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Posts Tagged ‘life’

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Now we understand —

time is not a fleeting thing,

it is we who fleet.

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Now we understand –

time does not have any wings,

it is we who fly.

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Now we understand –

there is only one present

for us to unwrap.

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© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright

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Sorry I’m way behind reading blogs again. Am missing you all, and will hopefully start catching up soon, little by little. Please forgive me if I don’t comment much.  (Fibromyalgia and chronic back pain are the usual culprits, and I know many of you can relate to these “invisible” health problems.) 

Loving thoughts to everyone. ❤❤

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I remember

when twenty-five years

was my whole lifetime.

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Now a quarter century

is just another tumbleweed

bouncing down the street –

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a little bit battered,

a lot more dust

but what wonderful kindling

I’ll be!

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© 2019, 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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How is it that grief

stays so fresh year after year?

It must be the salt.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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My lungs are on fire,

my breath is smoke.

Help me, please help me!

I can see it falling —

the last straw.

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(c)  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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As most of us know, the Amazon Rain Forest (often referred to as “the lungs of the earth”) is on fire. This great forest provides 1/5th of the earth’s oxygen – every 5th breath we take.  So far, the fires are out of control. I heard on the news that millions of animal species have perished. We need more than thoughts and prayers on this one….

 

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Arlie & Wagon (2)

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I dreamed

he was a little boy again,

sitting in his red wagon

waiting for a ride

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but he talked

like a wise, old man

and showed me a scroll

of his life –

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diagrams, notations

I couldn’t understand.

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“I’m shifting manually

through the cosmos,”

he said.

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I woke

with an ageless song

playing in my head.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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*This was an actual dream, early this morning, about my late son, Arlie.  I jotted down his words, not fully understanding them at the time.  Later, when I told his older brother about the dream he agreed: only Arlie would say something like that.

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Arlie & Jason (2)

Arlie on left, and big bro Jason.

Both photos taken in 1976.

 

 

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Late at night

after she washes her face

and slips from her dress

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she becomes a teardrop

quaking with grief

on the tip of God’s tongue.

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But there —

see how the light

shines through.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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cats carved by Arlie

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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.

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When you grew up

you had your own cars and trucks

and never failed to wave

and beep your horn

when you drove away.

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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.

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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.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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* from Richard Scarry’s – Cars and Trucks and Things that Go

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Cats carved by my late son, Arlie, when he was 8 or 9.

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IMG_7939

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I’d fly on white wings,

one of joy

one of sorrow

balanced

on crosswinds

above

and below

to mate

in mid-flight

with a prayer.

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(c) 1990, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post from 2011)

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My thoughts and condolences are with Santa Fe, Texas today, and with all those affected by this most recent school shooting. When will it stop?

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IMG_0261

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What is it

that makes us dream

an alternate reality

as if such possibility

had fleshed in,

begot life?

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(c) 1981, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Re-posted from 2012, originally written in 1981. 

Photo taken in 2008.

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When the sun

and all three moons

have set

into the purple sea

it is the rarest dark of nights

and time to climb

the promontory

to her telescope.

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She aims it through

the far-flung stars

always drawn to one

on the edges of the galaxy –

a small, twinkling sun

much like her own.

Perhaps it also holds a brood

of planets in its warmth

and maybe there

another set of eyes

is looking back.

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The others scoff

and scold her,

“Are we not

the only children

of the Great Divine?

Are we not

the epitome of creation?”

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She knows the gods

are not so small

and impotent,

and soon she’ll find

another fertile world.

Shaking her head at arrogance

she polishes the lens.

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© 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-posted from 2014 – revised)

 

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