Florets

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The poetess opens

like a book

bound in silk

with florets in the margins

and gold-edged pages turning

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and turning

with every breath

of the Muse

reading over

her shoulder.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Musings

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Your muse didn’t run away,

she came to visit mine today.

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I watched them climb the cedar tree

to drink their mountain berry tea,

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and as the sky turned into rain

I watched them climb back down again.

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They danced until their feet were dry –

and then I heard them call goodbye,

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and now my muse has gone away –

it seems she fled with yours today.

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When they arrive, please send her home

to change this verse into a poem.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block! 

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What Poets Do

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When we see

snow flocked trees,

a soaring hawk

and winter greens

we seize the beauty

and set it free:

catch   and   release.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(True of all artists, photographers, writers, sculptors, painters, musicians. 🙂 )

 

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Matters

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When the veil lifts

we see the bones

of the universe

and it doesn’t matter

the color of an eye,

an unread poem,

a broken thread,

the forgotten name.

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And everything matters –

the curve of a smile,

a loaf of bread shared,

the feather of a crow,

each dandelion spared.

What matters is the fingerprint

we leave on the flame

before we’re dowsed with slumber

and it all begins again.

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(c) 2004, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Spread on Toast

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Recipes for poetry:

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Stir words with both hands,

mix into synaptic colors,

paint them on walls

again and again

until the room

screams in ecstasy.

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Cook words in test tubes

over the burner

that is your heart,

then spread on toast

like marmalade

and feed the hungry.

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Wrestle with words,

squeeze them,

break them into pieces,

pin them to the floor

of your solar plexus

and in the end

always let them win.

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 (c)  2004, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

 

(Formerly titled “Mentor”)

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A Poet’s Blood

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A poet’s blood

flows to the brain

and out again

with just one change –

the cells are richer,

colored by

a metaphor,

a mystic eye

that sees it all

from higher land

then bleeds on those

who understand.

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(c) 1992, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Mentor – 2011 posting

 Things she learned from her mentor:

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Stir words with both hands,

mix into synaptic colors,

paint them on walls

again and again

until the room

screams in ecstasy.

.

Cook words in test tubes

over the burner

that is your heart,

then spread on toast

like marmalade

and feed the hungry.

.

Wrestle with words,

squeeze them,

break them into pieces,

pin them to the floor

of your solar plexus

and in the end

always let them win.

.

 (c)  2004, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

 

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A Poet’s Blood – 2011 post

.

A poet’s blood

flows to the brain

and out again

with just one change –

the cells are richer,

colored by

a metaphor,

a mystic eye

that sees it all

from higher land

then bleeds on those

who understand.

.

(c) 1992, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

.

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The Poetess – for Anne (2011 posting)

……… (from 1979)

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She paints what is reflected

in the tears that are neglected

and laughs at the picture

that she sees.

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Still her thoughts become infected

with words that were rejected

and she knows that craziness

comes in degrees.

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But the world will stand corrected

when her bones are resurrected

and she asks,

“How did you like my last strip-tease?”

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(c) 1979, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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