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Posts Tagged ‘Gaia’

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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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Let’s go

his body cries

as he clings to the edge

of everything he knows

pulling and stretching

the nuances of air

between each feather

posturing the sun

on his back.

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Then it comes for him,

the breath of Gaia

rushing in

rushing out

teasing his wild

hungry wings

till he captures her

exhaling

and lets go.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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I’m a stranger to this land.

Pray, what are these graceful creatures

with plush yellow blossoms

waving lightly

in the early afternoon?

Such a lovely garden you have.

But why are you cutting them down?

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“They’re dandelions!”

you say with disgust.

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Puzzling,

I bid you farewell

and walk away

tripping on a tin can

in the street.

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(c) 1991, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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The chorus is in chaos.

I lie awake and listen

to the frogs

across the wetlands –

their indiscreet cacophony,

their bald discordant din

of tuneless bass

and baritones,

and one quite well-intentioned

adolescent squork.

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Then comes Gaia

dressed as Maestro

waving her baton

in phosphorescent

ups and downs

until the chorus

is entranced  

with “con amore”

in an ocean

of full moons.

And finally it’s adagio

   adagio…

         adagio…

that fades

to midnight indigo.

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And then one last harumph

and off to sleep.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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A tree knows.

It knows the animal of time

that climbs up its trunk,

wrinkling hours into bark.

It knows that rain

falls between suns

and that baby birds

fly their nests

and return full of eggs.

A tree knows

that endings

swallow their own tails

to become tight brown nuggets

falling in circles,

flavoring earth with the future.

A tree knows.

And what it knows best

is to give.

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(c) 2003, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

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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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IMG_9582

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Enchanting surprise

turning the corner to find

nesting crocuses.

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(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(photo taken a few days ago)

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