Posted in Poetry 1990's, tagged birds, death, forgiveness, life, nature, poem, Poetry, rebirth, Sparrow, spirituality, wings on June 8, 2017| 19 Comments »
.
Oh garden bird
you kept a wild heart
between your ribs
as you danced
the morning zephyr
darting circles
through the phlox.
Your last song
sang of forgiveness
to the cat
before you died.
Let me hold
your empty body
till I feel again
the pulse
of swaying hills
and flying trees,
till my own wings spread
new feathers
and we both reclaim the sky.
.
(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(a re-post)
.
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Posted in Poetry 2000 - 2009, tagged awareness, birds, environment, fulfillment, future, Gaia, growth, nature, poem, Poetry, seasonings, seeds, Trees on April 1, 2017| 10 Comments »
.
A tree knows.
It knows the animal of time
that climbs up its trunk,
It knows that rain
falls between suns
and that baby birds
fly their nests
and return full of eggs.
A tree knows
that endings
swallow their own tails
to become tight brown nuggets
falling in circles,
flavoring earth with the future.
A tree knows.
And what it knows best
is to give.
.
(c) 2003, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(a re-post, revised)
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged birds, Earth, electric wires, future, Gaia, hope, Love, nature, philosophy, poem, Poetry, snow, William Wordsworth on January 7, 2017| 13 Comments »
.
She sips hot tea
and watches snow
fall through the trees
and those ugly electric wires
that slice across her view.
She sighs…
“The world is too much with us,”
William Wordsworth said so long ago.
What would he say now?
Children play outside
with phones stuck to their faces
and never look up.
.
It doesn’t stick.
She turns from the window
to her beloved books:
poetry, philosophy,
nature, metaphysics –
millions and billions of words
strung in constellations of idea.
.
She imagines stirring them up
into one large pot
over a hot fire
and wonders what the bottom line
would be – the final alchemy.
Perhaps this one plea:
to speak our love now
before the die is cast,
before we sign our exodus;
to lift ourselves
by bootstraps woven
with the dreams of Gaia.
.
Her tea has gone cold.
She turns back to the window
where the snow is finally sticking
and the trees are turning white.
And seventy times seven birds
are perched upon the wires.
.
© 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
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Posted in Poetry 2000 - 2009, tagged birds, cycles of life, Earth, Gaia, nature, poem, Poetry, seasons, seeds, spirituality, Trees on April 14, 2014| 9 Comments »
.
A tree knows.
It knows the animal of time
that stretches up its trunk
A tree knows that rain
falls between suns
and that baby birds
fly their nests
and return full of eggs.
A tree knows
that endings
swallow their own tails
to become tight brown nuggets
falling in circles
flavoring earth with the future.
A tree knows.
And what it knows best
is to unfold.
.
(c) 2003, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Haiku and Senryu, Poetry 2010 - present, tagged birds, haiku, mating ritual, poem, Poetry, reflection, robin, spring on April 2, 2013| 14 Comments »
Robin Redbreast
.
There it is again:
handsome rival in the glass –
he stops to reflect.
.
(c) 2013 Betty Hayes Albright
Posted in Poetry 1990's, tagged birds, death, eternity, life, Poetry, resurrection, Sparrow on June 29, 2012| 21 Comments »
.(
.
Wood carving by Bob McCausland
Oh garden bird,
you kept a wild heart
between your ribs
as you danced the morning breeze
and darted circles
through the phlox.
Your last song
was forgiveness
to the cat
before you died.
Let me hold your empty body
till I feel again the pulse
of swaying hills
and flying trees.
My wings spread
with your feathers
as we both reclaim the sky.
.
(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Wood carving of Song Sparrow by my Uncle Bob McCausland in 1994 – a gift for my grandmother’s 100th birthday.
