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It blows in

from the sea,

that ancient wind –

splitting in half

around the mountain,

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and where it meets itself

on the other side

it clashes thunderously,

failing recognition.

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(c) 1994, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

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I’m very happy to share this post from John Looker announcing the publication of Cynthia Jobin’s posthumous book of poetry. Thank you Bennison Books, and John Looker for letting us know about it.

Poetry from John Looker

Cynthia Jobin, who died nearly two years ago, wrote some deeply moving and thoughtful verse. The independent publisher Bennison Books has now published a posthumous volume of her poetry. I’m pleased to give space on my blog to the following post from them.

Guest post from Bennison Books

Readers of John’s blog may already be familiar with the New England poet Cynthia Jobin, whose poetry attracted many followers worldwide. Admirers of her work will be delighted to learn that a collection of her poetry, Song of Paper,has just been published by Bennison Books.

SongOfPaperAmazon.com(https://amzn.to/2A8Pq3d)

Amazon UK(https://amzn.to/2NFTF9M)

Shortly before her death in late 2016, Cynthia entrusted her poetic legacy to John and Bennison Books welcomed the opportunity to work with him in producing this posthumous collection of her poetry. John also wrote the introduction to Song of Paper, an excerpt from which appears below.

Excerpt from…

View original post 502 more words

Drums

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Deep in the folds

of the flannel of night

we hear the drums call –

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     ba ba boom.

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Our eyes open wide

as we chew through the shackles

and dance ourselves free –

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      ba ba boom.

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Up the spiral we climb,

our candles held high

to shatter the gloom –

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     ba ba boom.

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At the top we leap clear

of gravity’s hold

on the weight of our words –

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     ba ba boom.

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We land on the sun

where we tear off our masks

and meet our true Selves –

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      Ba Ba Boom, Ba Ba Boom!

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(c)  1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised…. written in 1993)

Musings

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Your muse didn’t run away,

she came to visit mine today.

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I watched them climb the cedar tree

to drink their mountain berry tea,

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and as the sky turned into rain

I watched them climb back down again.

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They danced until their feet were dry –

and then I heard them call goodbye,

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and now my muse has gone away –

it seems she fled with yours today.

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When they arrive, please send her home

to change this verse into a poem.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block! 

Strawberry Roan

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On Sundays we’d drive

to the cemetery,

just me and Dad.

He’d talk softly

to his departed son

and arrange fresh flowers

on the grave.

Then standing tall,

he’d blow his nose

and tell me it was time

to put some miles on the car,

and we’d head east

for the country roads

where he’d point his corn cob pipe

at the tiny farms

and talk about Oklahoma,

then sing a chorus

of “The Strawberry Roan”.

Sometimes we’d pull over, and

he’d sniff the air and smile –

and then we’d turn around

and head for home.

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(c) 1992, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_yfmKMK4mo

 

 

Bird in Paradise

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bird2

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We found a little box

with a speckled bird inside

and fed it bits of food

and water from a dropper,

until the day he asked

for a bigger place.

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And so we placed him lovingly

inside a gilded cage

with trays of seeds

and a wooden perch

where he could hop about.

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“This is fine for now,” he said,

“but tomorrow

I want something bigger.”

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We quickly built an aviary

with maple trees

and blueberry shrubs

where he could flutter

through the leaves.

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“This is nice for now,” he said.

But after several days he asked

to wing about the house,

and finally out the window.

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We watched him fly

through forests and valleys,

and finally up into the sky

between the stars, and out

beyond the Milky Way.

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A year went by

and one day he returned,

asking for his little box.

He snuggled down to rest, and said,

“This will do just fine –

for I can see forever

from here now.”

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© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Poem is from a dream I had last April. 

The image is a partial of a print my late parents had – artist unknown. (Update – the artist is Jill Fogelsong.)  The sun just happened to be shining through the window in a certain way, giving it a rainbow effect — which caught my eye. I wasn’t planning to post an image with this poem, but it presented itself just in time. Funny how things work out….

Kiln

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drawing3 1965

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Broken words

soak in the cold brine

of memory,

soften in our hands

like cinnamon clay.

Let us carve new curves

fit for the touching,

ready for the fire.

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© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(Pencil drawing from 1965.)

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