Posts Tagged ‘endurance’




 Birch trees catch my eye

deep in the trough of winter

white bark withstanding.



©  2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 


Partial of an original watercolor by my grandmother,

Lilly Bjornstad.  (She painted this when she was about 100.  She lived to 108.)




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Earth freezes

when the comet

spreads his tail

like a dove.

She covers tiny trees

against the frost

and watches

till the fan of indigo

folds and disappears.

Once in a lifetime

or a thousand years

it matters not,

she’ll know him

by his steel blue

when he comes again.




(c) 1996, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post, revised)

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Day and night

we must remember

take nothing

for granted

everything is in flux

love alone endures.



(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(Shadorma November)

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old skirt 2017


Skirt of many long colors

sewn in gathers

and tiers


brushing my ankles

with playful seams

cutting through the design


of mismatched patterns

wearing thin

after all these years


washing on delicate

hanging to dry

one more time.


©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Leave it open

just a glimmer,

may the circle

never close –

a tiny light

to breach a cloud,

one last petal

on the rose.

Hush beloved,

no more tearing,

though I needn’t

tell you this –

every word

an open door,

each new poem

a little kiss.



(c) 2015, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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We carve our words,

our paintings, sculptures,

music, dance

into the walls

of space and time

knowing one day

all will crumble down.

Even earth

will be consumed

by an aging sun someday.

But Cosmos gathers each creation,

weaves it into infinite Mind

where no thing is ever lost

except the empty shadow –

nothing really disappears,

not even love.


© 2012, 2015  Betty Hayes Albright 


(a re-post)


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(from 1979)


When our skin

grows thin

and our eyes

have finally dimmed

we’ll blow on that

charred piece of coal

(the one that never cooled)

until it catches fire again.

We’ll crawl inside

and melt cold bones

into an alabaster stone

and there we’ll carve

our epitaph:

Never Say Die.


(c) 1979, 2015  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-posted from 2011)

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(This is a companion to the previous poem.)



What are these icy blades

that pull words crisp

through dunes of snow,

that draw my heart

to shiver

in your sea?

Fly if you must

beyond this salty mood

(still frozen to my cheek)

and I will wait

for winter’s hands

to thaw.


(c) 1993, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


(photo taken a few years ago)

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(a re-post from 2012)


And after the blaze, what?

Would they,

like snow on fire

end in vapor

against the starry night?

She stands below his mountaintop

frozen to her ache

and lights a match.


(c) 1995, 2014  Betty Hayes Albright


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Don’t let the bridge burn,

I’ll bring silver pails

of water to dowse it

drawn from the whirlpool

of tears far below.

I will roll heavy boulders

up from the valley

to shore up the sides,

then pull old elm logs

from the forest around us

and tie them together

with ribbons and lace.

I’ll pound in the nails

with my bare fists

then toss you a rope

from the opposite side.


I would carry you.


Don’t burn our bridge,

the chasm is deep,

our words wash away

in the undertow

and we must get them across.


© 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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