Posted in meditation, Poetry 2010 - present, tagged death, grief, life, Love, meditation, poem, Poetry, spirituality on November 29, 2020| 23 Comments »
.
We watch for him in the valley
by the riverbank
in the green of the moss
.
but on the bridge
to the other side
all we find is our own loss
.
till whispers in the trees remind:
just send love,
not sad goodbyes —
.
no maudlin sentiment
for him,
he’s just over the rise.
.
.
© 2020 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged addiction, death, grandchildren, grief, poem, Poetry, two poems mashed together on August 28, 2020| 37 Comments »
.
He liked two things
when he came to our house:
his Buzz Lightyear placemat
and the scent
of Jergens cherry-almond
by the sink.
.
We judge the addict
who will do anything
for his next fix.
.
The last time he came
he was 16
and we had pizza
and he wanted to use
the worn-out placemat
for old time’s sake.
.
We look down, look
away,
close our eyes.
.
He said he was reading
The Catcher in the Rye –
a favorite of mine, I told him
as he was leaving.
.
We pretend that we don’t see –
.
until it’s our own grandson
who dies of an overdose
and our hearts break apart.
.
When he is gone
I wash my hands
breathing his presence
in the scent
of Jergens cherry-almond
by the sink.
.
We don’t always recover
from the underlying condition
of being young
and oh so invincible.
.
.
© 2020 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(This is about my dear grandson Jacob who died last March at the age of 24.)
.
Posted in haiku or senryu, Poetry 2010 - present, tagged death, grief, life, Love, memory, poem, Poetry, senryu, timelessness on October 31, 2019| 41 Comments »
.
How is it that grief
stays so fresh year after year?
It must be the salt.
.
.
© 2019 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged candle, comfort, death, grief, hope, loss, Love, poem, Poetry, tenderness on May 17, 2019| 41 Comments »
.
.
When we hurt,
grief wants nothing more
than to light a candle
and sit with us
in our keening.
.
If we look it in the eye
we’ll see
its soft depth
as it holds us tenderly
to the flame.
.
And when we’re ready
we’ll hold it in return
and watch the spiral
of warm smoke
rise to the sky.
.
.
© 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Photo from Pixabay
Posted in Poetry 1990's, tagged empathy, grief, Love, mourning, poem, Poetry, snow, winter on December 13, 2018| 28 Comments »
.
I still remember
your winter mourning
when you were dark-empty
.
and I reached
through the ether
and wrapped my arms
around your shadow
tasting your hard tears
.
and you stood taller than light
with grief,
new-fallen and noble
as the snow.
.
.
(c) 1994, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged death, grief, hope, life, light, loss, Love, poem, Poetry, spirituality, tears on July 14, 2018| 63 Comments »
.
Late at night
after she washes her face
and slips from her dress
.
she becomes a teardrop
quaking with grief
on the tip of God’s tongue.
.
But there —
see how the light
shines through.
.
.
© 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged childhood, death, Goldbug, grief, immortality, life, loss, Love, poem, Poetry, Richard Scarry, sorrow on May 25, 2018| 56 Comments »
.
.
It was your favorite book,
the one with Goldbug*
hidden in every picture.
You’d turn the pages
and find him peeking
from the window of a car
or riding in the back
of a fire truck.
.
When you grew up
you had your own cars and trucks
and never failed to wave
and beep your horn
when you drove away.
.
A year ago today
you left this realm
but you are not gone.
I feel you standing next to me
as I water the grape ivy.
Your wind chime rings
when the air is perfectly still.
The little wooden cats
you carved for me
change position during the night.
Something invisible
tickles my arm.
.
You tell me in a dream
not to be sad
and you wave at me
from the windows of everywhere.
I wave back
and turn another page.
.
.
© 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
* from Richard Scarry’s – Cars and Trucks and Things that Go
.
Cats carved by my late son, Arlie, when he was 8 or 9.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged grief, loss, Love, poem, Poetry, sea, sorrow, spirituality, tears, wildflowers on March 4, 2018| 68 Comments »
.
Grief does not tip-toe
it comes
on lead feet
leaving deep prints
in the earth
to collect our tears
and send them over-flowing
to the stream
that joins all sorrow
winding to the sea.
And in the walk-about
where we are left to keen
wildflowers bloom around
the weeping willow tree.
.
.
© 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged corner, death, grief, loss, Love, poem, Poetry, son on January 2, 2018| 46 Comments »
.
She pouts in a corner
it seems
the gods play rough
.
at times
crushing her breath
into a knot
.
pulling her head-first
through a barrel
of tear-salt
.
staining her face
with keens
shoulders wracked
.
it should have been me
I’m old
he was young.
.
She folds
into a corner
when the gods play rough.
.
.
© 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged death, grief, loss, Love, memories, poem, Poetry, power outage, storm, wind on September 21, 2017| 31 Comments »
.
The lights blow out
and the room grows
starkly quiet
in the dark
.
except for the drip
drip
dripping
of a faucet and
.
those thoughts
she had ignored
now howling
like the wild
of the wind.
.
.
© 2015, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
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Seasonings 