Fairy-tales do not exist

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Fairy tales do not exist
and cupids arrow will always miss.
The evil queen will always win
and every girl is filled with sin.

There’s no golden fleece to protect us all
no fairy godmother to stop your fall.
The birds don’t clean and cats don’t talk
and there’s no such thing as the perfect walk.

There’s no bread crumbs to find your way
and no fire breathing dragon for you to slay.
Hearts are real and cannibalism does exist
and there’s no such thing as the perfect kiss.

The emerald city and the world of oz are just a dream
and yes, people really are that mean.
Parlour tricks and a clever tongue
and no the spell won’t break with the morning sun.

Fairy tales do not exist
but I think I might
just take that risk.

Karen Hayward ©2015. Image downloaded via google

To ebb with the moons blessing

It is believed to be an honor
to ebb in sync with the moon
as she waxes into her full face
The ancient whispers of truth
filling sisters with grace…
Shamans, priestesses and healers
synchronise to this cycle of blood,
the red moon, ebbing and flowing
outward bound darkness sung
with light energy glowing.

But I would beg to differ…

An insatiable hunger holds me
As my carnivorous desire drives me
Rational thought now a forgotten entity,
The drummer boy with blades my new reality,
Seven days of sleep
then seven days insomnia,
I find silence now at twilight
sit deep in thought throughout my night,
Just me, the ham and the god danm fridge light.

Yet they say,
this is a blessing
the red moons energy
deep within my core
Empowering, releasing…

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Photo

Creating my own Arcadia

The stark emptiness of a blank canvas 
unfurling before my eyes. A lush carpet 
of soft blades of fresh grass tickling
my senses as I explore bare foot around 
the confines of my existence. 
Will you walk there with me into the unknown? 
With a touch of my finger I will spread 
daisies across the horizon, white petals 
dancing gently in the breeze
as yellow faces search for Helios. 
Long gone are my dreams of crimson
petals that line the marble floor. 
The aged trees in their wisdom will bend 
their branches and form for us a bed, 
softened with moss from the woodland 
grounds and decorated with delicate 
star white petals, as the soft scent of 
Jasmine dances on the summer breeze. 
Will you lay at my side and let me map 
the contours of your body with a trail of 
gentle kisses shimmering in the golden 
sunlight that caresses our uninhibited 
bodies? And as I dance freely across 
this canvas of creation, rose bushes 
of every colour will bloom beneath 
the shadows of my foot prints, 
a floral dance floor for the twilight 
hours as Selene watches from the heavens
and creates a pool of tranquility in which 
for us to bathe, sprinkled delicately 
with her crystallized devotion.
And what beauty will you bring to my vision? 
Will you lay your palms upon the earth and 
create for me peahens and peacocks 
plumes of subtle beauty,
so I may see the beauty of his train 
as he calls to his love? Will you tread upon 
the luscious grass and leave behind 
a trail of promised dandelion wishes, 
for me? Will you look to the heavens and 
request shooting stars to illuminate our skies? 
Will you look to the clouds and ask for 
warm rain to fall from the skies so we may
dance together beneath the falling droplets? 
The stark emptiness of a blank canvas 
unfurling before our eyes in quartz promises
past scars long eschew. 

Karen Hayward ©2016 (2017 edited) Image via wordpress library

Caressed by ebbing calm

Skin wore the essence of summer,
Kissed by waves, embraced by currents
A taste of salt and golden glitter.
Hair a tangled web of curls
Yellow weaves of Destiny
ocean eyes deep and fierce.
Those days were our making,
Druid souls seeped in Poseidon’s kingdom.
Bare foot stamping our mark upon this world,
etched forever into spirits
energised by Helios,
soothed by Selene
caressed upon those shores
by the oceans ebbing love.

Karen Hayward (c) 2017
Image and words

Time ticks and tocks in the silent beats of ego

Slowly it falls into oblivion
smashed glass shattering
memento.
A brief pause when it hits.
The cursed pleasure of karma.
The jar becomes my integrity
Piercing decades of time,
the coffee grains, my dignity
spilling openly at his feet.
I count my blessings looking
at the tattered remains
of myself, it could have been
worse. He bent to gather
the shards of glass.
It could have been
tampons. That look,
the one that says twenty years
and still she’s as clumsy
as ever. . . too late, the look
lost now among the poetic
irony of a dropped jar
of coffee.

Karen Hayward (c)2017
Image via wordpress library