Stop the endless search for purity

If only they would stop searching the endless paths of

hopeless fools that dominate the green green grass

of earth. If they could just stop looking to appease the

lost souls of the blind clones and their followers, they

could be free. They could strip away the insecurities

of an unstable society and walk the balance beam of chaos,

one foot in front of the other as their soul flies on ahead

to clear the way. If for a moment they could shake away

their prudish thoughts, let passion enter their minds, brush

away the dirt of a gentleman’s rule, they could know ecstasy.

The creeping wave that floods through the perfectly tuned body;

inhibitions left at the door, clothes strewn across the floor,

desire in the fingertips of fire, passion no longer

denied as the flames burn inside.

If only they could walk this path, leave behind the sins of

the clueless few who fear the strong. So much fear for the other side,

for those that walk bare skinned without sin beneath a veil

of devilish fun with tantalizing tales of lust, stories of trust

and moments in time of naked bodies never meant to

be mine. Alas, the path is their choosing all mottled in grey

always concerned for the place where they lay.

Karen Hayward ©2015

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

Tinker tailor soldier… 

Sometimes you can bite a tongue too deep,
Awaken a dormant sleeping beast,
A scorpio was never born to be meek
Her protective stance is her sleep…

But scales must be aligned, to be fair
You ever wondered how she got there?
A Lone walker, she needs no one to care
Self destruct, from a single source they share.

Now silence echoes as the future calls
A blip on the radar she will cut the cord
Pull at the lines and break her own fall
At best it will leave her just a little bit sore.

For meekness was never her skin
and respect not given where dues
Is the strength it now brings
as she wanders away,
to forget about you, for the loss
of respect, where respect was due.

Karen Hayward ©2018 image and words 

Overload.

The draft box has once again exceeded 100, you guys know what that means right, yeah, sorry I’m gonna be spamming odds and ends of my thoughts for the day in the hope that some will become poetry 😀😀.
I shouldn’t need to thank you.

I shouldn’t need to say,

but thanks for cleaning dishes

that’s one less job today.

Karen Hayward ©2016.

Ancestoral whispers.

Legs trample me in their rush 

to achieve greatness as I fall to 

the floor consumed by weakness. 

My transparent existence lays torn. 

I offer no resistance to the 

oncoming stampede as vultures 

devour my innards to feed. 

I reach alone into the heavens 

gazing at the stars, 

whilst soldiers of Beelzebub 

claw at my scars. 

No one hears my screams 

they echo through the thunderous

 clouds, no one see’s my face 

beneath the masquerade shroud. 

I converse coherently to my 

inner child, 

we sit broken 

on the cold concrete for a while. 

Dirt stained hands rest upon my

 shoulders, 

holding me down, 

helping me drown. 

Gulping down the polluted air

I feel it spread through my veins 

Staining my heart, branding my soul. 

I stop breathing.

Listen to the beat

of my dying heart as

my blood slows.

Beating

Beating

Beating

Beating. 

…Beating.

From beneath the shadows of darkness

I hear the distant ancestoral whisper. 

Drums fighting for the perfect 

beat rapidly a chaotic rush

of angry echos.  

Eyes open I see past the legs 

that trample, 

I push away the tainted 

hands of despair. 

My apparent transparency the force 

in my rising soul,

as my inner child whispers,

I need not be seen,

to be whole. 
Karen Hayward ©2016 (image and words)