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Archive for the ‘Poetry 1990’s’ Category

New-fallen

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I still remember

your winter mourning

when you were dark-empty

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and I reached

through the ether

and wrapped my arms

around your shadow

tasting your hard tears

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and you stood taller than light

with grief,

new-fallen and noble

as the snow.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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We chose to climb this mountain

through old brambles, over ice

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cursing barbs that scratched our ankles

damning thorns that tore our veils,

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splitting stones that skinned our reason

as the thunder rolled our tongues.

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Now we reach the sacred fire

and our hair turns scarlet

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as we catch the embers, naked

and the circle dream awakens

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to paint balm across the valley,

bleeding light into our wounds.

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(c)  1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(An old poem, revised and dedicated to H.D. Rhoads, my mentor years ago.)

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The day comes

when his totem

tumbles to the ground

and he commands silence.

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He empties his pouch

of tooth and claw,

spreads his eagle wings

and flies to the top

of the mountain,

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and with one last glance

at the ashes

and the shattering,

he sighs, and

disappears

into his own truth.

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(c)  1996, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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It blows in

from the sea,

that ancient wind –

splitting in half

around the mountain,

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and where it meets itself

on the other side

it clashes thunderously,

failing recognition.

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(c) 1994, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

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Deep in the folds

of the flannel of night

we hear the drums call –

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     ba ba boom.

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Our eyes open wide

as we chew through the shackles

and dance ourselves free –

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      ba ba boom.

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Up the spiral we climb,

our candles held high

to shatter the gloom –

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     ba ba boom.

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At the top we leap clear

of gravity’s hold

on the weight of our words –

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     ba ba boom.

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We land on the sun

where we tear off our masks

and meet our true Selves –

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      Ba Ba Boom, Ba Ba Boom!

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(c)  1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised…. written in 1993)

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Your muse didn’t run away,

she came to visit mine today.

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I watched them climb the cedar tree

to drink their mountain berry tea,

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and as the sky turned into rain

I watched them climb back down again.

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They danced until their feet were dry –

and then I heard them call goodbye,

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and now my muse has gone away –

it seems she fled with yours today.

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When they arrive, please send her home

to change this verse into a poem.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block! 

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On Sundays we’d drive

to the cemetery,

just me and Dad.

He’d talk softly

to his departed son

and arrange fresh flowers

on the grave.

Then standing tall,

he’d blow his nose

and tell me it was time

to put some miles on the car,

and we’d head east

for the country roads

where he’d point his corn cob pipe

at the tiny farms

and talk about Oklahoma,

then sing a chorus

of “The Strawberry Roan”.

Sometimes we’d pull over, and

he’d sniff the air and smile –

and then we’d turn around

and head for home.

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(c) 1992, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_yfmKMK4mo

 

 

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