Winter Solstice

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Underneath the frost it turns,

hidden in a fog it churns —

winter snaps its coiled whip

cracks the ice but holds its grip.

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It wraps the trees in shiver beads,

chews on shadows, spits out seeds

to grace the gardens flocked in sleep

waiting for that northward leap

of the wandering,

prodigal sun.

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(c) Betty Hayes Albright  2014, 2021

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(Re-posted from 2017)

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Wishing everyone a Happy Winter’s Solstice — and may your holidays be filled with love, joy and peace!

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Feathers

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She likes feathers –

leaves of lace,

wings in willows

kissed with grace,

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trails of moonlight,

velvet strings,

dew-lit grass

and faerie rings.

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She likes watercolors

in the trees

and lichen stirring

in the breeze

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and mossy fractals

around lagoons

and gossamer tendrils

in founts and plumes.

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She likes sea spray

on crystal clear

and Agape in

the atmosphere

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and deep behind

a filigree shawl

undulations

on the wall.

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She likes feathers,

leaves of grace,

time on the wing,

a kiss on the face

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and ribbons dangling

from the mirror

and sweet suggestions

in her ear.

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© 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

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Son Sets

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Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

inside tall men

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

still playing deep inside.

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(c) 1992, 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

(A re-post; also previously published in Skipping Stones)

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This week my first born son turns 50….! 

(Hard to grasp, as I still haven’t accepted that I’m over 50! 😊 )

And I still often see that little boy still playing deep inside him. 

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Winter Fire

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I am the water

you draw from your well –

steep me

into your tea.

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I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate –

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

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I am the evergreen

on your morning walk –

breathe me

into your shadow.

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I am the eyes

meeting yours in the marketplace –

see the pangs

of my hunger.

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I am the line

down the middle of your road –

follow me

through the desert.

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I am the match

that lights your winter fire –

catch my sparks

in a jar.

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I am the shooting star

in your fevered night –

wish for me

one more time.

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(c) 1995, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised….)

 

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Over the Rise

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We watch for him in the valley

by the riverbank

in the green of the moss

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but on the bridge

to the other side

all we find is our own loss

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till whispers in the trees remind:

just send love,

not sad goodbyes —

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no maudlin sentiment

for him,

he’s just over the rise.

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© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Deep July

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Come meet me

in the secret garden

living green

and dancing yellow,

join the bees

and beg their pardon

where the hive

grows sweet and mellow.

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Free of fear

and saved from doom

let us dance

in yonder meadow

where the wild ones

stand and bloom –

spare the truth

and spoil the credo.

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Oh my love,

let’s long abide –

dance the tango

free from care.

Meet me

on the other side –

unloose your heartstrings,

take the dare.

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© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright

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Layers

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She keeps it in a wooden box

between soft layers of cotton —

the arrowhead

he found in the desert.

It still bears his fingerprints —

invisible, like the many poems

she composes in her head

but never writes,

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poems she sends

across the valley

hoping they’ll lodge

in his dreams

some heavy night.

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She imagines them

circling his body

like halos of concentric light,

or perhaps brushing his face

with kisses

silky as a feather.

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But then, like the arrowhead

she draws them home again

tucking them safely away —

sonnets nestled in her soul

between reluctant layers

of silence.

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© 2014, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post from 2014)

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I hope everyone is staying well out there. Will try to catch up with you all soon. ❤

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Silk Dust

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After her shower

she writes a poem

in the condensation on the mirror,

then watches it evaporate.

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It was all about the fragrance –

the coconut

in her shampoo,

the rose water on her face.

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She remembers what he liked –

Emeraude and Chantilly Lace

while he wore English Leather

which drove her over the edge.

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They’d dance past the chaperones

and steal away to his car,

Lou Christie on the radio

and lightning striking twice

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and later in her room alone,

his scent still in her hair

the poems would magically write themselves

in the silk dust on the mirror.

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©  2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Gifted

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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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Wist

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It doesn’t seem

that long ago

you came

but could not stay.

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Our paths were crossed

and time got lost –

seems only yesterday, and yet

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the moon still beams

and waxes full

above the sea

beyond the knoll

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where we grew young

so long ago

when Eros came to play.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Just another entropic scribble.  🙂  )

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