Posts Tagged ‘cloth’


We throw our burlap robes into the fire,

with no one left to preach, gone is the choir.


Come weave new cloth with capers of the dawn,

in rosy flowing garbs we’ll carry on.


Each seam we’ll sew with needles made of gold

and silver threads embroidered on each fold


and then with pockets full of wind and sky

like kites, without their strings, we’ll learn to fly.



© 2015, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post)



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(a Mayberrie poem)


She dusted off her wooden loom

and began to weave

a cloth of green and blue

and purple-red.

For days she barely ate or slept

but worked her fingers

till they bled

into the threads and yarns

that made the fabric whole.


It would take all morning

to reach the castle gate

through knotted woods

and wading creeks

along the edges

of the sea.

She didn’t stop

until she reached

the cliffs of Mayberrie.


There she saw fresh footprints

and followed to their secret glen.

The old elm tree

still spread its limbs,

its branches grown

since last they met.

She wrapped the cloth

around its trunk

and rested in the shade

until the sun fell westerly

and she must journey home.


That night she slept,

strange comfort

in her weariness,

while somewhere lay

a slumbering king

warmed by a cloth

of blue and green

and two connected hearts

of purple-red.


© 2012 Betty Hayes Albright


For a list (and explanation) of all Mayberrie poems, please click on the “Mayberrie” tab at the top of this blog.

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As Usual





She dreams in stitches

across the grain

of midnight cloth

and sees his face

as usual

embroidered on the bias.

Holding tight

she tries to rip

the crooked seam

that binds

their unmatched checks

but then he smiles

as usual,

turns her threads

to boiling veins

and as usual

all their reds and purples



(c) 1979, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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