Thunder storms beating in your heart

There is a silence before rain falls
hissing through atoms, empty, threatening,
soldiers of nature crashing into life.

But what of all the crimson blood that spills?
I grasp at the lose threads of my shadow
as it splits, a fierce drum, beating, beating.

A blunt knife tearing heaving hearts chambers.
I count in my mind how many foot steps,
one for each sting of thunders dropping light.

One hundred? Two hundred? I estimate
five hundred. Five hundred shards of my soul
scattered through tiny drops of petrichor.

The earthly fragrance, natures pure blessing
and yet a curse defined in your young heart
but does it beat now rapid screams of need.

There goes another shard, sharp and glossy
outer glow of maternal lubricant.
If only I were your belief. Your hero.

Powered by the Gods, a new mutation
chemically, born to other planets. . .
I could slow the falling bullets of rain

Calm the orchestra of your blood playing
in your ears. I could transmit messages
skimming across the surface water drum.

Manipulate cloud and envelope you
in protective fluff mothers wings out stretched

I would fly the universe for you, dear
my spirit catching claps of blue thunder
between the falling tears of hell’s recluse

Karen Hayward ©2017

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blue body of water with orange thunder
Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Fear of unknown proportions. 

The soul knows what the mind forgets. 

I watch you standing at the window as rain streams ferociously down the glass 

I watch as unknown terrors become a remembered whisper. 

As your soul envelopes your heart slowing the rapid beat into a rhythmic lullaby.

Your eyes flash brighter than any lightening as a smile creeps across your face. 

Your fear washed into the drains as flash floods create an explosion of giggles.

“This is cool, mum”.  You say as the skies rumble,

Not their fear inducing rumble 

Just a rumble. 

You catch raindrops on your hand as we search for the rainbow,

Never before has that arch of beauty felt so magical then in this moment.

Karen Hayward ©2016 (images and words)

Please, never thank me.

image

Thank you…never have these words hurt more than when you are sobbing in my arms.
Thank you… never does a tear come so close then when fear has you in its grip…and you are thankful that I am there.
Thank you…never more than now have I wanted to tell you to please, please forget your manners.
For never when you are breaking do you need to thank me for being there.
Never.

Karen Hayward ©2016

More storms, we are camped out eating ice creams under the covers 😀

Beat of an angry sky.

The skies echo with the beat of far off anger,
perhaps out at sea,
or over the depths of beyond.
The gulls squawk into the darkness,
coming inland to find shelter.
Early morning cars take the corner
leaving this dismal town behind them.
The sun’s ascent is merely an hour off,
and the skies lighten at his bidding,
the heavens remain dark,
the angels leave me numbers.
And hunger.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Thunderstorm.

Storm clouds hung heavy throughout the day,
promising a cooler air, a clearer front.
The hinted promises that only a storm can bring.
Night fell and skies darkened,
flashes illuminating the flaws of existence.
Roaring anger filling the empty spaces.
Each lightening strike lit the skies,
tinted thoughts dispersing into the atmosphere,
Each deep clap of thunder energising the skies
as empty spaces become filled.
Till the storm passed
and clouds dispersed
and all I could see was a clear sky of twinkling stars

Karen Hayward ©2016

Soft mumblings of an angry sky.

The distant mumblings of an angry sky can be heard hiding behind the incessant tapping of rain falling down upon my roof. It’s rhythm like a marching band as they beat down on their ferocious drums. The distant angry mumblings a roar of protest. The skies remain dark yet I feel a certainty that if I were to search the abandoned skies I would discover small flashes of speckled light brightening the night skies. Instead I search the insides of my eyelids hoping to find comfort.

Karen Hayward ©2016