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Magician

(from 1982)

.

He removes his cape

and tall silk hat.

With the touch

of his wand

she turns

into a white dove,

cooing.

 .

It’s easier to leave now,

after the encore.

Goodbyes aren’t real

but magic is.

.

(c) 1982, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

Visitors

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Sleep interrupted –

someone’s knocking on the roof.

Crow comes for breakfast.

 .

..

img_9113

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Peace interrupted –

someone’s knocking on the door.

Flicker comes for lunch.

.

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© 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

.

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(Photos were taken in July.

They’re a bit fuzzy because they were taken through a window.

At least that’s my excuse this time.🙂 )

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Stew

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(a Mayberrie poem)

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Wandering through her garden

she could smell the vegetables

and began to hunger

for some butter-dumpling stew.

It had been his favorite long ago. 

Row by row she harvested

sweet carrots and potatoes,

two turnips and an onion –

and over near the wildflowers

parsley and green beans.

All she needed now

was just a little thyme.

 .

Pacing in the courtyard

he caught his reflection

in the pond.

Who was this king

to love a servant girl –

his young forbidden bride?

Alas, it must secret be

lest they have her head

for she was peasant born.

And now another battle loomed

far across the dunes. 

All he needed now

was just a little time.

.

© 2012, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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(This is a re-post – slightly revised.)

(For links to all poems in this series please click on the Mayberrie tab at the top of this blog.)

Root Cellar

.

She’d waited long enough.

The time had come

to clear the near forgotten room

he’d carved into the earth.

Ancient harvests deep inside

would long be in decay.

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

she was struck with wonder.

Instead of baskets

filled with 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 of old memories.

.

On the side were apples –

barrels of them, red and crisp

(she took a bite and begged forgive!)

.

How could this be,

a place outside of time?

In haste she left

and sealed the door.

There would be no clearing out

(except for one sweet apple

which she secreted away).

 .

© 2009, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(revision of an old Mayberrie poem)

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Loom

.

The seer gazes

past her spinning wheel

and there she eyes

the weave of Yin and Yang

in threads of sun

and yarns of moon

where hope,

like a soft cloth,

polishes the future.

.

(c) 1994, 2016   Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post – again my apologies to those who have read it before.)

Points of Light

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Poetry is the well-worn sleeve

where she displays her heart.

Somebody said

the gods wear paisley,

angels dip their toes

in velvet pleats,

but she likes best

a weave of silk

with lace crochet

around the edge.

Look closely

at the points of light

between the threads,

you’ll see his face

and maybe even read his name

embroidered coyly

near her wrist.

Day after day

she sews anew

the fragile seam

that joins two dreams

all neatly hemmed

and pressed –

or so it seems.

 .

© 2013, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

Earth Tones

Legion Park flowers

.

Summer loses its neon edge,

turns more to the gentle shades

of terracotta, celadon green,

and lavender gone to seed.

 .

Gaia takes a weary breath,

gathers her spent offspring

into a hushed circle.

There she tells them stories

of blithering winds 

and biting snow,

and cold, cold, cold.

You must rest, she says.

 .

Oh no, not yet, they beg her,

pointing to a shrinking

ray of sun.

And over on the hillock

there is one more splash of pink.

.

Gaia smiles and nods her head.

There will be time enough

for them to sleep.

 .

©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Photo taken last week in nearby park.)

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