Gaia cries stolen tears

Gaia screams from within her core
cries ebbing upon earthly shores,
For the unbloomed flowers
and trees that don’t tower
For the stagnant tides
suffocating in yesterdays High.
For lost souls, dying spirits
and empty chests where a heart should sit.
Gaia whimpers, sobbing free
Her pulse felt in waving leaves
Those same waving leaves felt her pulse
an echoed cry, knowing now,
the end is nigh, the prophecy was not false
Gaia cries for all that feel
death is ours, death is real.

Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words

Tip tapping.

The mornings dawn 

rises amidst ferocious 

winds, branches swaying 

in anger, tip tapping, 

tip tapping at my window. 

Sleep evades me,

Tip tapping, tip tapping. 

A lonesome voice calls 

into the night, shouting,

A repeated name, a cat? 

A dog? I hear the fear 

reverberate in her pitch.

Gulls scream to be heard.

Secrets tumbling from the

tips of lush green leaves.

Again she calls out. 

Emptiness follows. 

Just the tip tapping. 

Tip tapping.

As angry branches

hit against my window.
Karen Hayward ©2016

Towers of Blackberry and apple bits.

This is a slightly edited version of an earlier post, Blackberry Towers, I like both poems equally, but I think this one delves in a little deeper to those childhood memories. Enjoy.

I remember a time when I was young,
When us kids went outside to have fun.
Our mums drank tea, had a natter,
Their laughs echoing over the kids chatter.
The men earned honest money, with hard graft.
They were the days, but they didn’t last.
I remember it fondly…

Daffodils breaking through the warming earth,
As the promise of spring filled the street with mirth.
We wore hand me down clothes, real leather shoes,
played in the growing corn, had lunch on the kerb
We played kerby and footy, bulldog and chase,
Everything we did was always a race.

On the summer days, in the summer haze.
The field of corn lined with trees, no hint of a breeze.
Daisy chain ropes that reached to the skies,
Dandelion clocks, oh how time flies,
Purple fingers, tell tale lips,
Blackberry pies with apple bits.

Bonfire night, the woolies are out,
In before dark the mothers did shout.
Sparklers, fireworks, penny for the guy,
Halloween sweeties an endless supply.
We play on the cornfield, so empty and bare,
Its hard to remember what they grew there.

Snowmen so big we stood in awe, then
took turns aiming for the highest score.
One in each garden, some on the path,
A pile of wet socks, gloves, hats and scarves.
In the cornfield trenches were dug, ammo created
The older kids, always, dominated.

I remember the cornfield swaying in the breeze,
Before they laid brick, took away the trees.
Everyone got busy, the air grew stale
And nobody noticed when the kids grew pale.