This is long, but very much worth the read.

Dreamwalker's Sanctuary

Clematis and – Everlasting-Sweetpeas

 The Woman lay looking into her heart, trying to fathom its depths. This melancholy ache of sorrow that swept into her bones, penetrating every cell of her being.

The silence once her beautiful friend, now devoured her in its void of blackness. No matter how loud she called, only the perpetual hissing of static crackled in her ears.

She wanted so desperately to escape her self-imposed prison. Each new day she gave thanks for her countless blessings, giving thanks for natures gifts.  She would work with Mother Earth, tilling the soil, tending her garden, smiling at the miracles of growth as she watched the seeds she had planted grow and mature to bare fruit.

She was given the gift of words, of compassion and understanding, which she spread around like confetti, showering others with love and encouragement, that all was as it should be…

Yet where…

View original post 1,316 more words


Forty years ago today – May 18th, 1980 – Mount St. Helens erupted in Washington State, killing 57 people, including one of my dearest friends, her husband, and her two young children. Most of those who died were camping in the supposed “safe zone” around the mountain. No one imagined that the volcano would explode sideways to the north, ending the lives of those who thought they weren’t in danger. (100 miles away in the Seattle area we heard two explosions, like sonic booms.)

Barb was always full of laughter, always saw the funny side of life. The poem below was written shortly after her death.  (This is a re-post.)


Mount St. Helens erupted on May 18, 1980, at 0...

Mount St. Helens on May 18, 1980


(In memory of Barbara Pierce Morris Seibold, 1947 – 1980)


You laughed above the heads

of those who couldn’t see

your wings,

but those of us with vision

always flew along with you.

Even in the rain

you’d soar above the mud

with a smile and a wink.


But just this once

your takeoff was too slow —

St. Helens grabbed you

in her smoky claws

and with one spicy belch

she burned your wings away….


I found a bird

the cat brought in,

buried it

in forget-me-nots,

then heard your laughter

rise from the dust

and fly

to the curlicue clouds.



(c)1980, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright




She keeps it in a wooden box

between soft layers of cotton —

the arrowhead

he found in the desert.

It still bears his fingerprints —

invisible, like the many poems

she composes in her head

but never writes,


poems she sends

across the valley

hoping they’ll lodge

in his dreams

some heavy night.


She imagines them

circling his body

like halos of concentric light,

or perhaps brushing his face

with kisses

silky as a feather.


But then, like the arrowhead

she draws them home again

tucking them safely away —

sonnets nestled in her soul

between reluctant layers

of silence.



© 2014, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright


(A re-post from 2014)


I hope everyone is staying well out there. Will try to catch up with you all soon. ❤



She tells him with glee

that the robins have arrived

right on time

and the first honeybees

are busy in the heather.


He pretends to listen

but she knows he doesn’t hear –

he’s busy paying bills

also right on time


so as usual

she just notes the new arrivals

on her calendar

and mentions them

in the rough draft

of a poem.



© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 


Silk Dust


After her shower

she writes a poem

in the condensation on the mirror,

then watches it evaporate.


It was all about the fragrance –

the coconut

in her shampoo,

the rose water on her face.


She remembers what he liked –

Emeraude and Chantilly Lace

while he wore English Leather

which drove her over the edge.


They’d dance past the chaperones

and steal away to his car,

Lou Christie on the radio

and lightning striking twice


and later in her room alone,

his scent still in her hair

the poems would magically write themselves

in the silk dust on the mirror.



©  2020  Betty Hayes Albright 




Now we understand —

time is not a fleeting thing,

it is we who fleet.


Now we understand –

time does not have any wings,

it is we who fly.


Now we understand –

there is only one present

for us to unwrap.



© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright


Sorry I’m way behind reading blogs again. Am missing you all, and will hopefully start catching up soon, little by little. Please forgive me if I don’t comment much.  (Fibromyalgia and chronic back pain are the usual culprits, and I know many of you can relate to these “invisible” health problems.) 

Loving thoughts to everyone. ❤❤




I remember

when twenty-five years

was my whole lifetime.


Now a quarter century

is just another tumbleweed

bouncing down the street –


a little bit battered,

a lot more dust

but what wonderful kindling

I’ll be!



© 2019, 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 



Fifty doves

fly as one –

a hundred wings

on a string


like a cloud

caught by the sun

in a glint

and a flutter


before they all


to swerve in the curve

of caprice.



© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 




It doesn’t seem

that long ago

you came

but could not stay.


Our paths were crossed

and time got lost –

seems only yesterday, and yet


the moon still beams

and waxes full

above the sea

beyond the knoll


where we grew young

so long ago

when Eros came to play.



© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright


(Just another entropic scribble.  🙂  )


Winter Solstice


Frosty colors

fall like snow

through trees —


precipitations of sun

filling the tangle

of briar and wood.


A lone sprite sings

her winter song

as doves wing overhead,


their tail feathers spread

to polish the lens

of the sky.



(c) 1996, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.(Re-posted from 2011, revised.)


Happy Winter Solstice!!  🌲 🌞 🌲

(And to our friends south of the equator a Happy Summer Solstice! 😎 )

Wishing everyone a peaceful holiday season!



%d bloggers like this: