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Posts Tagged ‘memories’

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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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Many years ago

and still

you’re with me

in the silent deep

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where time spins faster

before our eyes –

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it won’t be long

until that blur

is just a knowing smile.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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She still remembers

his deep embrace    

in the open entryway

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and the salty taste of urgency

on the tongue

of an April day

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and their offering

to the gods

as it hung in the sun to dry

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to fluff and fold,

but tenderly —

in the wrinkles of goodbye.    

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(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Yarn

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Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another whirl,

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pray I do not drop a stitch,

just let me add another inch,

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never mind – make it two

and soon I’ll have a wrap for you,

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any shape, any size

in Dutch blue just like your eyes.

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Put it on o’er your head

or wear it as a shawl instead,

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hold it tightly like a hug

or roll it out like a rug,

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spread it on your bed at night

or in the closet out of sight.

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He loves me, he loves me not,

doesn’t matter, I’m still caught

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stuck inside a ball of yarn,

unravel me between your arms,

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then hold me to your face – pretend

that I can kiss your face again.

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Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another twirl

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and when at last we’re all unwound

I will put my needles down.

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© 2013, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-posted from 2013)

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On Sundays we’d drive

to the cemetery,

just me and Dad.

He’d talk softly

to his departed son

and arrange fresh flowers

on the grave.

Then standing tall,

he’d blow his nose

and tell me it was time

to put some miles on the car,

and we’d head east

for the country roads

where he’d point his corn cob pipe

at the tiny farms

and talk about Oklahoma,

then sing a chorus

of “The Strawberry Roan”.

Sometimes we’d pull over, and

he’d sniff the air and smile –

and then we’d turn around

and head for home.

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(c) 1992, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_yfmKMK4mo

 

 

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Kiln

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drawing3 1965

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Broken words

soak in the cold brine

of memory,

soften in our hands

like cinnamon clay.

Let us carve new curves

fit for the touching,

ready for the fire.

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© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(Pencil drawing from 1965.)

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How brief

the sweep of fire

you hurled across my sea —

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how brave the flash

that seared our night

to light the harbored diamonds

in my soul.

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How high

on my horizon

you rode the wild arc —

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how deep

inside my breast

you came to rest.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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A re-post from 2011, revised.

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