Horizons calling…

And all of my
yesterday’s made
my today,
horizon smeared
in the devils mist,
and still the sun
burns through
and verge edges
are promised,
and falling
is a must
I’m sure now
Oblivion can’t
be that deep
and rocks are
never as sharp
as we expect
and beyond that
veil, I can
finally derobe
this battered
armour
and let the sun
warm my skin…

Karen Hayward © 2018
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The Scorpion knows, the Scorpion bites…

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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

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Speckle me in dandelion seeds and set me free…

She’d always known she was the Weed, the wild flower growing between the cracks in half shadows of doubt. Never had she wanted to be the rose, except perhaps its fragrance and its soft hues of summer promise. But, no, she was the daisy growing wildly between lush blades of green grass. She was the dandelion dispersing seeds of herself on the evening scent of burning wood and she was the white clover, although she’d never admit to the fourth, petal shaped leaf that she hid beneath her smile.
Yes, she was happily the weed, growing in adversity, weathering the storms and nourished on the remnants of life. Surviving between crackles of static in rigid rips of concrete and across picture perfect canvasses where the roses stood, lonely, untouched, their wilting petals decorating the floor with death, their scent dying, their pollen stolen from beneath the blush red velvet blanket of their existence.
No, she was the white petals of survival, the yellow flesh of stubbornness rooting her to a cause, she didn’t need admiration to grow
Wild flowers need no nurturing
they simply exist between the vines
of splaying ivy and fierce troops of nettles, speckles of colour weaved between the muted greens of a druid yesteryear all myths, ancient remedies and calls of luck, the wild stems of hope growing in the dark shadows of dying rose petals wilting without whispered promises of entitled worship…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image and words

Lose me in tender touches

Will you pull me in?
Gently press my cheek
to your chest
Curve your fingers across
my hip,
skin on skin.
Will your fingers slip
through strands of
my hair
As your leg slips between
my thighs…

Will you let me fall
for a moment,
be nothing
for a millisecond
Just let my soul
rest,
safely in the cocoon
of your arms…

… Before I rise
once again.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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Spitting tassels of flaming fun

Damn, some days are borne
from the bottled essence
of a dying rose, wilted petals
and the blunt edge toxic thorns.

Fuck, some moments
are the captured seconds
of caring less than the
virgin slut as she repents

Shit, such joyous bells
as the victims, victim
pouts and shouts,
Idiocy they swear and yell.

Holy crap! That tickled me pink,
No white flag, no ivory twig
not a moment to think
before drinking down that bitter drink!

Damn some days are dawned
for the Dame to give rise from pawn
of silent revenue to fierce Knight
setting straight the shit you left askew in the devils bullshit night.

Karen Hayward ©2018

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