Son Sets

.

Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

inside tall men

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

still playing deep inside.

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(c) 1992, 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

(A re-post; also previously published in Skipping Stones)

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This week my first born son turns 50….! 

(Hard to grasp, as I still haven’t accepted that I’m over 50! 😊 )

And I still often see that little boy still playing deep inside him. 

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Turning Out

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Children

are free flow

like liquid gelatin,

sparkling

splashing

filling any form.

Why must we chill them,

make them set?

.

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(c) 1982, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Original pencil drawing from high school,  (c) 1965

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(Poem written in 1982, re-posted from 2012)

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Wind Chime

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I hear it sing

through the kitchen window

your old wind chime

its long weathered pipes

clanging across the wetlands

echoing up the hillside.

You wave to me now

smiling

from the crest

of a mighty gale

roaring through the heavens

and away.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(For my late son Arlie, who would be turning 45 on July 29th)

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Runway

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They accelerate

to new heights

I can’t comprehend,

fly where I’ve never been

leaving behind

dangling apron strings

unhuggable contrails

in the sky.

.

They return

weeks later

circling

my head

landing

on new ground

taller now

with hugs

stronger than mine.

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©  1986, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Written in 1986 when my sons

(teenagers at the time) flew to Oklahoma

to work on my uncle’s farm.

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Son Sets

Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

inside tall men

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

still playing deep inside.

.

(c) 1992, 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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Jet Plane (a children’s poem)

Sleek as a fly-fish,

large as a house,

now it’s only a speck in the sky.

It crouched right here

like a fat old cat

but now it’s five miles high!

 .

We could reach out and touch it

so close it sat,

that streamlined monster in gray –

but then with a roar

it said goodbye

and the jet plane was up and away.

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© 1970, 2012   Betty Hayes Albright

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(This was written in about 1970, shortly after the first 747’s were being test-flown here in Seattle. It was a jaw-dropping sight to see one flying overhead for the first time.)

Thanks to Thomas Davis at Four Windows Press who posted a children’s poem today – which reminded me it was time to start posting more of mine. You can visit Thomas’ and Ethel’s wonderful blog at  Four Windows Press 

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Turning Out – 2012 posting

(Re-post from last August – for lack of anything new. 🙂 )

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Children

are free flow

like liquid Jello,

sparkling

splashing

filling any form.

Why must we chill them,

make them set?

.

(c) 1982, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

Original pencil drawing (c) 1965

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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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Fireplace Dance (a children’s poem)

.    .    (written in 1969)

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Popping, I leap

Image via Wikipedia

from log to stick

toasting the bark

and frying the pitch.

I play on the edge

of a branch and I grow

bigger and stronger

I flicker and flow.

Watch out for your fingers,

I’ll stretch out to taste them

while crackling and snapping

my very own rhythm.

I’ll warm up your room

till it’s cozy and bright,

then leave behind coals

glowing red in the night.

.

© 1969, “Living Color” 1976, 2012   Betty Hayes Albright 

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With Child

          (to both my sons)

 .

It turned out

not to be the flu

but instead, new knowledge

soaked in seasoned hormone.

The days grew round  –

I’d done something right!

And the old lady winked

as feet and elbows

drew taut arcs

pushing at their cage of ribs,

poking out my navel,

aching my back.

And still we toasted

to your soul

with gratitude and joy

as you were born

into the bloodprint of time.

.

(c) 1993  Betty Hayes Albright

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