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Posts Tagged ‘Deep Water’

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I am the water

you draw from your well

steep me

into your tea.

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I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

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I am the evergreen

on your morning walk

breathe me

into your shadow.

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I am the eyes

meeting yours

in the marketplace

see my hunger.

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I am the line

down the middle of your road

follow me

through the desert.

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I am the match

that lights your winter fire

catch my sparks

in a jar.

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I am the north star

in your fevered night

reach out to me, love

shine on me.

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(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Sometimes it opens

just a crack,

that heavy door –

and she will see

his lamp aflame

and though she’s not

the only one

to bring his tray,

his cup of ale,

she always comes

to mind the steel

in his eyes,

those eyes

that recognize the fool,

that see the masks

of dark agenda

in the winks of falsity.

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She always comes

that he may rest awhile.

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She lets him count

the gathers

and the pleating

in her bodice,

and she lets him

fold her hair

across his face

to hide his smile.

And she will stay

for just awhile

until the moon has risen

and he calls out

for the guard

to secret her away.

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(a Maeberie series poem, revised)

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And she will dwell

in a cottage of white

and wait for him

at the river’s edge

with birds and breezes

tending the trees.

And they’ll be coming

through the woods,

the poets and flutists

late at night

and after they’re gone

she’ll dance naked

through

the wildflowers

beneath the moon

a yellow ribbon

tied around her heart.

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(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post from 2012)

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Knot

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Would it not be

a greater love

to silence keep,

to hide one’s heart

when it is fettered

sneaking past

those greater dreams,

pretending not to see?

 .

Would it not be

a greater care

to journey on

in quiet prayer

that none be wounded

by rogue passion,

nor be caught

in love’s untimely heat?

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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She thought it was

the autumn sun

shining on the dogwood tree

but no

the leaves themselves

were flushed

defying the gray

with red-gold embers

self-lit in the gloom.

It was the spark

within the dead,

the nuances of yesterday,

the fire of life

banked against all odds.

.

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(c) 2010, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised)

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After the fire plays,

after he’s gone

she leaves her heart

in ashes

nestled on the bed

and slips outside

to bury time

in earth

where it belongs.

.

And sometimes

there’s a spark

when her trowel

hits a rock

and she smiles

at the thought

of that blazing

stand of man

and how she became

a goddess

when he touched her

with his flame.

.

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(c) 1996, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post from 2012, revised)

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She whittles

on a block

of solitude

until it’s gone

and pieces lie

about her feet

and slivers

bleed her hands

carving

out another poem

that only he

will understand.

.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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