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

Media, pedia….


We don’t look like that, do we?
All tanned and toned and
perfectly honed, with matching
knickies, bra and socks…
No not socks, panty hose
swaying frocks, and perfect
thick, fine, curly, straight
long short, natural, dyed locks
And breath.
We don’t look like that. Do we?
Not naturally, surely.
Hell I’m all pale skin
curves not thin
odd socks, hipster pants
and runaway hair, tamed
and flamed, a wild mane.
I suppose I could change.
Paint away my creases
Click away my knobbly knees
Re-root my slither of silver strands
Start wearing, pink, frilly pants
matching lace bras and sheer tights,
nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes!
We don’t look like that,
really, do we?
Do we? Tell me, do we?
I suppose I could use
lotions and potions
rewind the motions.
such an odd notion.
To be something we are not,
or perhaps we are
perhaps I am wrong
I should adorn a thong
be smooth to the touch
hide away my blemishes
I should embrace the fuss…

…doesn’t really matter
what I think, we grade beauty on
personal perception,
do they think this is real? Banished blemishes,
smoothed out creases,
erased slithers of silver…

..men are daft,
surely, yes.
Do they really care?
Or are they
too busy
toning up
picking vests,
Oiling up
perfect six packs
combing through
Mc dreamy hair
trying also,
to be magazine
best.

Am I wrong?
Should I care?

Karen Hayward © 2018

In the link is 18 images of one woman, photoshopped differently according to culture…

It’s so easy to get caught up thinking women (and men also) look like the images in magazines, or that we should attain to look like them.

Media makes us ashamed of age, growing older, silver/grey hair, stretch marks, extra weight or untoned muscles, that we forget the simplicity of imagery….they’re just meant to look pretty.

Women (and men) do not look like this…but do we know this? Do they know this? Isn’t that where the insecurity lays?

Wishing upon planes thinking they are stars…

From this angle, she see’s the universe,
the infinite promise of light in dark
and ponders if believing is perverse
Like the damned wishing on eternal stars.
likely soon he’ll skin the flesh from her soul
bleed her dry till she’s tender on the tongue
shelling the carcass upon an old knoll
ripping at rotten scars where life had stung.
And she’ll tumble, doe legged into headlights
the scattered remnants of one’s own soldier
fettered to the darkest skies of twilight
falling nude at the hands of her poacher
Perhaps we pander to the passing planes
Thinking them stars, just spectators of shame.

Karen Hayward © 2018
Image found via Pinterest
#sonnet

Sharp edge of poverty

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 

Toes skipping across marble floors…

I suffocate in the silent notes
of a forgotten orchestra
as it drowns me in its melodious
song, the ancient whistle of
Pan and his nymphs dancing
to an unheard tune as I lose
Sight of skies of blue.
Dressed in topaz silk skimming
bare knees, purple ribbons
toes skipping on marble floors,
I hear the devil call as he lands
upon my shore…
All air is sucked from my lungs
Life drained from my veins
Tears milked from the shadows
of my heart as the walls tumble,
As the ceilings crumble,
As the chandelier shatters…

… fragmented diamonds,
sparkle in the darkest hours,
Light in life’s void, beauty in
It’s shadows…

I could drown in the
monochrome whispers of
fantasy, lost, suffocating
in my reality…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found via google search 

Adults look foolish – wordprompt

Give to me a life of laughter
Smiles, silly faces and random noises all submerged into an existence where *adults look foolish*
Lend to me days and seconds and weeks and minutes where the foolish look (as) adults traipsing through the playground of growing up in a world governed by Pan and designed by Tink. I am suffocating beneath the corruption of adult expectation, too quirky to grow old gracefully and to delicate to survive Neverland and the endless swings and roundabouts. My toes tingle when forced into heels, my hips twitch, my fingers rat a tat tat my eyes crawl across the landscape looking for adventure, but alas all I ever find is greyscale billboards declaring, “Do not play on the equipment of life, else stuffy adults look foolish” and I sigh, imagine myself a cherry pie, lay back and dream of clouds floating by.

Karen Hayward ©2018

 

This poem was inspired by a wordprompt I came across this morning by the talented Teresa Creation’s check out the prompt by clicking right here on this word….boom

Three word prompt #69 “adults look foolish”

 

Image from wordpress library 

I am a speck

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

A am a speck
Star dust.
An atom.
A mass of atoms.
A form created into structure.
Biological evolution.
I am a gender.
A stereotype.
Flesh, bones and grey matter.

And for the longest time the world’s axis stopped spinning at this realisation.

I am a speck.
An atom among atoms.
Star dust with an
ancient soul,
I am my reality
Living within another’s
surviving in a country
among countries on
a planet, among planets
Within a universe…
I am a speck.

Karen Hayward ©2017