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Posts Tagged ‘death’

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Is grief a particle

or a wave

that washes over

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the speed of light

bending space around

our massive loss?

.

Or is it just

the parenthetic spark

in an equation

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the final proof

that love

connects us all?

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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They say it’s coming

strong winds

unusual for June.

Large trees bursting

with foliage

are at risk.

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They say his heart

was enlarged

(with generosity)

at risk

for a death

out of season.

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Tomorrow when the storm hits

I will go outside

and stand among the trees.

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© 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Oh garden bird

you kept a wild heart

between your ribs

as you danced

the morning zephyr

darting circles

through the phlox.

Your last song

sang of forgiveness

to the cat

before you died.

Let me hold

your empty body

till I feel again

the pulse

of swaying hills

and flying trees,

till my own wings spread

new feathers

and we both reclaim the sky.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Let’s go

his body cries

as he clings to the edge

of everything he knows

pulling and stretching

the nuances of air

between each feather

posturing the sun

on his back.

.

Then it comes for him,

the breath of Gaia

rushing in

rushing out

teasing his wild

hungry wings

till he captures her

exhaling

and lets go.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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To my son Arlie, (1972 – May 25, 2017)

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Now I understand

the keening wail,

the rocking forwards,

backwards

so different

from the lullaby

the cradling

from long ago.

It’s forward, release,

forward

release

the pain

as it bursts through

a damn

in the solar plexus.

.

The medics came

from experience

guessing it was a heart attack.

He had keened

his own losses

too many times.

We rock and release,

rock

and release

the keening wail,

the keening wheel

that won’t stop turning

around and around

and around.

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(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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There’s still a tender scar

from the cutting of your grave

two months ago.

No matter, you would say.

You’ve flown into the springtime

where you’re planting bright impatiens

in the shady spots of trees

and hanging popcorn fuchsias

from the limbs of everywhere.

You see a million colors:

bearded iris, bright petunias

shades of greenery

puffs of petals

bobbing in the sun.

 .

Back home I listen

to your favorite symphony.

The room fills with the scent of roses,

How’d you do that, Mom?  I ask.

No matter, you would laugh.

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©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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(This is for my mom who passed away peacefully on March 3rd at the age of 98.)

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IMG

 

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for Dad  (1915 – 1997)

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It’s a long, silent fall

into the days where Dad

is spoken in past tense.

He was tall

like autumn shadows –

he made us laugh

like the dancing, crackled leaves

around our feet.

And he would fast remind us

that trees return

to green

in this orbit’s gentle whirling

when spring gives back again.

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(C) 1997, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

 

1955

 

 

 

 

 

 

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