Loss of Power


The lights blow out

and the room grows

starkly quiet

in the dark


except for the drip



of a faucet and


those thoughts

she had ignored

now howling

like the wild

of the wind.



©  2015, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 




For those of you who aren’t familiar with Ben Naga, I think you’ll find his blog well worth checking out. His poetry contains wisdom, humor, satire, and in this case, great beauty.

Ben Naga

 1805. Perennial…..

Keeps her secrets
Within her silence

I too, passing her
Day after day

A gladsome addition
To my daily constitutional

Grateful to the wind
That blew her seed here

A gradual paling
Day after day

Petals crinkle, fall
Her secrets die with her

I shall mourn her absence
Patiently await next Summer

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Past Time


She whittles

on a block

of solitude

until it’s gone

and pieces lie

about her feet

and slivers

bleed her hands


out another poem

that only he

will understand.



(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright






When we let it grow

a weed might just surprise us

with uncut beauty.


(c) 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright




(a re-post)



She stifled her passion

with a bone cork

and Earth became

a rocking jug

with aching sides

and tears that leaked

through cracks

and there was naught

but a dry brown light

across the sky.


The gods looked down

and cursed.

They pulled loose the plug

and ground it to dust

with flying fists

until Earth trembled

and roared

its mountainous heat

into the sky

in a billowing boundless fount

of love un-damned.



(c)  1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright




seagull pendant


I wear the old necklace

a gift from my son


he tells me

  to stop saying

  if only and should’ve


he bought it

with his pizza money


it was nobody’s fault

   he says.

   I want to believe


his heart was young

and vital then


he would’ve hated

   the hospital with all

   those tubes and machines


whenever I wore it

he was proud and happy


the coroner said

   it was probably quick

   which was a blessing


like a pewter seagull




©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright





It all begins to crinkle,

the leaves, the sky

the boundaries of our vision.

Green ruffles turn to gold,

romaine edges of a dream

that curls and wrinkles

in the sun’s retreat.

Our shadows too turn ragged,

we feel them


and fold

their origami corners

that we too may slumber

in the pause

between now and again.


(c) 2000, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


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