Pick up the pen
and write the poem,
It’s not rocket science,
It doesn’t have to be a meticulous scribe
Inscripted with archaic
lexicon, the imagery
doesn’t have to paint
a perfect theme,
the rhyme can be
awkward, screwed and
off whack. It doesn’t
have to be unique
or the same. It can
be raw and tough
and bleed from the page
It doesn’t have to
articulate your every
thought that speed
races through your
mind. It doesn’t
have to be as good
as his or her’s
and it doesn’t have
to be liked…
write the
God damn poem,
it isn’t
rocket science.

Karen Hayward ©2019

Shhh time to listen

If she were to close her eyes tight enough

 hush the world.

If she could manage to think just lightly enough,

She can actually feel him.

She can feel a new depth to every word

that spills to the page,  they

really do now simply spill. No longer does

she stop and think and edit those sacred

inner thoughts, she hands them over to you

as though they were created 

for you, always for you. She’s no longer sure

whether it is a want or a need that has her delve

into darker desires, with each line
she feels you deeper. She can feel now the way your

image climbs through her subconscious
searching for the speckles of light in the dark

and although the darkness entices them both.

You are there dispersing all shadows of doubt.

Whilst the darkness intertwines through the 

light the two sides no longer fight. They walk

together, as your fingers explore what you

cannot touch her mind explores what could

not be rushed. She wonders what is one without 

the other and which leads and which follows.

Do words of erotic tales lead to

temptation, to the darkness of an empty

void that now has light shimmering in. Or was

it always the hidden swarming feelings

that delivered them to this very page. She used to think 

it were one and not the other, but

they both grew alongside, trust in one

created trust in the other, and although

she is not aware at any point of having created

this trust, it is there. It is there in abundance.

With every thought, with every word she can feel

the depth. And she cannot pretend to understand

or even to always accept. But she is intrigued

by the way it spreads through her whilst she stands

open, and she is intrigued by the darkness and

intrigued by the light. She often wonders what

it was that scared her, why she tried so hard to fight when 

all she ever need do was close her eyes and know

that this feels incredibly right.

Karen Hayward (copyright 2015)

The hidden vortex

Photo

A vortex that sits hidden in the shadows in that tiny pocket of time between my dawn and your high moon. Your world silenced by the darkness, engulfed in the night. Only lovers or thieves can be found in this twilight hour as my sun reaches her fingers into the sky, thieves scuttle home and lovers collapse into each others arms. This is the moment when time pauses. A vortex in the shadows where we should meet. Defeat as emptiness takes hold and you close your eyes beneath an illuminated sky, defeat as the suns rays sprinkle into my world. The emptiness of a black hole of time, where the grains continue to fall, slowly, each grain a lifetime of need.

Karen Hayward 2015 © Image and words

I sometimes catch my shadow

Photo

I sometimes
catch
the not so distant
sound of footsteps
lurking in past
shadows
walking
behind us.
Do you hear
mine? Bleeding,
tar like energy
through the
Open vines of our
existence.
Then the sun rises
and our past
shadows creep
Into our future self’s
Vivid darkness
contrasting light
I sometimes hear
the footsteps
of your shadowed
past creeping
alongside my
demons and I
wonder are they too
tied by the echos
of ancient maps.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image and words

Lost thoughts and broken shells

A lost memory of fantasies gone by,
grains of sand beneath a clear topaz sky.
Whilst searching for the forgotten glass
worn away and tossed at last
I found truth hidden in the shining light
an abundance of wisdom,
so glaringly bright.
Shell of the seahorse
the ebbing moon has bought,
through all the years I dreamt I caught,
now you come,
when it’s frosted glass I sought.
The universe today, a message it taught.

Karen Hayward (Copyright)( Poem and image.) 2014.