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Posts Tagged ‘Love’

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Do you remember

silver man,

when we were two wings

flying one dream

beneath warm quilts?

One night

I couldn’t breathe

and tore the covers off

when you couldn’t fathom

the unseen and threw

your pillow down.

We rolled

from the edges

of the bed

and let the feathers

settle

into the spread of time.

Still now and then

one catches my eyeIMG_5141

floating to the floor.

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(c) 1993, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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She prayed to the gods,

“let me make love

to the trees in your forest”

but the gods were silent.

And so she implored them again

“let me couple with the creek

that sings through your valley,

bear me up

to embrace your mountains,

cradle me down

to mate with the sea”

but again the gods were silent.

And once more she cried out

with trembling heart,

“grant me consummation

with the universe this night!”

And once more

the gods were silent

but this time

they sent to her

a shaman,

one who was desiring

the same.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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They were hydrogen.

He was nucleus

stable, self-contained,

she was electron

buzzing-surround

caught by attraction

held firmly in place

unable to split.

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©  1982, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post of a poem written in 1982)

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It’s been 50 years. This is a collage of my memories from “The Summer of Love”, 1967.

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Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.

~

Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I just ordered tea.

~

No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.

~

It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.

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He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.

~

House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.

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He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.

~

Overheating,

your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.

~

We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hair-flowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.

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© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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1967 was a watershed year, a time of great change for many of us – personally, socially, politically, and spiritually. These memories took place in Seattle and Bellingham, Washington. It was a long, hot summer…..

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(a re-post)


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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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When she called his name

to the north wind

it roared

through the trees

and made her winter green.

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When she called his name

to the mountainside

it rose

up the ridge

like a fever.

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When she called his name

to the racing sky

it echoed

like a dozen geese

searching for a season.

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When she called his name

to the ocean

it churned

to salt butter

on her toast.

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When she called his name

to a sliver of moon

it hung like a lamp

on the dark side

of doubt

and this time she knew

that he heard.

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(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2013)

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