Caught by the Sun

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Fifty doves

fly as one –

a hundred wings

on a string

.

like a cloud

caught by the sun

in a glint

and a flutter

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before they all

disappear

to swerve in the curve

of caprice.

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© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Listen

.

.

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She talks to trees

and birds,

to flowers, bees

and dragonflies.

They like to hear

.

how beautiful they are

and then they whisper

their own story

and she listens

care fully.

.

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(c) 2013, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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.(revision of an older poem)

.Photo taken in 2010 with my old camera

 

 

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Song Sparrow

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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.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Seasonings

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A tree knows.

It knows the animal of time

that climbs up its trunk,

wrinkling hours into bark.

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.

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(c) 2003, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

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Trees and Wires

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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.

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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.

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© 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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Seasonings – 2014 posting

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A tree knows.

It knows the animal of time

that stretches up its trunk

wrinkling hours into bark.

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.

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(c) 2003, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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Haiku #22 – Robin Redbreast

Robin Redbreast

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There it is again:

handsome rival in the glass –

he stops to reflect.

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(c) 2013  Betty Hayes Albright

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Haiku #10 – Little Birds

(Mayberrie poem – an addition to “By His Side”)

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Little Birds

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From the south they came

little birds by the dozens

singing through her trees.

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(c) 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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(They came, the morning after posting “By His Side”: a large flock of unfamiliar tiny birds singing sweet songs in the trees – and then they were gone. Maybe just a coincidence, but… thank you.)

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Song Sparrow – 2012 posting

.(

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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.

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Hello Sky (a children’s poem)

.       (from 1970)

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Someday I’m going to climb a tree

to reach its very highest limb

and there I’ll sit and listen to

the merry music of the wind.

Spying on the world below

from my secret hiding place

I’ll chuckle softly to myself

each time a bird flies past my face.

I’ll hug a branch and sing out loud:

way up here my eyes can fly!

Then climbing down most carefully

I’ll whisper, see you later, sky.

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(c)  1970,  2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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