Shattering essence of voice

For a fleeting moment space was mine
designed beyond sight
Vulnerability of heart, takes flight
as thought and words soon fly.

If asked, I’d sit three seats to the left
Somewhere between here and mars
I’d converse silently, just me and the stars
and declare my wishes to skies of dark.
It wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

Those twinkling lights have long known your name,
In twilight battles to drive the devil insane
I tell Selene my secrets
I’m not sure she hears and never certain it matters…

I’m not always sure anything matters Living seems only to flatter
We’re specks trying to etch our names into the infinite
spending lifetimes searching
hopelessly for the lost scent of a love we once had
And in the grander scale of things

…I’m never certain that anything matters

Then he whispers and my darkness shatters.

Karen Hayward © 2018

Intrinsic working of an introvert soul

Have you ever watched the intrinsic
workings of an introverts soul?
We hide deep within the shadows
listening as shoes are worn tread bare.
We scuttle through raindrops
feeling the celestial embrace upon our skin.
We roar into empty skies at twilight
with the moon caressing silent thoughts.
But if you look real close,
if you pay attention to our inaudible beat,
you can see us skipping across powder puff clouds
of white searching in emerald skies of blue,
dancing to natures frequency,
singing to the birds symphony.
Have you ever seen the intrinsic
workings of an introverts soul?

Karen Hayward*©2017

No claim to image 

Slipping over skin…

Outlook.com - ckpmx3@hotmail.com

She slowly pulled the rouge
nylon across her bare toes,
Momentarily cold against
the warmth of her skin
Embracing the tenderness
of her foot,
Kissing the curve of her calf,
gently hugging the
roundness of her hips.

She slipped her feet through
the cotton skirt, pulled it
up and let it sit loosely across
her stomach. A short, sharp
twirl and she could feel
the fabric tickling across
her thighs. A smile.

She watched as the blue fabric
stretched and embraced
every curve, kissing bare skin
caressing crimson lace, licking
pert buds, warming winters freeze.

She paused at the mirrors edge,
what could her reflection tell her
that her heart could not, she thought
as she glanced again at the way
the rouge nylon kissed her legs.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Image found via Pinterest 

Echo of my wandering spirit…

Drowning in kaleidoscopic hues of colour,                                                  Plunging through suffocating screams of realism
Colour me in paint strokes of crimson blush
and the licked flick of a dandelions wish
kicked to the curb of impressionism
May Cezanne paint the stills of my soul
and Monet the echos of my wandering spirit
So I may inject their portrayal in arsenic
lining the canvas with mercury
till the Mad Hatter stops for tea
and the White Rabbit runs out of time…
But for the storms that rage
rains that cleanse,
washing toxicity from the chaos
so I may spend my days
in monochrome exile.

Karen Hayward ©2018


No claim to image – Cliff Walk at Pourville, 1882 — Claude Monet

Cold toes

Cold toes, warm tea morning gulls
screaming to the skies. Dark clouds
sun rise peeping over the horizon,
cold fingers, extra jumper, tired eyes
weary mind, kettle on, hot water
bottle grabbed, .slow cooker out
diced beef in, sky staining vivid
pink. Cold feet, freezing toes, extra
socks, silence, momentary, cars
slowly whizzing past, cat purrs
climbing inside my cardi, shared
heat, sun rises, day begins….

Karen Hayward © 2018

Image and words

It’s wrong, perhaps, wrong to tease
that passion to the surface,
to call it forth with fierce presence
to antagonise it into existence
Primal perhaps, to crave it’s taste
to thirst to drink its essence
to swallow it’s substance
to hunger for its touch
adrenalin fuelled and defiant
carnal need spilling across
rational thought staining
my lust into him, tattooing
my desire into his fingers
as piercing eyes devour
pale skin and lips move to
utter the last words of restraint
slipping them into my waiting
mouth. Wrong, perhaps.
To tease out that adrenalin
with the simplicity of differing
views, to quench passions
voice in soul curling kisses
that reach deep within the
sacral chakra radiating
in explosive waves of need
Empowering, tantalising
to hold that power, for a
moment, till senses regained
and energy diverted
passion bleeding out
across forgotten thoughts
and I am pinned beneath
him, seed of energy
claiming yin with
in the primal screams
of a carnal battle of ecstasy.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

For a moment I go home

I perch half naked
on the side
of my bed listening
as the evening
passes by in gentle
hues of blue
and a gentle touch
of pink. I listen.
Past the Saturday
night traffic
wheels whirring
into tomorrow
Past the youngens
swigging from
bottles marked
“one way ticket to adulthood”
Past the squabbles
of lovers becoming
haters.
Then I find it.
Home.
The gulls calling
to me from salt lined
shores, sea mist
reaching for my
soul, home.
I perch half naked
on the side of my bed
close my eyes and
for a moment
I go home.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words