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Posts Tagged ‘memories’

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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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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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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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This world has changed

since you and I

allowed the years

to wrinkle by

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without a pause

we didn’t notice

the quiet closing

of the lotus.

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Now we fail

to recognize

the crinkles ‘round

each other’s eyes

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when one says no,

the other yes —

a corner turned

yet I confess

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that deep inside

I’ll ne’er forget

your Romeo

to my Juliet.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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