..and they bottled the good the bad and the ugly

… And so he collected pain in small jars and labelled them the past, with a footnote for the future…

… And so she collected pain in small jars and labelled them the future with a footnote for the past…

… And when she appeared he knew within his core…

… And when he appeared she knew it was her call…

… And those jars of pain that belonged to another, they whispered, shouted, screamed and demanded take cover…

… Believing her to be the devil…

…he opened up their lids at the first hurdle and let their essence spill…

… But she was the angel sent to save him..

… And so in fear she tumbled, the jars fell smashed upon the floor…

… And now she drowns in his despair no hand reaching there…

… For he was the angel sent to save her…

… And now, alone, she wonders if he was the devil.

…and they collect pain in small jars upon a shelf…

KH©2018

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A single bead of now all lined up in a row…





A split division of time traversing distance,
A minds inability to commute, conjures resistance,
But the soul craves truth, is insistent…

Now, is a concept of time rooting us to a moment,
the past as we breathe air into lungs deflating
before the present has a chance to conceive
Plausibly creating moment of movement, so we may believe.

But, I can map a Constellation of me to you, you to me,
Measure it in miles, seconds, oceans, hours, you see?
and then perceive such a chasm of space, physically.

Seven Russian dolls sitting on a shelf
A vortex of reality each within themselves
The past, the future, dimensions to delve.

Perception splits into uniformed understanding,
Group saving elicit pedigrees of knowledge
on post it notes without the sticky banding.

I perceive movement through the decaying of life,
rotting atoms of time losing this fight
But beauty is in the ancient, the essence of life.
And rebirth calls on spring whispers, always new light.

Stack the dolls in a black hole of despair
Merge linear perceptions, viewing to share,
and now becomes everything, yet, never quite there.
Nothing, all, void, everything… Space we now share.

Space we now share, kinetic vibrations
a pendulum swings dispersing sedation
Time, distance, miles and oceans have no relation,
In chiming sequence of tolling bells
A moments space, a moments realisation.

No distance, miles, seconds or otherwise,
Just two beneath the glittered skies
A moment captured, paused and stilled
together, now, nothing, everything and all,
Time conceptualised in beats of seconds
moving hands and changing dates…

…and there between the beats I found you, here but there… Here, together through the shared sense of now… There, seconds, miles, hours and oceans. Not here, not there… But somewhere.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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I read it once on the front page of a tabloid

I read once that it’s only love if you can list all the reasons why, otherwise it is simply biology, a response that with time will fade.

… and so I ponder when it was that love became a checklist of necessities and where on that list I should write that together we laugh like hyenas, contagiously giggling.

Further to this thought, when did love become a collection of data; a spreadsheet of positives, the five year plan of our futures, and is this the place where I should mention that I believe we have lived many futures, together, already?

I read once that we should consider love with our rational mind, so I consider the vagus nerve and your intrinsic understanding of her, I can comprehend the rise and even the fall, yet thought is without physical form, are we not told, that which we can not see or touch does not exist? Yet this we both know is not true, so where in my list should I write that I taste your essence at point of implosion.. Explosion?

I read once that it’s only love if you can list all the reasons why, otherwise it is simply biology…

I think Samuel Johnson Jr failed me in offering so few words…. for I could surely form a new dictionary based solely on my reasons why.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Did intrigue kill the cat too?

Is intrigue like
curiosity?
Is the cat taken
to slaughter
as she paws
at tender thoughts?
Will she be hung
drawn and
quartered
for the mouse
that wasn’t
caught?

Perhaps intrigue
Is gentler,
has an essence of
English rose
Whimsical fairies
dancing between
daffodil toes
in the mornings
sea mist.. that
kisses blush
lips…

But what if she be
the cat
of death that calls
through peeking eyes
of intrigue and
turquoise skies
as noose tightens
nine lives
lightened as
blood smears axe
as curiosity attacks…

So then if curiosity
be’s not the fate
of ole girl Ginger
as she paws through
the curse of black
mist that licks
at her mind
in the devils light
then, it can only be…

the kiss of white
mist, penetrating night
on thoughts of days
long lingered
whilst curiosity
may have
killed the cat..
Intrigue…
stirs her
primal call
from slumber

Karen Hayward ©2018