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Posts Tagged ‘Deep Water’

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Shaman man,

you knew every fold

hidden in the riddling

curtain of reality.

You saw the bare

bones of motive,

the underpinnings

of facade.

You were strength and power.

But you also knew tenderness,

the sweet kiss

on the cheek of a lover

slumbering in your bed.

But alas, you also knew

when to go.

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Oh Shaman man

do not doubt another season,

a time not jaded

by an overdose of obstacle.

For when we touch

again, we’ll have

a thousand years to spare.

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© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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She holds a sphere

of white hot light

in hands stretched high

to reach the night.

“Oh Eros”, she prays secretly,

“come take this round

of your creation,

guard its flame

forever more

and I’ll dance gratefully

in the embers,

one man’s fire

seared into my palm.

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(c)  1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Howling Wolf

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I feel your drumbeat

in the cosmic symphony –

music becomes you.

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(c) 2013, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post)

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He trekked north

with the vernal sun

carving his name

across her sky

so she would not forget.

And as he touched

those new frontiers

she wondered, had anyone

conquered her so?

When spring returns

will the sun reach as high,

or will it stop short

of her maiden arc

and will she hear wild geese cry?

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(c) 1996,  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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He could climb

a rock-cold mountain,

guard lost lambs

on faceless cliffs

and she would circle round

to warm his earth.

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And he could carve his image

into a totem pole

of selves

on top of selves

and she would kiss the tower

of rising heads.

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And he could blow new colors

from his hemlock pipe

and she would paint them

on her cheeks

while he peeled back

the many masks

of God.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post – formerly “Biding”)

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In spring she waits

for tethered clouds

to fly apart

so she can ride

the northbound sun

as it barrels through the trees.

She wonders if his sky is blue,

and if the shore

where they embraced

is held together still

with sandy logs

and braids of kelp.

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But today she takes the longing path

that weaves close to the river

with its folded banks

and tangled roots.

Waddled crows

once hopped the rocks

to warn them of intruders.

She wonders if he sees it still,

the vernal sun

that laced their days,

and if their memories are safe –

and do they intertwine?

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A Mayberrie poem – re-post, revised)

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She would sate his fevered brow

with the coolness

of a gauzy cloud

until it rained

upon the mountains

filling streams

with tall white water

rushing eager to the sea.

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And he would lift her

to the shore

and lay her down

on seaweed

where together

they would turn to mist,

and next time that it rained

the sky

would wear a double bow.

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(c)  1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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