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Posts Tagged ‘Earth’

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She searches for a pulsetree-in-hand

her fingers kneading earth

beneath rocks and stones

to reach the heart of Gaia.

There she rides the quake

of nature’s first womb

lifting her face

to catch the genesis

of sun and rain

wind

and moon

till seedlings birth

their promises.

Labor replete

she bows her head

and the gods kiss the dirt

beneath her nails.

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(c) 1992, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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Photo originally used with permission of Jason in 2012 at  http://loveuniversallove.wordpress.com/

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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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Words

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Music rises from her garden,

goes off key

and disappears

into the sky.

Curious, she digs

with her bare hands

past dead roots

and rotting leaves

into birthing soil.

And there she feels a rhythm

pounding in the earth,

and the rise

of sacred humming

in her ears.

She drops a seed

into the hole

and out sprouts a melody

that grows into a tree.

Wind sings in its branches

and for the first time

in her life

she understands the words.

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© 1996, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

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She sips hot tea

and watches snow

fall through the trees

and those ugly electric wires

that slice across her view.

She sighs…

“The world is too much with us,”

William Wordsworth said so long ago.

What would he say now?

Children play outside

with phones stuck to their faces

and never look up.

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It doesn’t stick.

She turns from the window

to her beloved books:

poetry, philosophy,

nature, metaphysics –

millions and billions of words

strung in constellations of idea.

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She imagines stirring them up

into one large pot

over a hot fire

and wonders what the bottom line

would be – the final alchemy.

Perhaps this one plea:

to speak our love now

before the die is cast,

before we sign our exodus;

to lift ourselves

by bootstraps woven

with the dreams of Gaia.

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Her tea has gone cold.

She turns back to the window

where the snow is finally sticking

and the trees are turning white.

And seventy times seven birds

are perched upon the wires.

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© 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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When a tree is taken down

we grieve its silhouette collapsing

from a stricken sky.

It leaves a phantom

in the corner

of our eye,

the shadow

of a stolen trunk,

the staunching of osmosis.

We dampen earth

with our diluted tears

scattering seeds

among the fettered roots.

And if we listen carefully

we’ll hear the song of Gaia –

a forestation aria

of green that fills

the empty valley

after we are gone.

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©  2012, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(Revision of an older poem)

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(A tribute to the poets)

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Our poems crisscross the world

intersecting

in a matrix of sharp points

or perhaps a gentle filigree,

the sun

winking through trees.

Our name is Passion

as the oceans pitch

and wail

and lightning splits

the sky.

When the earth shakes

beneath our feet

we shout to the universe

until our words scatter

like the stars

for everyone to see.

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© 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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(For Earth Day – a re-post)

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“Where is the light?”

their voices screamed

into the night,

“where has our power gone?”

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“It’s not the candle,

but the flame

that matters,”

came the swift reply

in answer to their woe.

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“Change must be the vessel

that carries Gaia

through the storm.

It was your dragging apathy

that drove her off

into the mist

where only those

with unveiled eyes

can still make out her form –

where only those

with opened ears

can still discern her voice:

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“I am still here,” she tells us,

“so humankind 

will learn to breathe

new life into the dust,

and earth shall rise

in startling vitality.

I am still here, beloved ones,

but now it’s up to you.”

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(c) 2000, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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