To gather lost pieces.


If I gather up
the cracked
pieces of
the shattered
grains of soul,
the shards of
spirit, the
chipped remains
of identity,
perhaps you
could help me
tidy them into
neat piles of
rationality, dust
away the insanity.
Fill the voids
with self believe,
polishing them
with self confidence
long lost in the
devils hour.

Karen Hayward* ©2017
Image and poem.

Ignorance sure ain’t bliss. 

If truth be spoken and lies erased 

Life forsaken, spirit raised.

Then ponder me for just a mo,

Let’s sit and watch the peacock show. 

And when all is done, left alone, 

Sat upon your empty throne,

I ponder then do they know,

Who will love you when they go. 

For carry then their tainted mind

Transcendence they will not find.

Ignorance is sure not bliss

We are not forgiven when gone amiss.  

Karen Hayward ©2016

Image and words. 

Life’s celebration in springs bloom.


A celebration of life?
I ponder what is such
without poetry?
And what is poetry
without life?
But for the empty void
of letters amassed
together to create a
void of existence
nullifying to the soul…

I declare in the twilight
hours of my despair
I shall never utter the
essence of your spirit
upon my page again
and in that instance
I wonder do I seize to
be a poet?
For even silence
tells a story..

Spring blossoms
afore me,
petals peeling away
layers as the
sun warms and
mirth wakens
the earth.
Upon the new breeze,
your whisper,
telling me to reach
to the skies,
upon eternal wings,
fly, I hear, fly and
celebrate life.

Karen Hayward* ©2017
Image and words.

The darkness it cocoons me. 

Early to bed, early to rise in the darkness of an infinate sky. Silence accompanies me from the shadows engulfed in the echos of lonesome foot steps, intrepid indignation of the souless tip toeing through dreams collecting their jar of essence. The empty echo of existence cocoons me in comfort, alone as the universe continues ticking by my reflection is lost in the mottled skies.  The blind become the seers as the seers fall blind, the conscience offers tickets to a map of my mind, front page refusal for the story they would find. And so the night becomes recluse and i fall from the stars shadow fingers  claw my skin opening old scars. And darkness it becomes me seeping through the pores, begging that I dance with it, just once more. 
Karen Hayward ©2017

…and then I saw you.


…and then I saw you,

the source of ancient whispers

caught upon springs breeze.

The warm caress protecting

from winters freeze,

the soft echo of snow,

The golden rays and pink skies

of summer, the oceans call

and the silence of

autumns twilight hours…

and then I saw you the source

of ancient whispers and then I saw

you and I knew I was found.


Karen Hayward ©2016


At the mouth of Eden.



…and when I stand before gates of pearl at Edens mouth, our

creator calling my name on divine breath within a

celestial Kingdom, will I find you waiting beneath golden rays,

scroll in hand the calligraphy collective of pain scrawled upon

ancient paper? Will I recognise your face from the haunting moments

in my life that I beg to forget? Is the ink in which you write the essence of

every heartbreak I have felt and will I smell again the stench

of rotting death that has followed me in my darkest moments?

Or will I discover on entering the gates that all along you had

wings of such magnitude and upon that scroll is not a lifetimes

pain but a lifetimes achievements. And that the ink in which you

write truly is not the essence of pain but the collective jar of my tears,

each one a reminder to the Angels of Time why it is that they guard

Pandora’s box. And when I hear your voice will I instantly know

you were the birds that chirped at mornings dawn, the breeze that

whistled through autumn trees and the rain that tapped

upon my soul. And will you tell me that in my darkest

moments when my soul was being torn from my existence,

it was not my pain you were there to collect…it was my fear

and all that held me back.


Karen Hayward ©2016


Stars between the cracks in existence.

*insomnia and pain related ramblings.

I sit beneath dark starless skies and I wonder why the clouds must hide them my from view. I eat beetroot straight from the pack using the same spoon i used to eat the tinned peaches, I am hungry, but right now I eat for the sake of the naproxen pill I just swallowed. I chase it with pain killers and wait patiently, sipping sweet tea and wondering what else I can eat. One, two, three, four I know the source of today’s pain and the tiredness that rocks deep at the core of my soul. One, two, three, four. I could quit. I won’t though. i ponder my own insanity as I recall the screwed up sheet of paper with pencil scribblings of my plans for the year. I could quit. I am my
own worse enemy. I am stubbornness with a capital S. One, two, three, four. I wonder what kind of muscle memory it takes for a person to write pen to paper. Today I danced in the perfect rhythm of the beats I counted in my head as I stared at my feet. One, two, three, four…four times I looked self discovery in the face, in the faces of the other dancers as they stared indifferently at me facing them instead of the blank magnolia wall. It is only through failure that we learn to excel. Some would call my coordination a failure, i call it a triumph. I look again to the skies and wonder why I cannot see the twinkling of the dying lights, why must there be only darkness. I’m hungry and consider cereal as an option as the pain killers kick in and the naproxen sets to work. I try to recall the last time I slept straight through the night, but my memory struggles to go that far. Stifling a yawn I grab my hot water bottle, another piece of of beetroot and climb back into bed, with heavy eyes, I look one last time into the dark skies and hope I might see a single star  from between the cracks in existence.

Karen Hayward ©2016. 


Blame it on science or our biological formation.
Blame it on a conceptual scapegoat or on unknown causes.
Do as you please.
No amount of avoidance will give you escape from self deceit.
No matter how many times you scrub away at layer upon layer of  you’ll never erase those sins.
No amount of bleach will cleanse your palms of the florescence glow beneath
a black light. 

Karen Hayward ©2016