Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Archive for the ‘Poetry 1990’s’ Category

.

I am the water

you draw from your well

steep me

into your tea.

.

I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

.

I am the evergreen

on your morning walk

breathe me

into your shadow.

.

I am the eyes

meeting yours

in the marketplace

see my hunger.

.

I am the line

down the middle of your road

follow me

through the desert.

.

I am the match

that lights your winter fire

catch my sparks

in a jar.

.

I am the north star

in your fevered night

reach out to me, love

shine on me.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

.

She floats free,

a rainbow bubble

rising on

Vivaldi

over ruby-studded waves

chasing after him.

.

.

(c)  2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Originally a 1995 free-form poem)

.

Shadorma November

Read Full Post »

.

And she will dwell

in a cottage of white

and wait for him

at the river’s edge

with birds and breezes

tending the trees.

And they’ll be coming

through the woods,

the poets and flutists

late at night

and after they’re gone

she’ll dance naked

through

the wildflowers

beneath the moon

a yellow ribbon

tied around her heart.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-post from 2012)

.

Read Full Post »

.

It changes fast

that marbled sky

from sheets of paste

to curds of gray

and thin blue belts

with heads of steel

connected

by chain lightning.

.

Clouds turn glassy

shadows break

we hasten through

the cracking storm

but pause to lift

our empty cups

to catch the rain

and raise a toast

.

to the wild wind’s

un-leafing

of the fall.

.

.

© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-post, revised)

.

Read Full Post »

.

She takes in the street,

its rain-polished gleam

of high wet shadows,

of tall crows in bare trees.

Cupping her hands

she gathers a reflection

draws it to her lips

and drinks.

.

.

(c) 1992, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

Read Full Post »

Rush Hour

.

From dark, wet lawns

fallen leaves flee

to the gutters,

the streets

spinning cinnamon orange

until giddy, they tumble

in sun-dried whorls

to catch the next storm

out of town.

.

.

(c) 1999, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post)

Read Full Post »

Knot

.

Would it not be

a greater love

to silence keep,

to hide one’s heart

when it is fettered

sneaking past

those greater dreams,

pretending not to see?

 .

Would it not be

a greater care

to journey on

in quiet prayer

that none be wounded

by rogue passion,

nor be caught

in love’s untimely heat?

.

.

(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post)

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: