Mostly they were incoherent slugs


Most days I didn’t care,
would get down on the
floor with her, stamp
my feet, scream my woes
and mimic bitter tears of
unfairness. I’d laugh at
passerbys, smile wide
and loud at their stares.

I pitied them,
so blind by their ego
of judgement, they
couldn’t see for shit,
they were the problem,
the catalyst, such hate
in their eager hearts…
still, mostly I ignored

…but some days
I was all soul and
less warrior, tears
burning, fear
enveloping, then
snippets of hope
in a strangers eyes,
Knowing nods that
needed no words,
and those gentle,
featherlight fingers
that broke through
my tangled aura for
a millisecond…
… unassuming
all knowing,
one soul to another
in those moments
upon the stage
with an ugly audience
of egos.

A simple touch,
that said so much.

Karen Hayward ©2018

Image found on pinterest
#autism #spd #ASD #Unity

The whistled song death.

This is inspired from a picture prompt on g+ you can see it here, please feel free to come join the community if you yourself are a poet, or reader ūüôā


Where have all the smiles gone?

Where lays now all the love?

A malady of life playing through

the streets, a melody of death

drumming to the beat.

Are vibrant golden hues enough

Oh where now lays all the love?

And where have all the smiles gone,

or do the Jays whistle their funeral song?


Karen Hayward ©2016

Where souls are created.

Poem inspired from a photo prompt, courtesy of David Palmer which can be discovered over on g+ right here in this super amazing poetry forum.

Every garden should be filed with tulips,

of every colour

with daffodils and daisies

and dandelion wishes along the end row.

Every garden should be filled with scented

roses of pink, yellow, glorious red and delightful

peach. There should be flower pots, welly boots,

rakes and old broken treasures.

For it is here in the garden that we are created.

It is here  beneath the  autumn leaves that the

young artist discovers colour and texture.

In springs fresh blossoms the young poet discovers

metamorphosis as the butterfly dances past.

It is here as the summer sun rises into the skies

that the musician sings the tune of the whistling

morning bird for the very first time.

And among the death of winter the writer rises

creating an escape of warmth and adventure as

Amazons and Swallows are relived.

And in every broken treasure is born the historian

hungry for knowledge and the¬†engineer who see’s

life in the broken. And the crafter who see’s what can be

not what is as the future scientists mix water and scented

rose petals.

Every garden should be filled with tulips of every colour

and old broken wagon wheels, for it is here in the garden

that souls are born and spirits created and

children become their futures.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Writing prompt, chaos.

Writing prompt chaos


This write doubles up slightly with the prompt from a few days back ‘sacrifice’…it started out as the sacrifice prompt, but clearly also fit very well with chaos. The inspiration was that often as a writer the pieces that come easiest are on the back of a sacrifice, which got me thinking what would I lose if I switched off this aspect of my personality, what sacrifices would I be making to become a non writer.

There’s a flip switch inside my head, I can turn it on or turn it off. I can survive either way. I can decide any time that I want. All I have to do is flip, that, switch. I can choose sleep I can choose to while away my hours glued to the television screen as my brain cells become numb to the outside world. I can choose to not see. I can close down the part of my mind that see’s a technicolor strobe of enlightening hues in the final glimpse of a setting sun, I don’t have to see this. I can choose to not feel, a thing. I can wrap myself in metaphorical bubble wrap and block out the sensations of the world against my skin. I can stop tasting the world on the tip of my tongue as it tantalizes my taste buds, I can do bland, I like bland. I can stop listening, I don’t have to internalize the words, the thoughts, I can revert them back to a black font on a white background, they can once again be nothing. I can create a dam inside my mind and fill it with the excessively flowing vocabulary. They can spend their remaining days swimming in the lake of forgotten wishes and unknown thoughts. They’ll be safe there. I can drag along my old pink blankie and peach frilled pillow, close the iron gate and just flip that switch.I don’t have to live outside the cage, my wings are tired from the constant fluttering to reach the opening and my feet hurt from the constant tugging me back. I don’t need to fly, the sky is so very brightly coloured and the sun so very warm I am sure I would only dawdle through the skies if I could. I don’t have to be this way. I can self implode the chaos that swims through my veins and creates sparkles of love in every step I take, I can switch it back, revert it alongside the font, I can drain the saturation, become monochrome I can become the melancholy of rainy afternoons as heavens tears slide down glass window panes. I don’t have to be this way, I can flip that switch. I can embrace the multi layer grading of grey on grey whilst my soul shrivels resting in the eternal solitude of an iron cage. I can turn off the world, see nothing, feel nothing, be nothing. Write nothing. I just have to flip that switch.


Karen Hayward ©2016 (Image and words)

Sacrifice. Word prompt.

Today’s word prompt is sacrifice…you can go here to find many, many more prompts.

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This word prompt has been bugging me all day. I have a thousand words I could write but each and every letter I place on the page is like handing you a raw slice of my soul. So I thought long and hard about what it is I want to say and this poem was created.



Some people can,

and these will

always give.

Some can’t,

and they will

always take.

May the angels always walk

with those

who can.

Karen Hayward ©2016

Hope.Writing prompt.

Is tired of this blackened world

with its poisonous vines invading

us in our dreams.

Hope is an empty

void a desolate belief.

Pandora’s box was empty.

she released all those evils including hope

into the world and they spread among

us in the air that we breathe.

We are the epiphany of darkness

our souls harness the pain of the weak,

feeding on the promise of hope.

Hope does not exist,

only the evils of darkness that seeped

from the box leaving behind

a dark abyss of nothingness…hope.


Karen Hayward ©2016

Freewrite-today I think I saw a saw wielding maniac.

So thought I would take a break tonight from poetry, and share instead a memorable moment from my day….hey, i kinda like that idea, i might start doing this daily. Anyway, so I was walking to work, day dreaming along the way, when I had just turned into a small road that leads to an alley that leads to the very back of the carpark of a supermarket (I work in what they call a pod outside of the supermarket) the sun was shining, blue skies, beautiful morning. Suddenly some guy comes out the alley carrying an electric saw. Of course me being me my brain automatically clicked into action, in that split second I died at least a million different gruesome ways. Suddenly I was aware of my vulnerability, I was aware of the bushes and trees beside me, I was aware of the emptiness of the short alley, how far away the houses were and how deserted the streets were. But, more than that, I was aware that I was a writer, I was aware that intrigue made me stare intently at the mans hands, face, the electric saw, even though I knew that he could be a lunatic…although, maybe, just maybe, he was thinking the same of me as I crept past him smirking. I’m often told that I live inside of a bubble, that I don’t see the world for what it truly is, they’re right, I see the world in many ways, the way it could be and often the way it should be. I am far from idealistically perfect, and I can see bad and gruesome and horrific in most things, perhaps a reflection of inner turmoil, or perhaps I see the world with clearer eyes than most believe. The young man with his skinny face and strawberry blonde hair was probably off to cut someone’s tree or bush, i’m just grateful he chose not to chop me into thousands of pieces, cos seriously do you know how hard it is to get blood out of shirts?!
I may need to consider a different route once as the nights draw in, the ally might not be the best way, my feeble little heart will not take it!