Archive for the ‘Poetry 1980’s’ Category


Last night

I saw your moon


waxing full

between the clouds,

its hug

wrapping me to sleep.


This morning

I saw your sunrise


spreading low

through the clouds,

its breath

flushing over my cheeks.



I see your sunset


easing down

below the clouds,

its rays

combing out my dreams.



(c)  1982, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(Written in 1982, taken out of mothballs and revised.)





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They were hydrogen.

He was nucleus

stable, self-contained,

she was electron


caught by attraction

held firmly in place

unable to split.


©  1982, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-post of a poem written in 1982)


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They accelerate

to new heights

I can’t comprehend,

fly where I’ve never been

leaving behind

dangling apron strings

unhuggable contrails

in the sky.


They return

weeks later


my head


on new ground

taller now

with hugs

stronger than mine.


©  1986, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


Written in 1986 when my sons

(teenagers at the time) flew to Oklahoma

to work on my uncle’s farm.



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(from 1982)


He removes his cape

and tall silk hat.

With the touch

of his wand

she turns

into a white dove,



It’s easier to leave now,

after the encore.

Goodbyes aren’t real

but magic is.


(c) 1982, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(from 1981)


Your smile stakes a claim

on my past.

I laugh and talk small

as if the tunnels

through our hearts

had never been connected,

as if I had no claim to stake

on any part of you.


© 1981, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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(One more dandelion re-post, this one from 1982)


And so we curse

this edible vision,

this crayon yellow

turned silver-spun filament!

Oh, grand survivor

of mower and spade,

of poison and time,

perhaps it’s our viewpoint

that needs weeding out.


(c) 1982, 1994, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

(Photo taken a few years back)

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Where’s your dance, old tree?

The music blows,

let’s see you sway,

I long to hear

your rustling green.

Did winter tighten up your knots

and sap your limbs so soon?

What’s this?

It seems Pan left you

tail tucked between his legs

when he saw the horizon

turning black

instead of blue.

And now I too

must hurry off

to find my cave and pray

that the dawn

will turn our mourning

into day.


(c) 1980, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

.Written in March, 1980 – two months before Mt. St. Helens erupted, on May 18th. A premonition, perhaps….

57 people were killed, including my close friend Barbara Pierce Seibold.

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