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

Daisy, dandy, buttercup kisses

I’d rather be a weed,
then a flower. I’d rather
be seen as ugly
then pretty, strong
then weak. Resiliently
stubborn fuels my
I’d rather grow in the
cracks of a beaten side
walk where the
old and the young,
pause before me,
then be lost in the
shadows of a
forgotten garden.
I’d rather be a weed
I’d rather be free.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Whispering wisps.

IMG_20170727_193140The trees murmured of our love
long before the leaves whispered
our ancient names. On births
creation a constellation of
speckled veins traversing,
passing, rushing, yearning…
passion stirring, paths crashing.
Entwining energies, stoic
thread of silver calm, stitched
perhaps by Zeno in days before.
Are we the calm or the storm?

Karen Hayward ©2017

Silent melody.


If the bird song fell silent for a moment as the sun reached his flames into the sky, what would I hear? Would I hear the soft flutter of butterfly wings, or the breeze whistling through the blades of grass? Perhaps the earth would hum a delicate background tune that echoes in the empty skies. Or maybe I would hear the soft ebbing of the tide as it caresses the shore, a distant loving embrace. If the world fell silent in these moments as day breaks would I hear my own thoughts as they linger on my skin, would I hear the universe whispering letters of love, would the sun speak of passion and the descending moon speak of wisdom? What would I hear if I could not hear the birds morning melody?

Karen Hayward ©2016

What is Love?

Why does the soul search the endless nights for

          invisible clues that create a puzzle that can only

be seen by the beholder? Is it love? Does love drive

             us to create an illusion of perfection in our world

of fantasy? Is love the reason I want to crawl inside

of his mind and flick through his black and white

memories, scrutinyzing each picture in detail and

creating my own images in the dark shadows that

his sight never touched? Is that love? Is that

the reunion of two abandoned souls lost in time?

Is love the; seconds, minutes, hours, days and years spent

staying away, staying hidden so as to not reignite flames

that refuse to go out, flames that have no place to burn,

is that love?  Is love the fight you refuse to walk away from,

the constant humiliation of a returning moment of recognition,

I am here, always I am here, lest you may forget, I am here.

Is that love?

Is love the deep desire to devour another’s body?

To lay naked beneath the stars next to them?

To abandon all fears, to explore new heights

to reach to stars you never knew even existed. Is this

not love? Is it not love when the peace you feel comes

from deep inside, from knowing them, having touched them?

Is love not, letting them go, letting them walk another path

one that was never destined for you?

Is that not love too?