Posts Tagged ‘Gaia’




Hello, my friends,

is anyone there?

I need someone

to come repair

my shattered biosphere.

The ocean’s clogged

with plastic sludge,

the beach is cut

with broken glass,

my raging fever

melts the ice

and all the while

my insides churn

as ancient trees

are turned to tables,

wild creatures

robbed of fur

their heads mounted

on walls.

I sob aloud

and strain to breathe

the muddy air

my tears are lava

running through your villages

I’ve lost my balance

can’t control

the atmosphere

it spins and bawls

across the plains

I quake apart

your buildings fall

the dust roars through

our sacred land

my voice grows hoarse

but still I call out

desperately –

Can you hear me now?



© 2013, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(Re-posted from 2013)

Image from “Bing” free art.


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Sooner or later

Gaia has her way with us

all will be seduced.



(c) 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(Photo from July, 2011.  Re-posted from 2014)


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I give my body

for your tables

and your chairs,

for bracelets

and for drums.

You hammer me

into your floors,

untie my shiny knots

beneath your feet.

Can you hear me whisper?


My branches stretch

to stars and wind

and fold you close at night,

and in the dawn

you grind me

into sawdust

for your pathways

and your barns –

you dance a jig on me.

Can you hear me sigh?


My leaves

suck the poison

from your air

and shield your faces

from the heat.

Then tenderly

they cover Earth

with patchwork colors

suckling winter into spring.

Can you hear me howl?

I am Tree.



©  2012, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-post from 2012)


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how winter thins

as shadows quicken

in sunlit trees


as dew swells

the un-sheared lawn

with promises, promises


and dreams are joined

at the wing.



© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 


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March 15, 2009 morning 004


Spring and winter spar

rain mixes with something white

snow teases the vine.



©  2012, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(re-posted from 2012)


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Sunset gave itself

to a seashell on the beach

that’s where she found it.



(c) 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(This shell was found in 1982, on the beach in Edmonds, Washington. In all my years of beach-combing, I never found another one like it.)


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 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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