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…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

It’s not rocket science sweety

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

It begins

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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

A phantom

celstialtears

Sometimes I ponder
what you are.
A mirage perhaps,
my body starved
from thirst, a mere
hallucination
of the mind.
A phantom, maybe.
My souls need for hope
a self made vision
in a world of dark
shadows kissed
by the crescent
moon.
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?
Reality? No.
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.
Of acceptance.
We were never
meant to be.
Or perhaps,
we are the definition
of serendipity.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image found on pinterest

Dandelion trails.

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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

“in love’s opiate embrace” 

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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.

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