Posts Tagged ‘immortality’


She dares to rise

through molten rock

cutting loose

from the unforgiving core

of gravity

free of the burning bush

and the howl of the tempest.


Into the open sky she flies

past moon and sun,

the spin of stars

beyond the fabled edges

of the cosmos


until no longer up or down

nor right or left

she spirals forth

into the numinous arms

of the Beloved.



© 2020, 1976  Betty Hayes Albright 


(A revised version of an old poem from 1976.)


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cats carved by Arlie


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.

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If you must choose

be not the rose

nor the wintering compost

but rather the seed,

the capsule that knows

beginnings and endings

are the sacred vines

which weave immortality.



(c) 2013, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post, revised)

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I hear it sing

through the kitchen window

your old wind chime

its long weathered pipes

clanging across the wetlands

echoing up the hillside.

You wave to me now


from the crest

of a mighty gale

roaring through the heavens

and away.


©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 


(For my late son Arlie, who would be turning 45 on July 29th)



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There’s still a tender scar

from the cutting of your grave

two months ago.

No matter, you would say.

You’ve flown into the springtime

where you’re planting bright impatiens

in the shady spots of trees

and hanging popcorn fuchsias

from the limbs of everywhere.

You see a million colors:

bearded iris, bright petunias

shades of greenery

puffs of petals

bobbing in the sun.


Back home I listen

to your favorite symphony.

The room fills with the scent of roses,

How’d you do that, Mom?  I ask.

No matter, you would laugh.


©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright


(This is for my mom who passed away peacefully on March 3rd at the age of 98.)




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32 years ago today, Mt. St. Helens erupted in Washington State, killing 57 people, including one of my dearest friends, her husband, and her two young children. Barb was always full of laughter, always saw the funny side of life.


The poem below was written shortly after her death:


Mount St. Helens erupted on May 18, 1980, at 0...

Mt. St. Helens on May 18, 1980



(In memory of Barb Pierce Morris Seibold, 1947 – 1980)


You laughed above the heads

of those who couldn’t see

your wings,

but those of us with vision

always flew along with you.

Even in the rain

you’d soar above the mud

with a smile and a wink.


But just this once

your takeoff was too slow.

St. Helens grabbed you

in her smoky claws,

and with one spicy belch

she burned your wings away….


I found a bird

the cat brought in,

buried it

in forget-me-nots.

I heard your laughter

rising from the dust

and then it flew

to the curlicue clouds.



(c)1980, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


For another “Barb” poem (written 2-1/2 months before she died):  https://raindancepoetry.wordpress.com/2011/08/28/down-moon-river-on-a-cement-slab/

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