Does it matter?
The path?
The destination is the
same so who cares the journey…
Grandpa, dad and boy cub
A supermarket bin
and nourishment
aplenty.
Does it matter?
The why, when, what
We judge too fast
and empathise too little.
Karen Hayward © 2018 Image and words
We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebel with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cider from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychedelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.
Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.
There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…
But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…
They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…
My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…
Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found via wordpress library
We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebal with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cidar from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychodelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.
Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.
There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…
But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…
They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…
My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…
Karen Hayward ©2018
Image found on pinterest
My map stands empty,
no pins to leave my footprints
across
the
globe
and the seven wonders.
I cannot boast of a thousand cultures
swimming first hand through my veins,
nor can my tongue speak of any language
other than the one given by my mother
as she enriched my palette with
poverty’s favorite dishes.
I’ve not seen a multitude of sunsets kissing
new horizons nor watched as the moon spills
pearlescent love across lakes, upon oceans, upon rivers…
Upon earth’s most glorious waterfalls.
I’ve never attended a grand ball,
or danced across a stately hall.
My memories are not decorated in cultures finest,
embossed in pearls encrusted in diamonds.
I am not cultured.
I was not taught the fundamentals of elocution,
I cannot call myself a lady.
My name is not a sought after rose fragranced in class
and watered with the travels of a Prada bag.
I guess I am poor…
and every morning I thank the gods for this blessing
and each evening
as I watch the same moon ascend the skies
I thank the heavens in my addressing.
I have no pins trotting across an atlas,
just the essence of my soul that walks with
each that has crossed my path.
I cannot speak in the tongue of others,
only the tongue of humanity. I am cultured only
in the depths of trust and loyalty, taught
only to give and never to take to smile in kindness
and never be fake. I’m better than no man,
and no worse then a Queen, taught to work
hard towards all that I dream. I will
give you my last, I will give you my first
whilst quenching my soul and its insatiable thirst.
I’ve no pins, no seven wonders, no silk or cashmere,
champagne is yet to cross my lips and still I’ve never
learned to twirl from my hips. I lack culture,
eyes empty and mind filled with the
common mans dream,
I’m better than no man, rich or poor,
and worse than no Queen on land or ashore.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words
I saw a man today picking litter of the floor,
a dog at his side I guessed they were poor.
He never said a word just got on with the job
never seen such a quiet and beautiful dog.
They say think of others and not just of you, so
I prayed he’d go unnoticed beneath a cloak of blue.
I watched him move his stuff to form a perfect pile
it took a few minutes, the dog waited all the while.
I watched the cars go by and people walk the street,
everyone too busy to even stop and greet.
He never paused to look around he busied with his hands
He stooped a little, walked in pain, yet tall, as if he
owned the land.
I watched this man rummage through the bins
they tell me feel no pity, for his cause are his sins.
‘He probably is an alchy, a druggie there’s no doubt.’
About this man in honesty they know absolutely nout.
‘He brought it on himself, addiction is a choice.’
Your self righteous words founded in fear spilling in your voice.
So I prayed you wouldn’t see him, blinded to your eyes,
for i’ll never change your thoughts no matter how hard I try.
I watched him fill his bag and feed that little dog,
I whispered to the skies, thank you, God.
They wandered on their way, slowly up the road
bin bag filled to the top with all he could hold.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)
Fucked up and broken the devil has spoken,
a black hole of despair and nobody cares.
There’s drugs and there’s hate at
those red flaming gates
and the horned one calls
to those that will fall.
He offers them drink,
to
watch
as
they
sink.
He takes from their soul…
a bit at a time,
feeds them back life
built upon crime.
And none of them see,
they think they are free,
as the devil moves their hanging strings
hanging down from his flaming wings.
A tale of the times,
of unspeakable crimes.
The rise of his word,
above the screams can be heard,
from the tops of the buildings
where they watch for the killings.
The poor on the ground,
what a muttering sound.
Confused and alive,
no one hears their cries.
They’re not the poor of the poor,
they’re the poor that did more.
They worked all the hours,
grasped hold of the power.
They bettered themselves,
looked after their health.
And the man on his throne
did not see as they roamed,
as they heard and they saw,
what it was to be poor,
in this world full of law.
So they rose,
when?
nobody knows.
They stood side by side,
refusing to hide,
held their heads up on high,
no longer they sigh.
They screamed through the tops,
battled the cops.
There was one there was two,
the numbers soon grew.
A revolution of sort,
some of them caught
held up in a cell,
still they did yell.
The coming was soon,
at midnight? at noon?
The poor had a voice,
the poor made a choice,
they were poor,
for sure,
but they knew what they knew,
were no longer a few.
Together they stood,
as they always should
an abundance of mass,
they had listened in class.
They stood for it all,
they refused to fall,
the poor are the poor,
one day,
no more.
Summers play, tired eyes,
to crash and burn beneath skies,
grounded lonely warmth.
