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What Poets Do

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When we see

snow flocked trees,

a soaring hawk

and winter greens

we seize the beauty

and set it free:

catch   and   release.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(True of all artists, photographers, writers, sculptors, painters, musicians. 🙂 )

 

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We leave our warm houses

and walk the long path

to the meadow, where shadows

are caught in mid-freeze

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and stillness becomes us,

a breath in the thickets

a widening of eyes

the gentle padding of time.

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And from the trees

rays of sun

splay through dark branches

and land at our feet

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as we raise up our arms

to welcome the moment

when light reacquaints us

with Light.

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(c) 2003, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised)

 

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Pour it

through your fingers

taste its color

on your tongue

be it raw, or breaded

with salty metaphor.

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Take its temperature

on your forehead

then weigh it tenderly

careful

not to put your thumb

on the scale.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Winter Fire

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I am the water

you draw from your well

steep me

into your tea.

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I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

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I am the evergreen

on your morning walk

breathe me

into your shadow.

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I am the eyes

meeting yours

in the marketplace

see my hunger.

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I am the line

down the middle of your road

follow me

through the desert.

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I am the match

that lights your winter fire

catch my sparks

in a jar.

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I am the north star

in your fevered night

reach out to me, love

shine on me.

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(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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First Love

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1957

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When I was ten

all the rides

at Disneyland

could not compare

with that first sight,

that maiden rush

across the sand,

my first kiss

of the sea.

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2012)

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She floats free,

a rainbow bubble

rising on

Vivaldi

over ruby-studded waves

chasing after him.

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(c)  2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(Originally a 1995 free-form poem)

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Shadorma November

Interlude

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Sometimes it opens

just a crack,

that heavy door –

and she will see

his lamp aflame

and though she’s not

the only one

to bring his tray,

his cup of ale,

she always comes

to mind the steel

in his eyes,

those eyes

that recognize the fool,

that see the masks

of dark agenda

in the winks of falsity.

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She always comes

that he may rest awhile.

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She lets him count

the gathers

and the pleating

in her bodice,

and she lets him

fold her hair

across his face

to hide his smile.

And she will stay

for just awhile

until the moon has risen

and he calls out

for the guard

to secret her away.

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(a Maeberie series poem, revised)

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