Brine

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So soon, again

they come this way –

long shadows

in the meadow play

.

between the leaves

turned red and gold

where faeries

of the frost behold

.

a disappearance

of the bees,

the fogging

in a stand of trees,

.

the seasoning

of twig and vine

as Fall adds nutmeg

to the brine.

.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Whistling in the Shade

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.

A little less red

in the flower bed,

a little more gold on the tree –

.

the mantis is praying,

the skyline is fraying

and Sol slips another degree.

.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Just a little scribble…)

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Photo from Pixabay

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Coming of Age

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He says she’s over the hill,

that she’s dancing

with entropy

toward the valley below

.

but she hears the call

of flickers, and the chitter

of squirrels,

and she sees ahead

.

lush meadows, tall trees,

and moss-covered stones

on the path

by a sapphire river.

.

There, she’ll follow the scent

of her own deep roots

to a range of mountains,

their tops hidden

.

in the subtleties he missed

between the lines

on her face

when e’er she smiled.

.

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(c)  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Change

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Oh love, can you see us all

pulsing in red,

eyes opened wide

to reason and truth?

.

Oh love, can you see us all

reflecting orange,

imagining change

and eager to grow?

.

Oh love, can you see us all

lit up in yellow,

resolving to purify

air, land, and sea?

.

Oh love, can you see us all

shimmering in green,

rejecting the lies, and

defending the light?

..

Oh love, can you see us all

bathed in blue

with visions of healing,

and freedom from fear?

.

Oh love, can you see us all

radiating indigo,

hands joined together

in what we must do?

.

Oh love – may you see us all

aglow in violet –

creating the crest

of a new Humanity.

.

.

(c) 2001, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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In two weeks, we in the U.S. have an important election which could change the course of history.  Please vote – and let your voice be heard.

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Photo (C) Copyright Betty Albright 2018.

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Class Reunion

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This world has changed

since you and I

allowed the years

to wrinkle by

.

without a pause

we didn’t notice

the quiet closing

of the lotus.

.

Now we fail

to recognize

the crinkles ‘round

each other’s eyes

.

when one says no,

the other yes —

a corner turned

yet I confess

.

that deep inside

I’ll ne’er forget

your Romeo

to my Juliet.

.

.

©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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End of Doubt

.

(Remembering the summer of ’67)

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It was a blue-sky summer

of beach love freedom

and baby-oil tans

but most of all

a hunger

for the daring wild truth.

We danced far away

from dead philosophers

returning to their coffins

and the icy leanings

of cynical professors.

And so it was

that long, fiery season

when heat ignited bodies

and the sun

kindled our souls

that Nietzsche’s god

rolled over

in his grave.

.

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(c) 2013, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post from 2013, revised)

.

.

 

 

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Transition

.

.

Spring and winter spar

rain mixes with something white

snow teases the vine.

.

 .

©  2012, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-posted from 2012)

 

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Turn Around

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1970

.

The gray haired lady

next door

thought I didn’t see her

ducking behind a curtain

watching me

on my knees

weeding the rose garden

four months pregnant

long hair like Cher’s

with the bangs

husband on the porch

playing “Guess Who”

on our new 8-track

wondering

if it was too loud.

.

2018

.

I duck behind the curtain

convinced they can’t see me

watching them

as she sweeps the porch

pregnant belly half bare

short hair in spikes,

her boyfriend’s Harley

revving up

tattoos shining

heavy bass beating

from a window.

I hope they don’t see me

but yes

it’s just too loud.

.

.

© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

. 

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A Toast

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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.

.

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© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-post, revised)

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Echoes from the Summer of Love

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It’s been 50 years. This is a collage of my memories from “The Summer of Love”, 1967.

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Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.

~

Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I just ordered tea.

~

No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.

~

It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.

~

He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.

~

House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.

~

He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.

~

Overheating,

your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.

~

We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hair-flowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.

.

© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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1967 was a watershed year, a time of great change for many of us – personally, socially, politically, and spiritually. These memories took place in Seattle and Bellingham, Washington. It was a long, hot summer…..

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(a re-post)

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