I sometimes catch my shadow

Photo

I sometimes
catch
the not so distant
sound of footsteps
lurking in past
shadows
walking
behind us.
Do you hear
mine? Bleeding,
tar like energy
through the
Open vines of our
existence.
Then the sun rises
and our past
shadows creep
Into our future self’s
Vivid darkness
contrasting light
I sometimes hear
the footsteps
of your shadowed
past creeping
alongside my
demons and I
wonder are they too
tied by the echos
of ancient maps.

Karen Hayward ©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

Cover them in Satan’s cream.

Once upon a day gone by beneath a deafening
thunderous sky. I waged a war on life
itself, gave my all with love and grace and
then just simply let it fall. I walked on sullen tippy toes
followed life’s incessant flow. Stopped for neither man nor beast
upon this life i’d lovingly feast. Once upon a day far gone
I danced to another song, with hidden lyrics and a tasty beat
constantly moving my naked feet.
I devoured hearts and stole away dreams
covered them in Satan’s cream. I never looked back,
never questioned my track, never cared for the consequences
my fear to attach was relentless.
Once upon a night long gone I sold my soul in the devils song.
I’ve since begged and pleaded to have it back
he only laughs and says ‘you’ll have only a crack.
You’ll see out, but they’ll not look back.’

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and wordsimg_20160419_221320.jpg

Soldier of ancient knowing.

mikewildyelginger1

My soul is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue barely filling

the crevices of histories voice echoing through the

lost caves of innocence.

Smashed China, pastel floral’s

lost in the vivid hues of self destruction…I wear my scars

with the whispered honor of shame, the rivets caused

by the dull blades have become storage boxes of rational

thought, irrationally taped together in tears that fall only as

darkness reigns…Even I must stay relatively sane.

And deep within this constellation of thoughts I search

the battle ground for your essence. Praying I will find you

safely jumping across the stepping stones of

my existence, but alas my horizon is clear and yet

I feel you so near. A soldier of love I find you

peeling back torn memories, embracing the deep

etches of self doubt and kissing away the deep echos of

darkness that shroud me from light. My honored Knight

taking arms against this lifelong fight.

My soul…

is the creation of a million broken pieces,

decoupaged together with your love and vintage paper towels

covering cracks, slithers of white glue and your gentle insistent

whispers of encouragement  filling the crevices of histories

voice echoing through the lost caves of my innocence.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image Michael J.Garland. ©2017

The good ole days…

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I remember a time when I was young
When us kids went outside for fun.
Our mums drank tea, had a natter
Their laughs echoing over the kids chatter.
The men earned honest money, with hard graft
They were the days, but they didn’t last.
 
Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,
As the promise of spring filled the street with mirth.
We wore hand me down clothes and real leather shoes,
Played in the growing corn, had lunch on the kerb.
We played kerby and footy bulldog and chase
Everything we did was always a race
 
Summer days in the summer haze
The field of corn lined with trees, no hint of a breeze
Daisy chain ropes that reached to the skies,
Dandelion clocks, oh how time flies.
Purple fingers, tell tale lips,
Blackberry pies with apple bits
 
Bonfire night, the woolies are out,
In before dark the mothers did shout.
Sparklers, fireworks, penny for the guy,
Halloween sweeties an endless supply.
We play on the cornfield, so empty and bare,
Its hard to remember what they grew there.
 
Snowmen so big we stood in awe, then
took turns aiming for the highest score.
One in each garden, some on the path,
A pile of wet socks, gloves, hats and scarves.
In the cornfield trenches were dug, ammo created
The older ones always dominated.
I remember the cornfield swaying in the breeze
Before they laid brick, took away the trees
Everyone got busy, the air grew stale
And nobody noticed when the kids grew pale.
 
Karen Hayward ©2017 (Image and words)