Darkest Light.

Photo
Darkest Light

Consuming
and all drowning
my essence of night.
Deepest blue,
darkest burgundy,
it matters not,
my essence is cloaked
in this state, this void.
Think not of my night
and my aura as negative
for a dark state
can be a canvas.
A blank page for
something bright
to create. . .something
bright to form
my nights’ sky
and give it character.
and make it
come alive.

Yet it should consume me.
Darkness such as the night sky
should devour me, swallowing
my essence into oblivion.
Do you see me?
I am a mere whisper
of light lost in the echos of time. Yet,
when you lay me upon
your dark essence,
your canvas
becomes my art.
Your depth is my contrast.
I tip toe through your darkest blues
leaving illuminated kisses.
My essence, glimmers and glistens
upon your touch, for my light. . .
is love,
created by your darkness.

Words & Image
©5-2017 Locthiese/Karen Hayward

Check out more work crafted by the multi-talented Loc Thiese by clicking here.

I am a writer, master of deceit.

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I am an artist. I am a writer. I am a child of fantasy and I weave deceit through silken ties of beauty to create for you a truth, a version of truth, a lie, a lie that spins from my tongue covered in the purest honey nectar. Take my hand let me create for us a utopia of love submerged beneath oceans of emerald green sprinkled with the dust of a thousand purest diamonds. Ooh how we will dance in the cool ebbing tide of love beneath the golden rays of an eternal sun, flames flickering as we frolic. I am a writer, a master of deception, let me weave for you a beauty that transcends the oceans of time as stars illuminate our skies and darkness creeps across our naked skin caressing the contours of our souls as they entwine beneath the pearlescent glow of a loving moon. I am an artist, I am a writer, I am trained in the art of observation, I am master of the tails I spin, I am the master of deceit. I am the devil in the guise of an angel my words are the armored wall that shrouds me so I may craft in peace perfect fantasies to appease. I am a writer, I am an artist, I am the pure light you believe exists, innocence the essence of my soul the gentle whisper that tickles across a spring breeze as dawn wakes and night leaves. Piercing eyes of distraction, soft lips of need, porcelain skin of vulnerability from upon my cloud of fantasy, I, see, all. I watch and learn, I listen and read I follow the paths of intentions hidden behind words, mismatch them. I can paint any picture of poetic perfection, I can map human behaviour, read the nuances understand the subtle hints and with perfect understanding I hear the things not uttered.  And I learn, and I learn. I am an artist, I am a writer I am a master of deceit.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)

What makes a poet.

I am a poet not a walking dictionary…

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Passion, a heart that races, lust for beauty, belief, faith, love.
Hate.
Darkness that swarms in the twilight hours.
Insight. Imagination that breaks the boundaries of societies blindness.
Fear that consumes.
Fear used as a springboard.
Desire so intense it spills onto the empty canvas in a chaotic song of prose.
Soul and spirit working in harmony, breaking daily.
Strength. Weakness. Blissful ignorance.
Love that refuses to be anything but.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Inspiration for this poem….all too often I see ‘inside hate’. Poets and poems judged according to their education, a spelling mistake damming them to hell. Why is anyone judging a poem on anything other then the poem itself, why is anyone declaring a person unfit to be a poet, because they spell a few words wrong…..I am a poet not a walking dictionary.

Poetry with a beating heart.

May I watch you sleep?
Watch your heart beat?
May I watch your eyes flitter as you dream?

May I run my fingers across your skin,
and internalise it’s texture,
may I memorise your heat?

Can I run my fingers through your hair,
and wrap a strand around my mind,
and colourize it’s every hue?

Can I kiss your tender lips,
a peck so very quick,
that I’ll feel forevermore?

Can I touch the contour of your hip,
map the shape of your legs,
plot the structure of your torso?

May I count the beats in your breath,
record the melody in your sighs,
May I hear the song of your dreams?

May I watch you as you sleep?
Watch your heart beat?
May I watch your eyes flitter as you dream?

For you see I am the poet…and you are poetry with a beating heart.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Where souls are created.

Poem inspired from a photo prompt, courtesy of David Palmer which can be discovered over on g+ right here in this super amazing poetry forum.

 

https://plus.google.com/+DavidPalmer816/posts/7B2WVj3ag6r

Every garden should be filed with tulips,

of every colour

with daffodils and daisies

and dandelion wishes along the end row.

Every garden should be filled with scented

roses of pink, yellow, glorious red and delightful

peach. There should be flower pots, welly boots,

rakes and old broken treasures.

For it is here in the garden that we are created.

It is here  beneath the  autumn leaves that the

young artist discovers colour and texture.

In springs fresh blossoms the young poet discovers

metamorphosis as the butterfly dances past.

It is here as the summer sun rises into the skies

that the musician sings the tune of the whistling

morning bird for the very first time.

And among the death of winter the writer rises

creating an escape of warmth and adventure as

Amazons and Swallows are relived.

And in every broken treasure is born the historian

hungry for knowledge and the engineer who see’s

life in the broken. And the crafter who see’s what can be

not what is as the future scientists mix water and scented

rose petals.

Every garden should be filled with tulips of every colour

and old broken wagon wheels, for it is here in the garden

that souls are born and spirits created and

children become their futures.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016