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Posts Tagged ‘Love’

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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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Comes that moment
when eyes connect
with a stranger’s
and we feel
that deep click
in the gears
of the cosmos

and we’ve known them
forever
and it doesn’t matter
we’ll never meet again.
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© 2012, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
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(re-posted from 2012)

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Neon-lit flowers

spill from their wooden barrel,

“Catch me if your can!”

 

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Young evergreen trees

reach out their limbs for a hug

and I shall comply.

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(c) 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Photos from my back yard, yesterday…)

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Skipping Stones cover

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“Skipping Stones” is now available on Amazon.com,  (https://tinyurl.com/yccscdzk)  and Barnes & Noble!  

Many thanks to Thomas and Ethel Davis at Four Windows Press, and to Lauren Scott and Candice Daquin for their cover reviews. 

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He steams her edges

and, like stamps

on a postcard

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she curls in the heat

falling free from the corner

of mythology

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to be saved

by the fire

in his hands.

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(c) 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

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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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If you were an ivy vine

would you spread

across the foothills,

wind your way

through sharp pitched mountains

curling ’round

the fallen log

where it bridges the muddy slough?

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Would you wend your way

around deep lakes and

through the tangled valleys

to the stand of trees

where you’d remember me?

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And would you wrap

around my trunk and

spiral through my branches

as you followed every curve

to the top

where we both

could touch the sky?

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And at noon

when you felt

the warm lips

of the sun

upon your leaves

would you sink

your comely roots

into my bark?

I think you’d grow on me.

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(c) 2013, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2013)

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