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Posts Tagged ‘life’

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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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When a tree is taken down

we grieve its silhouette collapsing

from a stricken sky.

It leaves a phantom

in the corner

of our eye,

the shadow

of a stolen trunk,

the staunching of osmosis.

We dampen earth

with our diluted tears

scattering seeds

among the fettered roots.

And if we listen carefully

we’ll hear the song of Gaia –

a forestation aria

of green that fills

the empty valley

after we are gone.

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©  2012, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(Revision of an older poem)

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Without enough rain

even so-called weeds succumb –

no prejudice there.

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(c)  2015  Betty Hayes Albright

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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.

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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.

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©  2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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

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IMG

 

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