Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
God damn poem,
Karen Hayward ©2019
Dear one I have no business talking too…
It’s not rocket science my sweet…
They decieve us…not man, although they too lie,
I’m talking about books, poems, stories
Love, does not shackle us to endless grey skies,
or cage us behind thick heavy trees.
Love is boundless, without an origin
and missing the tethered rip of an end
alone, is not a facet love will bring
and if it does, my sweet, he is no friend.
Alas, you are caught in despairs whirlwind,
tangled between pain and belief, entrapped
in a splintered labrynth with false King.
Awake now, your golden light has been sapped.
Wait no longer, gather strength and esteem
this is not love, just an endless bad dream.
Karen Hayward 2019
Image via Google search
And it begins, central in my forehead the deep pounding that promises storms on the horizon. Skies of peach Melba as a winter sun stretches his fingers through the frozen web of clouds blocking his way, and the throbbing consumes as we are swallowed by the darkening screams, and it beats, pulling, dragging, striking…my eyes beg to close as I am swallowed by the changing air, my eyes beg to close.
Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words
Angry cries from Satan’s soldiers
Negotiating the flames of hell
Grueling screams of deaths call
Redemption, a forgotten whisper
Yonder sinful haze of a broken soul.
Skies where once were blue
Killing innocence in crimson
Iridescent drops of life
Eye of sin, perpetual strife
Sinister the angry skies.
Karen Hayward ©2017 Image and words
Sometimes I ponder
what you are.
A mirage perhaps,
my body starved
from thirst, a mere
of the mind.
A phantom, maybe.
My souls need for hope
a self made vision
in a world of dark
by the crescent
Or perhaps you’re a
dream, a universal
symbol coated in
star dust, your essence
a mellifluous whisper
from my slumber.
But what are you?
How can reality
feel this way. My
reality. How can my
reality feel this way,
A fantasy then?
You must be.
A fantasy of love.
We were never
meant to be.
we are the definition
Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest
If one day I was so inclined
To leave a trail of me behind
Of tiny seeds to nurture so
and fragments of myself to grow.
Would a path of me evolve
In peppered flowers to dissolve?
Sprinkled petals speckles delight,
A seeded journey ablaze with light.
Twisting, winding, dipping and rising
Would my seeds become the horizon
Would Monica joan stand guard,
Protecting weeds near and far.
Tread bare dirt and dying land
Sahara tears in the devil’s hand.
Yet, between the dock leaves
nestling at the base of trees,
Perhaps would lay a daisy
Seen on summer days so hazy.
A gentle constellation of my presence,
Gaia kissed by my loving essence.
A sinful trance of naked song
Weeds growing where flowers belong.
Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image and words
Surround me, drown me, engulf me
the essence of your desire has long
become the beating drum of my crimson
blood. Silence now has a curved edge,
warm and delicious it licks across my skin
my palette accustomed to your
embrace, opiate love, in a storm
of ferocious passion, I hear the poison
as it lulls through the shadowed
maze of my mind, and I am lost to
it’s intrinsic beat, a harmony
of ancient touch caressing my soul. Look
here at the constellation of your kisses
as they trail my skin, for all that you are
I hang on the dependency of my need.
I hang upon the dependency of our love
dark and relentless it is the beacon
of my spirit.
Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words.