Time moves between the shadows

The universe doesn’t pass time in the moving of seconds,
Instead, the ascending and descending of life events.
First there is birth to the perfect parents.
Not perfectly good or perfectly rich,
hell they might not even be perfectly hitched.
But for purpose sake, the bond is purposefully stitched.
Or un-stitched in some cases.
At a soul level you’ll recognise their faces,
past lives leaves scars, freckles, tiny traces.
Childhood happens, you might be rich you might be poor,
the universe keeps ticking never keeping score,
look around at the beauty, she only wants, that you want more.
For some there is light, for some of us dark
and as the grains of sand slip, we all walk a path,
Living becomes a story that leaves another mark.
Till finally we learn there are lessons at hand,
Life is a map only our souls know the plan,
from the moment of birth when Terra began.
They’ll be tears, they’ll be hurt and boy they’ll be pain,
they’ll be days when we count seconds by the drops of grey rain,
and some of us sadly, will be driven insane.
But alas time must trickle through the portals neck,
as we eat, pray, play, work and slumber in bed,
Till finally we wake, then we are led.
For each soul that wanders for each mind that grows,
lessons are delivered knowledge is sown,
and time passes by in a constant flow.
Some of us lucky our lessons we learn,
twin flames found at the very first turn.
Some of us feel time, feel time, as each second burns,
time hesitates, stammers and screams,
we can’t figure out what the symbols mean,
we can’t make sense of the time that has been.
The universe doesn’t pass time in the beating of hands,
time is explored through our souls and their plans,
some paths we can’t and some paths we can.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

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Caught between sleep thought

Caught between two planes of existence,
slumbers promise a far of lie,
lost within the realms of my dreams
all fingers, eyes, smiles and presence,
held captive within your essence
as spectres draw me from my sleep
fingers cold dragging, pulling
gasping as touch becomes real
and I am awake, in the darkness
of eternity,
caught between the two planes of existence,
again and again and again
you are there, waiting for me to dream….
again and again and again
they are there waiting to pull me from my love.

Karen Hayward ©2018 Image and words

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Has never been certain
if 5am belongs to the night
and his shadows.
A tinker, fixing the broken fragments
of my mind that shatter
on impact of thought…

… Or if it belongs
to peace of mind on morning
song bird, a symphony
of love before reality
takes another bite.

I wonder does it even matter
A moment between the worlds
the sun is yet to rise
so I sit talking to grey
melancholy skies…

Karen Hayward ©2018

I envy them, him, their love has a pureness seen only in the final pages of old dusty fairytale books, each kiss I believe renders them immortal, spells dispersed and magic created in the enchanted presence of such a love as theirs.
Such a simple existence, a moments kiss and passion fills their auras spilling outward, exploding into the melancholy day and yet, a kiss filled with so much desire and not an iota of indecency, as though they are God’s angels, as though their love is blessed by the heavens and coveted in white feathers. They speak with their eyes, knowing glances that say, ‘ill be back soon my love, but in these seconds without you, know only this, I exist for you, for you.’ I envy them, him, her, I envy them.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

This is an observational poem on a couple I see almost daily, in the latter part of their lives now they still love each other with a pure depth, she stands at the gate waving till he’s at the end of the road, where he gives her one last wave before he turns the corner… It’s a beautiful thing to watch.

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Atoms folding in

We are all broken
fragments of hope,
scattered tirelessly
through times
path across linear
dimensions
weaving through
planes of existence
here upon Terra.
Poor ageing Terra.

Then Gaia kissed life
into us, the skin
was her canvas
and the scars the
colours as Mother
painted energy
between the deep
rivets adding gentle
brush strokes of
silent hues
and vivid screams
of life.

Her paints run low now,
her waters are dry,
the air dirty,
her creation is
decaying, compromised,
the canvas rotting…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image via WordPress

A serenity

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