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Posts Tagged ‘dancing’

(just something light, from 1993)

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Wake me when the morning comes,

call me from a dream

when the day is cracking open

and the sunrise spreads like cream.

Together we will wander

and together we can drink

of morning glory nectar

till the air is polished pink.

Then let us go a-dancing

through the ripples of the day

till evening shadows climb the sky

to seed the Milky Way.

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© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Sun becomes artist

painting flowers on the wall

zephyrs come to dance.

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© 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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(photos from 2007 – wild phlox just before sunset)

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You call me tree

but what is that to me?

My name is green

in the summer

when the zephyr fondles me.

In winter

I am bare-branch

dancing against a fat sky.

I am home to tiny things

you choose not to see.

I am ancient

unless you chop me down

with your ax

and turn me into wall

or chair

or totem pole.

I like that one

for then you see

my many faces

and I see all of yours

and someday

when you look

the other way

I shall name you.

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© 2014, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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.    .    (written in 1969)

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Popping, I leap

English: Fireplace. For more translations SEE ...

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.

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

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Even in the storm

we dance –

on parched toes

we leap and twirl

our thirsty land

beneath the tumble

of a sky

that holds its breath . . .

then exhales inabluster.

Whirling through

the rising roar,

we raise our eyes

to slanted rain

then gambol high

across the hills

into the wind

above the trees

to thank the bow

that arcs

between the clouds.

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(c) 2000, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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From dark, wet lawns

the gathered leaves flee

to the gutters, the streets.

They dance in circles

of cinnamon orange

until giddy, they tumble

in sun-dried whorls

eager to catch

the next storm

out of town.

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(c) 1999, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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