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Posts Tagged ‘life’

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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

smiling

from the crest

of a mighty gale

roaring through the heavens

and away.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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

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There’s no warning.

Grief leaks from my eyes

staining my cheeks

the same way

my blouse

became soaked

with milk

between feedings

when he was an infant.

It’s what happens.

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(c) 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Arlie 12 19 08

Arlie in 2008

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Betty73

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1973 – Happy days. Arlie sitting on his great-grandmother’s lap with older brother Jason.

 

 

 

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Love can be

a thousand swifting years

spread out

like water colors

through the pastel pleating

of a weathered paper fan.

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Or love can be

that brief intense

lightning fanned

to consummation

by the hungry edges

of a thousand swifting dreams.

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When someday

they fold her up

and tuck her fast away

it’s that flash of light

she won’t forget.

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©  2013, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, rewritten)

 

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Is grief a particle

or a wave

that washes over

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the speed of light

bending space around

our massive loss?

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Or is it just

the parenthetic spark

in an equation

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the final proof

that love

connects us all?

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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We are tuna fish

breathing the sea,

oblivious to mayo and toast.

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We are cocoa

in the hot southern bean,

our proof is not yet in the pudding.

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We are tomato

bulging acid in red sun,

unsuspecting the BLT.

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We are lettuce leaf

photosynthesized,

ignorant of a thousand islands.

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We are potato,

white jewel buried in soil

unconscious of sour cream and chives.

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We are yeast,

multiplying dark spaces

waiting to be kneaded.

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(c) 1996, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

 

 

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Oh garden bird

you kept a wild heart

between your ribs

as you danced

the morning zephyr

darting circles

through the phlox.

Your last song

sang of forgiveness

to the cat

before you died.

Let me hold

your empty body

till I feel again

the pulse

of swaying hills

and flying trees,

till my own wings spread

new feathers

and we both reclaim the sky.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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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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