Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘fire’

.

We fan the embers

turning to flamingo flames

parsing the silence

.

like a blue-white star –

fire so hot there is no smoke,

just the melt of time.

.

Vermilion night,

soft sizzle of sparks afire –

it begins to rain.

.

.

©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

Read Full Post »

.

Where’s your dance, old tree?

The wind plays –

let’s see you sway,

I long to hear

your rustling green.

.

Did Autumn tighten up

your knots

and sap your limbs

too soon?

.

It seems that Pan

has left you,

tail tucked between his legs

when he saw the horizon

turning black

instead of blue.

.

And now I too must hurry off

to find my cave and pray

that dawn

will wring out the mourning

and wash the ash away.

.

.

(c) 1980, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

This is an old one, revised. It was originally written in 1980, two months before Mount St. Helens erupted a hundred miles away from us. (A dear friend of mine died in the eruption, along with her husband and two children.)  I always assumed the poem was a premonition of that tragic event, but it seems to also fit in with current events on this dear old planet of ours.  (The original version was posted here in 2014.)

.

P.S. Once again I’m behind reading blogs. Will hopefully catch up with you all soon!

.

Read Full Post »

.

My lungs are on fire,

my breath is smoke.

Help me, please help me!

I can see it falling —

the last straw.

.

.

(c)  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

As most of us know, the Amazon Rain Forest (often referred to as “the lungs of the earth”) is on fire. This great forest provides 1/5th of the earth’s oxygen – every 5th breath we take.  So far, the fires are out of control. I heard on the news that millions of animal species have perished. We need more than thoughts and prayers on this one….

 

Read Full Post »

Kiln

.

drawing3 1965

.

Broken words

soak in the cold brine

of memory,

soften in our hands

like cinnamon clay.

Let us carve new curves

fit for the touching,

ready for the fire.

.

.

© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

.

(Pencil drawing from 1965.)

Read Full Post »

.

He steams her edges

and, like stamps

on a postcard

.

she curls in the heat

falling free from the corner

of mythology

.

to be saved

by the fire

in his hands.

.

.

(c) 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post, revised)

Read Full Post »

.

Each moment comes

a clean slate.

We write on it

with ink that burns us,

weep on it

with tears that boil,

toss it on a hickory stove

smearing ash

on pristine snow

.

but every second

rights itself

into a guiltless fire

that flares into

a longing grace

erasing clean

the errant flare

as we learn

to temper self

and kindle our own glow.

.

.

©  2012, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post, revised)

Read Full Post »

.

I am the water

you draw from your well

steep me

into your tea.

.

I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

.

I am the evergreen

on your morning walk

breathe me

into your shadow.

.

I am the eyes

meeting yours

in the marketplace

see my hunger.

.

I am the line

down the middle of your road

follow me

through the desert.

.

I am the match

that lights your winter fire

catch my sparks

in a jar.

.

I am the north star

in your fevered night

reach out to me, love

shine on me.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: