Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘memories’

.

She still remembers

his deep embrace    

in the open entryway

.

and the salty taste of urgency

on the tongue

of an April day

.

and their offering

to the gods

as it hung in the sun to dry

.

to fluff and fold,

but tenderly —

in the wrinkles of goodbye.    

.

.

(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

Advertisements

Read Full Post »

Yarn

.

Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another whirl,

.

pray I do not drop a stitch,

just let me add another inch,

.

never mind – make it two

and soon I’ll have a wrap for you,

.

any shape, any size

in Dutch blue just like your eyes.

.

Put it on o’er your head

or wear it as a shawl instead,

.

hold it tightly like a hug

or roll it out like a rug,

.

spread it on your bed at night

or in the closet out of sight.

.

He loves me, he loves me not,

doesn’t matter, I’m still caught

.

stuck inside a ball of yarn,

unravel me between your arms,

.

then hold me to your face – pretend

that I can kiss your face again.

.

Knit, purl, knit, purl,

give the spool another twirl

.

and when at last we’re all unwound

I will put my needles down.

.

.

© 2013, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-posted from 2013)

Read Full Post »

.

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.

.

.

(c) 1992, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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

 

 

Read Full Post »

Kiln

.

drawing3 1965

.

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.

.

.

© 1993, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

.

(Pencil drawing from 1965.)

Read Full Post »

.

How brief

the sweep of fire

you hurled across my sea —

.

how brave the flash

that seared our night

to light the harbored diamonds

in my soul.

.

How high

on my horizon

you rode the wild arc —

.

how deep

inside my breast

you came to rest.

.

.

(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

A re-post from 2011, revised.

Read Full Post »

.

This world has changed

since you and I

allowed the years

to wrinkle by

.

without a pause

we didn’t notice

the quiet closing

of the lotus.

.

Now we fail

to recognize

the crinkles ‘round

each other’s eyes

.

when one says no,

the other yes —

a corner turned

yet I confess

.

that deep inside

I’ll ne’er forget

your Romeo

to my Juliet.

.

.

©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

Read Full Post »

.

Once upon an April

when the sea

was surging high

she said that nothing happened

but it did,

it did,

it did.

And when the tide withdrew

she lived ever after

remembering the rise

of happily.

.

.

© 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-posted from 2014)

.

Read Full Post »

Older Posts »

%d bloggers like this: