In humble blessings. . .

"Ripples"-Josephine Wall. the treasure of children cannot be more true <3

Do you know?
Those precious moments
in your presence are honey
nectar to my soul.
Do you know?
The depth of truth i
can speak in your space,
the tears that fall,
the weakness shared,
the strength celebrated.
Do you know?
Why of course you do.
We share a fight.
You know the silent
echo of days with
out another’s voice.
You know the
sleepless nights.
The forlorn faces
the scorn of tone.
You know.
You know the value
of precious seconds.
Expressions saved
for chicken sandwiches,
doughnuts and coffee.
And more coffee.
Some times cola,
whatever our hearts
desire in that moment
we are me and you,
not mum and mum,
not with needs family,
not ‘oh them again’
not silent whispers of
pity or the markings
of shame.
You call me
your mermaid with
eyes from the oceans
depth. . .I pause
In humble blessings,
for I lunch with
an earth bound Angel.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on Pinterest

I’m feeling kinda okay

Here inside my box. 

I’ll open a window, a door,

But i hide,

Like the sly fox. 

I linger in shadows watching 

The world, listen with 

A poets beat,

I don’t know the meaning 

Of defeat. 

But i do like the silence,

The empty echo

And the fragrant scent 

Of honesty.

So i linger in my box,

Peer from the door,

Reach from the window so 

The breeze can Dance

Through my hair.  

And the sun whispers,

Come on out your shell my dear.

The moon filled with excitement

Giggles and chortles….

‘Its a dare.’

And I’m left mumbling, 

That’s not fair! 
Karen Hayward*©2017

Multiverse of possibilities.

Collaboration between myself and a very talented poet/writer/creator Blueflamez.

Check out more of his work on the link at the bottom! 🙂

img_20160729_133026.jpg

Forget the Ink, forget the page.. Let us entwine thoughts

and become the very essence of poetry. We’ll dedicate the

blank spaces between letters to the creation of our realities

based upon our fantasies. Quills together in shared unison,

a creative rush of chaotic lunacy…the building blocks of

moral sanity a pandemic thought spread throughout

humanity.Think about the concept, the art, those same

words embedded in your mind, the margin, the heading,

the facts you can piece together, and tear apart. The real

challenge is shaping up and breaking down the mental

blocks that can hold you back, only to channel that creative

spread that surrounds you, and unlock that potential.

Harness the power of a world within the world, the multiverse

of possibilities, choices, to see the mirror image of who

you were, to the person you’ve become. You are the pages,

you are your eternal life of spoken truths, and written fantasies,

your signature is your personality as your greatest work of all.

The letters of your existence a strong hold of knowing,

unknowing becoming and undoing. Call your name into

the cosmos, start with an inaudible whisper if you must,

there is no rush. Say it, shout it, call it from heavens bed

sign your essence across the skies of men.

Sign your soul across the minds of man.

Karen Hayward & poetryflamez ©2017

Image Karen Hayward ©2017

Find more of poetryflamez work here.

 

 

 

World poetry day.

Oh I love world poetry day. What a truly amazing thing to celebrate! So I’m going to take a teeny tiny break from writing poetry and actually talk about poetry and what it means to me. Let’s start with my favorite poem…The Gruffalo, Julia Donaldson, some people will sit back and think but that’s a book, yep, but have you ever read it? Truly read it, heard the beat, the rhyme? Exactly. There are a few reasons why I love this poem so much; firstly it just simply rocks, secondly…okay let’s start a new paragraph for this bit.

When I signed up to complete the last part of my degree a big part of me (the whole of me) thought I was crazy to believe that I could actually complete a creative writing course. My grammar is stupidly stupid, my spelling isn’t terrible but I do struggle with the i before e unless who even cares rule, I make words up as I go along, my vocabulary was lacking, I was seriously under read compared to my peers and most importantly I had never, ever, ever written a single thing, so what the fuck was I even thinking! Logging into the forums this dread was multiplied by a gazillion, other students were talking about, Blake, Wordsworth…bah blah blah. It was an elitist competition to see who was better educated, who had experienced the more privileged upbringing, who was better cultured. The more books you had read (classics, they had to be the classics) or the more poets you quoted (even better if you were also able to recall from memory the exact details of their last meal on earth) the higher up this rank you scuttled. I was doomed. It was sink or swim. But in truth this situation did cause me to stop and pause I constantly felt I wasn’t good enough and every word I tried to put on the page wasn’t good enough. The problem was my thoughts were stuck, they were stuck on the idea that a poet/writer has to be a certain way…and dear God I did not fit that way. But where did this idea actually come from, what made me think that only educated, grammar nerd super wizz readers could become poets/writers? The obvious answer is; society, media, the education system, people, elitists the list is pretty endless and I could support this statement with a few links, but who truly cares. So what changed? At first nothing at all, I continued to be completely daunted by the forums and actively avoided them. I did go to the library and get out some poetry books, I took them home put them on the table and three weeks later I took them back to the library unread.The changes to my confidence were actually very rapid, increasing which each assignment I got back. My tutor kindly pointed me toward a new range of poets better suited for me (he also, with every assignment, gave me the web address for grammar and begged me to go read it!) but perhaps most importantly he validated that poetry comes in numerous forms, including, The Gruffalo. Okay i’m rambling I know, let me get to the point. Not all of us want to read classic poetry, not all of us are interested in books that are long covered in thick dust and dead skin. Not everyone reads simply as a way of showing off their amazingness. Some people read a poem because it feels good, because they can relate, because the language does not require a dictionary…I want to write for those people, so they too can enjoy poetry. The Gruffalo reminds me of this choice that I made, it reminds me that it is more important that a poem makes you feel alive, that the words feel good and that the images jump from the page. So The Gruffalo, is my favorite poem. ♥

 

Karen Hayward ©2016