By Design


On the walls

of the Great Divine

our soul-prints adorn


all-ways expanding

ever creating


for we are the artists

and we are the beholders

and we are the curators


in kaleidoscope halls

beyond the reaches of time.



(c) 2020  Betty Hayes Albright




On waves of teal sea-shine

we catch a glossy ride

to chase our lost horizons

and race the rising tide.


We lean to gather white-caps

and taste their salty plumes

till purple weaves a blanket

and wraps us ’round the moon.



(c) 1992, 2020  Betty Hayes Albright



Eternity came calling

on me one day

with her childlike face

and her kind, ancient eyes.

She laughed at the way

I danced to the ticking

of a mere clock

and said in a voice

that tinkled like moon chimes,


“Come let me show you

the land of Right Now,

a place that’s free

from the chains of your time.

It’s a world where the sun

shines from truth’s eye

and the smile on my face

will fill you with peace.”


I followed a minute

but then a loud whistle

stopped me in my tracks.

Tomorrow perhaps —

it was noon in the valley

and I would be late.


I headed downhill

but turned to look back

at her beauty once more

and found she had vanished

into Everywhere.



(c) 2020, 1969, 1965  Betty Hayes Albright


Written in high school, 1965. Published in chapbook “Living Color”, 1976; previously posted here in 2014.

This is a newly revised version. I guess it’s about time! 😄




He liked two things

when he came to our house:

his Buzz Lightyear placemat

and the scent

of Jergens cherry-almond

by the sink.


          We judge the addict

          who will do anything

          for his next fix.


The last time he came

he was 16

and we had pizza

and he wanted to use

the worn-out placemat

for old time’s sake.


          We look down, look


          close our eyes.


He said he was reading

The Catcher in the Rye –

a favorite of mine, I told him

as he was leaving.


             We pretend that we don’t see –


             until it’s our own grandson

             who dies of an overdose

             and our hearts break apart.


When he is gone

I wash my hands

breathing his presence

in the scent

of Jergens cherry-almond

by the sink.


           We don’t always recover

           from the underlying condition

          of being young

          and oh so invincible.



© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright


(This is about my dear grandson Jacob who died last March at the age of 24.)





pink poppy 2020


Dance little poppy,

bow to ev’ry little breeze —

sunshine lands on all.



(c) 2020  Betty Hayes Albright


(Photo taken last week. We had a lot of orange California poppies…this was the only pink one. I love ’em all. 💕)


P.S. I just realized, today is my 9th anniversary on WordPress!!  Thank you to the many dear friends I’ve met here over the years.)


Deep July


Come meet me

in the secret garden

living green

and dancing yellow,

join the bees

and beg their pardon

where the hive

grows sweet and mellow.


Free of fear

and saved from doom

let us dance

in yonder meadow

where the wild ones

stand and bloom –

spare the truth

and spoil the credo.


Oh my love,

let’s long abide –

dance the tango

free from care.

Meet me

on the other side –

unloose your heartstrings,

take the dare.



© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright


Due to a WordPress glitch, Ben Naga’s followers were all deleted. If you love Ben’s poetry (as I do) please visit his site and re-follow him.
(And if you aren’t familiar with Ben’s wonderful poetry, I highly recommend his blog.)

Ben Naga

My cache of ‘Followers’ has disintegrated so if you are still interested in reading/replying to fresh posts here you’ll have to refollow. Sorry.

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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. ❤


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