They’re Catholic, does it matter?

Their love is different. Perhaps it matters.

They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, the broken hip a memory of the past that remains in her gait, him in cut of shorts, a baggy office shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

They’re Catholic, does it matter?

They’re Catholic, does that matter? I say it like it does, like the cross in their window bears their souls, but where was God when she fell? Some people spill love from their pores in caring smiles and mindful nods. Her twinkle near most left that day, and for a moment I saw doubt in his eyes. He looks like St Nicholas, smiles like an old pirate and looks at his wife as though he has found the grail, I suspect he has. I suspect unbeknown to him, them, all of us, he has found that which is more holy, more powerful and more beautiful than any other earthly matter. Their love is different. The passion comes in his early morning jolts to the allotment, the way he stops at the corner looks back and waves like a mad man drowning at sea, anything to see that twinkle in his gals eye. She aged, over night, but her beauty never faded and her belief never drained. She smiles now with those sparkly blue eyes lined with tears as she hobbles past on his arm, him in cut of shorts, a baggy shirt buttoned up high and white spangly legs… They’re catholic, devout, they go to my church that I pretend to forget to attend and as I sit beneath the muted blues of an evening sky and watch him wander by I wonder. They’re Catholic. Does it matter?

Karen Hayward ©2018

Two Mirrored Self’s.

pexels-photo-220071.jpeg

Two Mirrored Self’s

© 2017 Harold Bo Clapsaddle,a hardball clod posed

©2017 Karen Hayward, Harked An Wary

Be of God’s love to be lashed inside

to confide well as Red does scarlet

which testifies like Jekyll and Hyde

cut of gut and heart bled ‘pon carpet.

See here? Torn edges of sanity

Neither, spirit nor soul, piece fits space

Ego then all asylum of self, cast reality

shattered drear, for lost is yonder trace.

The riddle, blood of Eve, essence

of Lilith, need of grieve, ripped Adam

spawn given fall, Sam’s sinful silence

a metamorphic war in every atom.



Heartfelt earthly befell from On-High

God tailors, to sew bare threaded bolder

of carnal braided sides, of yet I cannot deny.

of best carpenter, of whom I’m a beholder.

Blinded blood lust screams

A decaying scent of home

and whispers soft from dreams

In Celestial grace given of throne.

Above is brightest thereof

Yet crashing earthen axle

under chilly dark lost love

as mankind eats the apple.

Sin, lies, in lustrous deceit, it breeds

In it’s hot empty void of breath

is cold serpent promise and devil seeds

fed two souls, held to bereft.

Two together, two times

two corresponding equal

givin’ fourth, Great blue chimes

as clock towers eternal sequel.

Kinetic cat calls of sin swings

pendulum of doom upon love

as devil tips, and God sings,

dark shadows prey seeks above.

The confidence of purity, broke

two souls searching for home

the devil not in kindness, awoke

together they are eternally alone.

See of twain, of brain with binary eyes vain

bilaterally spoke is as Jekyll and Hyde reside

which butler shells orange crush so insane

as each alone does confide, to ere cockeyed.

From denial comes excuses

to straight-jacket cold heart

in abyss, crazy flossed abuses

it accuses so hot, that it infuses apart.

 

A rage of dark, demonic voice

suffocating, all but a fallen tear

pleasant death no longer a choice

as love’s beauty, succumbs to fear.

Clock-towered eternal hence

labors our wing of eagle dare

whence comest our lost sense

to air prayer onto God of affair.

Shall the trees be envious

of what green groves enjoy

that fell gold feathered devious

forthwith flown solitary employ.

Will not all things be envious?

Lost, found essence of dark

among visions given, rebellious

souls playing their part.

Lights dimmed, masks fell

monster, angel, sinner, saint, lover

fragmented mind, departing calls

the inner child, again does suffer.

 

Image found via WordPress library

Even the Devil doesn’t want you!

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Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Take the mornings
fragrance
into your soul.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the scent
of shame.
Never
forget it.

God, God’s
Deities, cosmos,
Angels, Gaia,
Science, Atoms
Spirits, nothing.

Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Feel the moist air.
Celestial tears
for the fallen.
Own it.
Know it.
It is the tears
of shame,
never
forget it.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .
Nothing.

Breathe in.
Deep.
Deeper.
Listen. Listen
to your inner guide.
Hear the universe
as she speaks.
Karma has a voice.
The angels speak
in whispers.
God talks through
pray.
The earth screams
through leaves.

Our fallen,
angel wings
leave a trail of
shadows to
heaven’s gate.

God. God’s.
Deities. Cosmos.
Angels. Gaia.
Science. Atoms.
Spirits. . .
Nothing. . .
Stand guard.
Delivering.
Returning evil.
Waiting at the
gates of hell.

There is no glory
In blood
stained hands,
even Satan,
refuses to open
his gates.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017

Image and words

Chaos and the end of the rainbow.

chaos

Ten balls to a dozen

and the world,

keeps a rushing,

spinning , twirling, turning

the world as we know it

is burning.

Black skies turn to day

Old mans compass has lost his way.

North is showered in glorious sun,

As winter spreads, death has come,

Rainbows end is now in sight,

pick up your sword, get ready to fight.

A portal of doom a snake of the lair,

don’t expect these

to understand fair.

The sinners

the greed

have long planted their seed.

Growing now the evolution of time,

society obsessed with

the addiction of crime.

Discriminate who? Only a few.

Earth is lost in a jungle of hate,

we are the ones, opening Satan’s gate.

He laughs and he roars,

as they knock at his door,

All of them coming,

some of them running.

They dance in the street

with the sun at their feet.

She looks on from a far

lunar tears, of falling stars,

she came so close,

she came so far.

Dolphins fly, birds swim,

cats wagging a new grown fin.

Houses thrash through thunderous skies,

But no one stops, to question why.

So many to blame,

name after name.

The blasphemers, the dreamers,

the non believers.

As trees burn to ash live dies in a flash,

Seas swell, swirling the living,

never forgiving.

Rock turns to dust,

metal to rust, affairs into lust,

this world has gone bust.

nonsensical bible stories.

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The inspiration for this poem came from a story that was told at Messy Church on Saturday. Messy Church is an amazing venture where by different churches do arts and crafts for children on different days. The children get to play and learn about God at the same time. It’s fun, I like it, my daughter absolutely loves it!

 

Bemusement settled in my mind well before we were asked

to put our hands together,  I looked toward Jesus on the stained

glass that gleamed in the sun and listened as the children

recounted the story. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I told myself it was a kids story, I had no reason to understand

its purpose, perhaps it was purposeless!

Sitting inside the hall where I dance to the beat of old songs

I can hear the empty echo of Thursdays pain vibrating through me,

today is Saturday, today the hall is a community setting.

I gaze across the tables wondering if any of the other

parents had understood the story, they probably had I told

myself. Irritation nestling in my eyes.

I am greeted by name and smiles reign upon me the

sweet tea tastes of comfort and the cake of friendship.

I am happy, I like these people and I like this…church.

But I am not religious and I cannot turn a blind eye to

stories that make no sense, and I remember, for me,

religion makes no sense. Awake alone at the kitchen table the

streets lay empty and quiet, I wonder does it matter

that I did not understand the story told to the children.

 

Karen Hayward ©2016

God popped round tea today.

I had God over for a drink tonight.
We sat enjoying the evening light.
We sipped slowly on hot sweet tea,
and he spoke a little about me.
I offered him a biscuit but he kindly did decline,
So I gobbled down the pack myself and hoped he wouldn’t mind.
He didn’t look like the books all say,
and he spoke in an entirely different way.
His accent, Scottish, Irish and a little more
and when he talked he paced the floor.
I didn’t ask the reasons why we live beneath a blue sky,
or why we tick and tock along
or what is right and what is wrong.
We talked of spring and blooming weeds,
of daffodils and sunflower seeds.
He plumped some cushions and took a seat
told me he was feeling beat.
Busy, busy till the day of rest
Wednesdays he said, I do detest,
But Tuesday, said this short haired man
Was really not Thursdays fan
and alas, Wednesday made the final plans.
His cell phone (green, just saying) beeped and beeped,
I asked him does it ever sleep?
Never, God said to me
I am always forever free.
He pulled a ragged deck of cards from out his denim pocket,
out fell too some aging hair locked up tight in a locket.
A card for me a card for him,
He said, show me now the way you win.
I blushed a little and filled with heat,
for God knows at games I cheat.
He smiled as he read my thoughts,
and said, my darling girl, it is I that controls what you are taught.
So we played the game
with no shame
and he did lose
this is true.
I yawned a little as stars blinked by
and God stared lovingly into the sky.
Look here, he said whilst pointing out
I looked upon the dying night,for constellations I know nout.
This is my window he said to me,
all of you are what I see.
When tea was drunk
and biscuits dunked
I walked him to the door
he took me by the hands and said, it’s okay to not be sure.
I looked a moment into Golden eyes,
then bid God a brief goodbye.

Karen Hayward ©2016.