Archive for the ‘Poetry 1960’s’ Category


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! 😄



Read Full Post »

A children’s poem – written waaaaay back in high school.


Rain says on the roof:

these are joy-tears I weep,

hush now, my patter

will sing you to sleep.


Some days it shouts: Ha!

You’re all wet, April fool,

my friend it was warm out

but now you’ll be cool.


And rain will play tricks

and fall in hard stones,

or crystals of whiteness

and silvery cones.


And these say: Come play,

let me nip at your ear

until a warm day

makes me all disappear.


(c) 1965, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright


(A note to everyone living in the drought stricken areas of the country:  I hold you in my thoughts. It has been dry even here in the northwest, but not as devastating as those states to the south and southwest.  Wishing you all rain, and containment of the fires.)


Read Full Post »

(a collage of memories)


Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.


Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I just ordered tea.


No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.


It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.


He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.


House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.


He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.



your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.


We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hair-flowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.


© 1993, 2015 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post, originally written in 1993. It’s been 48 years, yet 1967 – especially that long, hot summer – is still a vivid memory. It was a time of great change, personally, socially, politically, and spiritually.)

“Echoes” was originally posted on my 1960’s blog – Summers of Love .

Read Full Post »

1965 drawing














Re-posted from my ’60’s blog: Summers of Love

(From 1965 – age 18)


This wasn’t what she had in mind,

she’d meant to keep his feelings light,

she hadn’t meant for him to fall,

in fact she never dreamed he might.

But then he said that heavy word

that stunned and made her want to flee

and when he asked her how she felt

no words would come, she wanted free.

She knew the fault was in her self

not to have seen the tenderness

that shined so deeply from his eyes

and spoke of more than friendliness.

If only she had heard his sighs

or felt his pulse beneath her touch

she might have realized weeks ago

his feelings had become too much.

Sparks that should have been snuffed out

had turned to flames within his heart,

she saw the glow and didn’t know

why she’d allowed his love to start.

This wasn’t what I had in mind,

her thoughts were pleading silently

but while her reasoning rebelled

her heart was pounding happily.


(c) 1965, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


Faded pencil drawing (c) 1965, 2015

(I was never an artist – poor guy doesn’t have any elbows.

And he’s standing on her toes!)

Read Full Post »

(Written in 1963 – age 16)


Who am I, walking this earth

with my average looks and birth?

What am I doing here?

Do I deserve to be so near

to the beauty of grass and flowers

with my lowly, finite powers?


Where do I stand in God’s home?

Was I put here to write poem after poem?

Why am I standing so small

in universes containing all?

When am I – near the end of time?

Or are we humans far behind?


Will time and space ever rot,

or won’t the two ever stop?


© 1963, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


(Re-posted from my 1960’s blog:  Summers of Love

Bad poetry, but same old questions….)

Read Full Post »


(written in 1964 – age 17.)


(c) B. Albright 1965, 2014

I finished it off last night, my love

with the embers I had kept

when you blew out your half of our love,

I finished it off and I wept.


With ashes you had left behind

I fanned a spark that remained

and when it was lit, burnt my half of our love

then watched it like someone deranged.


I watched the thick smoke disappear

and knew I could never pretend

that our ashes could ever be otherwise –

then I scattered them into the wind.


(c) 1964, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

Pencil drawing – (c) 1965, 2014

Read Full Post »










(Old one from high school, 1965)


Eternity came to mock Time

one day

with her ageless face

and the sun in her eyes.

She laughed at the way

I danced to the ticking

of a mere clock

and she said in a voice

that rang out like moon-chimes:


Come let me show you

the land of Right Now,

a place that is free

from the chains of your time.

It’s a world where light

shines out of Truth’s eye

and the smile on my face

will fill you with peace.


I started to follow

but just then a whistle

made me turn back –

it was noon in the valley

and I would be late!

Turning to look

at her beauty once more

I found she had vanished

into Everywhere.


(c) 1965, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

Pencil drawing (c) 1995, 2014

Read Full Post »

(From the “way back” machine – a poem from 1992,

written about an even earlier time: the late ’60’s.)



we danced to our favorite

solo of drums

till Keith turned on

Folsom Prison Blues

and we dosey-doed

in a square-dance spoof,

Tom’s arm


but feeling no pain,

for we couldn’t see

through the smoke in the room

and we would be young forever.


When the haze finally cleared

to reveal gray hairs

we still felt the beat


as butterflies,

and it’s not really bad

being older.  *


© 1992, 2107 Betty Hayes Albright


(“In-a-Godda-da-Vida” – by the Iron Butterfly: Ah, that amazing, long, super-cool drum solo in the middle! No doubt on YouTube.)


* (I’ve changed my mind about that….)

Read Full Post »

.         (from 1966 – age 19)


At first I lived in black and white,

the nights were dark, the days were light

and in between there was a grey

that hardly changed from day to day.


Laughter sprang from shallow seas,

leafing elms 3-8-2012

my tears were trivialities.

I walked on by and couldn’t bear

the colors burning everywhere.


But then one spring the blue-bells tolled

of leaves in green and suns in gold,

of hearts that pulsate ripe and red,

love burst in rainbows ‘bout my head!


(c) 1966,   2012  Betty Hayes Albright


(It’s not quite spring yet, but it’s coming! 🙂 )

Read Full Post »

.    .    (written in 1969)


Popping, I leap

English: Fireplace. For more translations SEE ...

Image via Wikipedia

from log to stick

toasting the bark

and frying the pitch.

I play on the edge

of a branch and I grow

bigger and stronger

I flicker and flow.

Watch out for your fingers,

I’ll stretch out to taste them

while crackling and snapping

my very own rhythm.

I’ll warm up your room

till it’s cozy and bright,

then leave behind coals

glowing red in the night.


© 1969, “Living Color” 1976, 2012   Betty Hayes Albright 

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: