I would be the tide

that moves your sea

as waves of you

go breaking through my soul,


and you – the gust of wind

that plays my flute

would hear my drumming

in the ocean’s roll.



(c) 1995, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post from 2015)




When the sun

and all three moons

have set

into the purple sea

it is the rarest dark of nights

and time to climb

the promontory

to her telescope.


She aims it through

the far-flung stars

always drawn to one

on the edges of the galaxy –

a small, twinkling sun

much like her own.

Perhaps it also holds a brood

of planets in its warmth

and maybe there

another set of eyes

is looking back.


The others scoff

and scold her,

“Are we not

the only children

of the Great Divine?

Are we not

the epitome of creation?”


She knows the gods

are not so small

and impotent,

and soon she’ll find

another fertile world.

Shaking her head at arrogance

she polishes the lens.



© 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-posted from 2014 – revised)


I am Tree




I give my body

for your tables

and your chairs,

for bracelets

and for drums.

You hammer me

into your floors,

untie my shiny knots

beneath your feet.

Can you hear me whisper?


My branches stretch

to stars and wind

and fold you close at night,

and in the dawn

you grind me

into sawdust

for your pathways

and your barns –

you dance a jig on me.

Can you hear me sigh?


My leaves

suck the poison

from your air

and shield your faces

from the heat.

Then tenderly

they cover Earth

with patchwork colors

suckling winter into spring.

Can you hear me howl?

I am Tree.



©  2012, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-post from 2012)




A path leads down to the river,

the river runs down to the sea

where the gulls

and the zephyr that follow

bring naught but a daydream to me.


He rides his steed to the chapel,

he coaxes his lamb to the lee

while the music

and footprints that follow

bring naught but a fancy to me.



(c)  1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(A Maeberie series poem, re-posted from 2012)




Grief does not tip-toe

it comes

on lead feet

leaving deep prints

in the earth

to collect our tears

and send them over-flowing

to the stream

that joins all sorrow

winding to the sea.

And in the walk-about

where we are left to keen

wildflowers bloom around

the weeping willow tree.



©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright



It rolls in to me

one fresh churned wave

of salt-laden soup

in mussel shell blue


with armor of chiton

in sea-weed sway

and twists of driftwood

on layers of foam


bringing crab legs and agates

in dustings of gold

that buckle and rattle

kaleidoscope stones


and as barnacles yawn

to taste the high tide

it rolls in the next one

for you.



© 1993, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-write of “Beach” from 1993)



Marina Beach in Edmonds, Washington (on Puget Sound).




how winter thins

as shadows quicken

in sunlit trees


as dew swells

the un-sheared lawn

with promises, promises


and dreams are joined

at the wing.



© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 


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