Media, pedia….


We don’t look like that, do we?
All tanned and toned and
perfectly honed, with matching
knickies, bra and socks…
No not socks, panty hose
swaying frocks, and perfect
thick, fine, curly, straight
long short, natural, dyed locks
And breath.
We don’t look like that. Do we?
Not naturally, surely.
Hell I’m all pale skin
curves not thin
odd socks, hipster pants
and runaway hair, tamed
and flamed, a wild mane.
I suppose I could change.
Paint away my creases
Click away my knobbly knees
Re-root my slither of silver strands
Start wearing, pink, frilly pants
matching lace bras and sheer tights,
nylons, pantyhose…I’d fill them with holes!
We don’t look like that,
really, do we?
Do we? Tell me, do we?
I suppose I could use
lotions and potions
rewind the motions.
such an odd notion.
To be something we are not,
or perhaps we are
perhaps I am wrong
I should adorn a thong
be smooth to the touch
hide away my blemishes
I should embrace the fuss…

…doesn’t really matter
what I think, we grade beauty on
personal perception,
do they think this is real? Banished blemishes,
smoothed out creases,
erased slithers of silver…

..men are daft,
surely, yes.
Do they really care?
Or are they
too busy
toning up
picking vests,
Oiling up
perfect six packs
combing through
Mc dreamy hair
trying also,
to be magazine
best.

Am I wrong?
Should I care?

Karen Hayward © 2018

In the link is 18 images of one woman, photoshopped differently according to culture…

It’s so easy to get caught up thinking women (and men also) look like the images in magazines, or that we should attain to look like them.

Media makes us ashamed of age, growing older, silver/grey hair, stretch marks, extra weight or untoned muscles, that we forget the simplicity of imagery….they’re just meant to look pretty.

Women (and men) do not look like this…but do we know this? Do they know this? Isn’t that where the insecurity lays?

We grew up on the sharp edge of poverty
rebal with a cause of our own
repelling authority, society, reality
followed a path of wildness sown.
They said, we had perfect hips
Was good for nothing but having kids
One dad, two, three, maybe four
Poverty cycle, repeating the poor.
We succeeded at failing, came top of our class,
Sipped on cidar from our childhood flasks.
No need to worry, no need to fret,
At sixteen we become part of Britain’s great debt.
Teachers never bothered, the head didn’t care,
No one even noticed when we stopped going there.
We wore indifference across our lips
prostitute red, layer on layer, glossy and slick.
And when time suddenly came, exams taken,
Sixteen went past, future forsaken
Some of us fell, hips wide and bearing,
New life created in a career of caring.
Some of us paused in a psychodelic dream
Locked between worlds with adulthood to fear.

Me? I had failure at hand, expectations to break,
So I picked up the books and read by the lake.
They said I couldn’t, I was all hips and blue eyes, that’s all,
I accepted their words, I’d most probably fall.
I didn’t aim for the top, just a life with a view,
A place where I’d happily dream skies of blue.
They said “You’ll work in a shop, and not a thing more”
And soon I was a manager, they were right for sure…
But I kept going forward had stereotypes to destroy,
Whispered through days kept my dreams coy.
I climbed and rose, walked on painted tippy toes,
No place for the poor done good, I wrote my own life show.

There’s a glass roof for women unbreakable you see,
An etched line for the men, a reality,
not a battle of wits, wisdom or intelligence,
No, its a line that demands female defiance…

But poverty has no glass, just hips
and glossy red lips,
No succeeding, just expectations of failing,
You either fail at school and fight for a life,
Or fail at babies and become no-ones wife.
My roots are seeped in the stench of poverty,
Skyscrapers, someone else’s reality,
They set a standard, the poor girls target,
dreams are only for the rich they say
use the gifts God gave you that day…

They said I was good for nothing
all blue eyes and hips for kids to bring…

My Dad said, girl, do you see that star?
No I said, we ain’t taught to look that far…
He said, keep walking till you have that in sight,
That my girl, is your glass ceiling, that, is your light…

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on pinterest

Velvet heels.

Photo

Her toes embraced the
rubbed velvet interior
of her heels. Deep black
speckled with a glimpse
of the universe, A four inch
ascent to the heavens
she floated with an ancient
female elegance.
I glanced carelessly at the
way her delicious calf curved
delicately as the surrounding
air caressed her barely
tanned skin.
She didn’t need the heels
or the silver grey skirt that
hugged the curves of her
arse and little more,
and as she tripped
I’m sure even she regretted
her choices.

Karen Hayward ©2017
Image found on pinterest

A trail of massacre in my wake.

redhairwings

Menstruating blood seeps through the

cracks of my hormones plunging me into the depths

of normality, to be female, so easily led by useless

emotions that spill across cheeks.

A jolt into reality to see what you see,

instead you show me the tainted

pages that already haunt my thoughts.

Aneath the crimson onslaught

I tear your soul from

words fought,

I leave a trail of massacre in my wake.

I leave a trail of massacre in my wake.

Karen Hayward ©2017

Words and image.

International woman’s day…Warriors born of love. 

Mother? 

Wife?

Home maker? 

Peace keeper? 

Nurturer? 
Fuck that, us women are 

God damn warriors, 

Our love is our Excalibur

Our patience is our armour,

Our wisdom is our strength,

And our calm is our balance…

Women…humanities warrior

we shall slay all foe

that threaten the harmony

Of our creations, 

Woman  ..  Gaia’s warrior. 

Karen Hayward * ©2017