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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) Image and words

Remote…when sleep whispers

Photo

A split division of time traversing distance,
A minds inability to commute, conjures resistance,
But the soul craves truth, is insistant…

Now, is a concept of time rooting us to a moment,
the past as we breathe air into lungs deflating
before the present has a chance to conceive
Plausibly creating moment of movement, so we may believe.

But, I can map a Constellation of me to you, you to me,
Measure it in miles, seconds, oceans, hours, you see?
and then perceive such a chasm of space, physically.

Seven Russian dolls sitting on a shelf
A vortex of reality each within themselves
The past, the future, dimensions to delve.

Perception splits into uniformed understanding,
Group saving elicit pedigrees of knowledge
on post it notes without the sticky banding.

I perceive movement through the decaying of life,
rotting atoms of time losing this fight
But beauty is in the ancient, the essence of life.
And rebirth calls on spring whispers, always new light.

Stack the dolls in a black hole of despair
Merge linear perceptions, viewing to share,
and now becomes everything, yet, never quite there.
Nothing, all, void, everything… Space we now share.

Space we now share, kinetic vibrations
a pendulum swings dispersing sedation
Time, distance, miles and oceans have no relation,
In chiming sequence of tolling bells
A moments space, a moments realisation.

No distance, miles, seconds or otherwise,
Just two beneath the glittered skies
A moment captured, paused and stilled
together, now, nothing, everything and all,
Time conceptualised in beats of seconds
moving hands and changing dates…

…and there between the beats I found you, here but there… Here, together through the shared sense of now… There, seconds, miles, hours and oceans. Not here, not there… But somewhere.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Universal ticking hands.

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The universe doesn’t pass time in the moving of seconds,
Instead, the ascending and descending of life events.
First there is birth to the perfect parents.
Not perfectly good or perfectly rich,
hell they might not even be perfectly hitched.
But for purpose sake, the bond is purposefully stitched.
Or un-stitched in some cases.
At a soul level you’ll recognise their faces,
past lives leaves scars, freckles, tiny traces.
Childhood happens, you might be rich you might be poor,
the universe keeps ticking never keeping score,
look around at the beauty, she only wants, that you want more.
For some there is light, for some of us dark
and as the grains of sand slip, we all walk a path,
Living becomes a story that leaves another mark.
Till finally we learn there are lessons at hand,
Life is a map only our souls know the plan,
from the moment of birth when Terra began.
They’ll be tears, they’ll be hurt and boy they’ll be pain,
they’ll be days when we count seconds by the drops of grey rain,
and some of us sadly, will be driven insane.
But alas time must trickle through the portals neck,
as we eat, pray, play, work and slumber in bed,
Till finally we wake, then we are led.
For each soul that wanders for each mind that grows,
lessons are delivered knowledge is sown,
and time passes by in a constant flow.
Some of us lucky our lessons we learn,
twin flames found at the very first turn.
Some of us feel time, feel time, as each second burns,
time hesitates, stammers and screams,
we can’t figure out what the symbols mean,
we can’t make sense of the time that has been.
The universe doesn’t pass time in the beating of hands,
time is explored through our souls and their plans,
some paths we can’t and some paths we can.
Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

Spring Seemed the Day When Love Came to Play

(By Michael J.Garland and Karen Hayward)
mikeocean
My muse, my love,
I give to you the very soul
of my ink and the lifeblood
of my page.
Recto, verso…this blank canvas
is yours,
is mine,
is ours. Let us spill raw beauty upon the
cascading new horizons that befall us.

Our canvas splashed
with a riot of color.
We have a love to weather the hours.
A deepening beautiful,
Fated begins.
My love,
your love,
our love,
sit with me close ,
make love with our pens.
A lifetime of mornings to start it again,
is yours,
is mine,
is ours.
Spring seemed the day when love came to play.

Michael J. Garland ©2017
Karen Hayward ©2017
Michael J.Garland ©2017 Image.

Cyan, futuristic Iris.

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Oh how I long to write,  but alas my soul is singing

a melody of liberation in notes of love. Every word

becomes a sound, a chirping bird in dawns glory, an owl

hooting neath full moons glow, the ebbing tide

whispering devotion to the shore and that honeyed

curve of your voice…and every thought becomes

the tunes vision, skies of home, eyes of…..oh but the eyes…such

intensity it pains my soul to look upon the reflective…the reflection,

for now I see what others don’t those seas of blue..my mate, t’is true,

is in our eyes, a future set, a future past,

a future always me and you,

built to last.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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