it’s a burden I carry into each day,

to know the reasons for what others say

is the reason I rise at the break of each day.

 

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

Tail so bushy…

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Little grey squirrel with a tail so bushy,
I see you sitting upon the red brick wall,
Pausing for a moment, listening for mummy’s call.
I wonder do you smile, as you skip across the road,
I Ponder your existence, squirrel oh so bold.
I wonder do you know that I watch you from afar,
Wondering where you sleep when the skies become dark.
I saw you, just some days gone past
I don’t take your picture, learned you are too fast.
No, instead, I pause and watch your beauty
As you balance the fence, skip jump and run freely.
Little squirrel I Ponder your home among the concrete,
But although sporadic, we do have the trees.
Perception is an interesting sight,
From here to there is a human life
But between the cracks, from my princess’s window,
Is a glimpse to a world, so few even know.
Here the sun rises and rainbows do arch,
Trees can be seen by the eyes oh so far.
I see sunflowers and roses apples and pears,
A glorious land, that the squirrels do share.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

The Peacock dances.

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There’s a repetitive stage,
a repeating of days
when vines interweave
through the speckled
edges of flirtations,
behind no closed doors
peacock feathers
splay upon her shore
through the speckled
flecks of essence
life’s laborious lessons,
I watch the clock
tick tock, tick tock
as zones align a duo
of wakefulness sleeping
through the empty
page…a constellation
of energy mapping
the designed reflection
of the peacocks
beautiful… selection.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image found on pinterest

So little control…

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So little control we have in this world.
I cannot control the weather,
when it rains, it pours, people
get wet and puddles form.
But I can choose to turn my head
to the skies and dance in those puddles.
I cannot control time.
It slips by in a beat of my mind,
grains falling, lost,
forgotten moments
as age creeps upon me.
But I can chase moments, savior time
and live within the seconds.
I cannot control the vicious spite
of a broken soul wallowing in the
Black ink of a victims role, chip
firmly etched upon their shoulder.
No, so little control we have in this
world, the broken will hunt,
kill and gather, and for what? For even this
broken world can see through the
Vicious veil.
I cannot control the actions of another…
I have control only of myself and I can decide to end the cycle.
Hate doesn’t have to breed hate…
And this does not make one weak,
for only the strong stand against societies sheep.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image and words

The sting of a pitiful stance.

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I feel only pity. Not for you, for those touched by you. Those stained with your toxin breath and acid words. Those that hear the echoes of your banshee scream as dawn calls upon another day and they believe they converse with an angel.

I pity the God’s you pray to, the hyprocracy in your evening cries, the venom in your devil eyes. A descendant of lilith, fallen angels with blackened wings fanning the vile words falling from your spitting tongue.

The serpent coils through your soul, what embers of innocence once lay there now crushed, dispersed on trade winds to a lover and another and any poor fool consumed by your succubus melody and the broken strings of your violin.

But alas I will carry your lesson into tomorrow on the beating wings of spirits love forever at my side. My gain was your want, eternal without condition beyond the physical realm. Spiritual devotion rewarded now in universal bliss…

Your lessons taught me the value
Of true loves blessed kiss. Your game play was preparation, for me to become his. Your poison was the toxin in my climb
as I learned self worth and when my King
took stand to claim his Queen,
I knew I was worthy this time.

Karen Hayward ©2017 Image and words

Market scent. . .

Technicolor legs, plastic bags, the bustle of life,

some striped blue, some striped white.

Apple scent hung in the air, angry wasps,

greedily, hovering ready to fight.

Men shouted “Bananas,

come and get your bananas”

in that cocky London accent that felt like honey

being sung across a crowded room.

On sunny days voices echoed above laughter

And when rain fell, the clip clapping of shoes

Surpassed the clip clapping of tongues.

Burgers sizzled, onions frying

cheap vinegar sold as ketchup in

Manky souviettes. Culture? Perhaps.

In among the faces I see hints of my

of second home.

I learned here of a world beyond my own.

But never beyond my Dad,

lost in market scents

Wandering the rainbow hue of humanity,

reaching stars, grabbing at his hand…

Only it never was his hand….How one girl

Could get lost so any times among row

upon row of plastic covered stalls

Is beyond me…The beating of my heart

as the hand was not his,

not his large fingers holding me,

not his warmth not his touch…Somehow in those crowds

Among the legs too busy too stop,

The bustle of voice the bantered rhyme,

Angels, is all i ever found.

Karen Hayward ©2017