Within

Spirit comes, a gentle giant –

no trumpets or glare,

no explosions of air,

just strong hands that lift us

above the sharp slopes,

just warm arms that cradle us

up to the top

of the mythical mountain

we’ve climbed for so long.

 .

We throw off our packs

and become light

as horizons beyond us

widen like a smile

on fertile plains.

They spread like butter

on slices of eternity

whispering, whispering:

We are the giant

Within.

.

© 2000, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright

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(This was first posted in Aug. 2011, but has been revised and retitled. Seems I can never get a poem to just sit still.)

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Poet Tree (in memory of Roy Schaefer)

Roy Schaefer was one of the best rhyming and meter poets I’ve ever known. He passed away 12 years ago – and today would’ve been his 82nd birthday. His book, Songs from my Poet Tree was self-published in 1994 and will hopefully be reprinted by his family some day.

This tribute was written shortly after his death.

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Here’s to you, Roy – you are not forgotten!

.

He was the poet

who made it seem easy

to write clever rhyme

sometimes deep, sometimes breezy

 .

with well-metered sentiments

and humor too

he immortalized everyone

he ever knew.

 .

He wrote about butterflies,

poppies and love,

he wrote of the troll

and the skunk and the dove.

 .

He wrote of the sea

and he wrote of the moon,

he wrote of the snail

and the deer and the loon.

 .

He wrote of the past

and he wrote of a dream,

he showed us that some things

are not what they seem.

 .

And so he will live

in the world’s memory

harvesting words

from his dear Poet Tree.

 .

(c) 2000, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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Update:  June 20th – I googled Roy’s name and found a link to one of his poems, for anyone who’s interested: http://a-poets-haven.faithweb.com/AsIWoodBe.htm

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I would post some from his book, but would probably need permission from his family since they’re copyrighted.  

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Root Cellar

(Mayberrie poem – re-posted from August, revised)

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She’d waited long enough,

the time had come

to clear their old forgotten cellar.

All inside

would long be in decay

from seasons

left behind.

She braced herself

and slow approached

the thick, elm door

(and later swore it opened

of its own accord).

 .

In the shaft of light

that followed her

she was entranced!

Instead of baskets

full of crops

long gone to rot

there was the scent of quickening:

potatoes

with their eyes still wide,

beets the color of her heart,

carrots orange and smooth,

and onions with their papery skins

like pages in beloved books.

.

And on the side

were apples,

barrels of them, crisp and sweet

(she took a bite and begged forgive!)

How could this be,

a place outside of time?

Quickly now

she left it all in place

and sealed the door.

There would be no clearing out

this day.

 .

© 2009  Betty Hayes Albright

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Interview with a Bonsai

   .

(reposted from August)

.

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Bonsai IMG 6412 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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I wonder, elfin tree,

does your sap long to rise?

Do your cells expand

although your limbs

are thwarted?

When your roots

run into walls

do they scream

at their containment?

Does it jar you

every time

you feel the cut?

If someday I should plant you

in the garden, in the sun

would you remember to remember

how to grow?

.

(c) 2002, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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Cat Years

Puddin Pie 2001

The sun warms her bones,

washes sideways

around her stiff age.

She sharpens worn claws

on the cedar stump,

loose fur flying

rising on a breeze.

Bits of bark

fall to the dirt

where she rolls on her back.

She has no argument

with dust.

.

(c)  2001, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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Melt

Like silent statues

Image via Wikipedia

in the wind

we’re trees

in freezing rain.

Our branches wrap

in rigid ice,

we comb our thoughts

with icicles

and cease to move

except to break.

But then it comes,

the thrust of sun

to melt our casings

into tears

freeing us to hunger,

and to thirst, and

to pine -

but joyfully.

.

©  2004,  2012  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Scales

There is no true measuring

Image by ViaMoi via Flickr

a perfect beam of light

that warms us like the sun.

So why then do we choose

to go about in shadows

with gauges and old rulers

stirring up false dander

that puffs about our heads

and masquerades as sky?

.

© 2001, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Mentor

.  .  .  . To Hal R.   (…repost from August)

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Things he taught her:

.

Stir words with both hands,

mix into synaptic colors,

paint them on walls

again and again

until the room

screams in ecstasy.

.

Cook words in test tubes

over the burner

that is your heart,

then spread on toast

like marmalade

and feed the hungry.

.

Wrestle with words,

squeeze them,

break them into pieces,

pin them to the floor

of your solar plexus

and in the end

always let them win.

.

 (c)  2004  Betty Hayes Albright

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Solstice Gift (2003)

We leave our warm houses,

walk the long path

to the meadow,

where shadows

catch in mid-freeze.

All is still,

then we sense it -

a breath in the thickets,

a widening of eyes,

the gentle padding of time.

From the trees

eager whispers

as ribbons of sun

weave through the branches

to find us in waiting

arms raised in praise

for this very first minute

of this first day

when light reacquaints us

with Light.

.

(c) 2003  Betty Hayes Albright

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Between the Clouds

Even in the storm

we dance -

on parched toes

we leap and twirl

our thirsty land

beneath the tumble

of a sky

that holds its breath . . .

then exhales inabluster.

Whirling through

the rising roar,

we raise our eyes

to slanted rain

then gambol high

across the hills

into the wind

above the trees

to thank the bow

that arcs

between the clouds.

.

(c) 2000  Betty Hayes Albright

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