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Posts Tagged ‘memories’

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Sehome Hill

was the place to go

after dark

college kids

parked for hours in old sedans

making memories.

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Met a guy

took me to “The Web”

beatniks read

poetry

argued relativity

high on espresso.

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Sparkling views

close to waterfalls

Mount Baker

Puget Sound

winding drives on Chuckanut

easy on the curves.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Memories from freshman year in college, ’65-’66)

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IMG_9839

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She sorts through

ribbons and buttons

bobby pins

crocheted lace

memories of her mother

tied up in a bow.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

 

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It was a long, silent fall

into the days

where “Dad” was spoken

in past tense.

He was tall

like autumn shadows

and he made us laugh

like the dancing, crackled leaves

around our feet.

And he would fast remind us

that trees return

to green

in this orbit’s gentle whirling

when spring gives back again.

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(C) 1997, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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9.13.56 Abe Hayes

 

Dad and me 1955

1955 – Deception Pass, Whidbey Island, Washington State

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(A tribute to my dad, who passed away twenty years ago this month.

My apologies to those who have read it previously.)

 

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The lights blow out

and the room grows

starkly quiet

in the dark

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except for the drip

drip

dripping

of a faucet and

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those thoughts

she had ignored

now howling

like the wild

of the wind.

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©  2015, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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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old skirt 2017

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Skirt of many long colors

sewn in gathers

and tiers

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brushing my ankles

with playful seams

cutting through the design

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of mismatched patterns

wearing thin

after all these years

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washing on delicate

hanging to dry

one more time.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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