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Moon blazes a trail

through the cottage cheesy clouds

waxes victory.

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(c) 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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(photo taken last night – 9-8-2014.)

 

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Acolyte

Moon, like a giant lily

floats in bloom

on the surface of night.

It is then we remember

that without Sun

we’d never know Luna

except for the tides

rising in our breasts.

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(c) 1997, 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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.When she called his name

to the north wind

it roared

through the trees

and made her winter green.

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When she called his name

to the mountainside

it rose

up the ridge

like a fever.

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When she called his name

to the racing sky

it echoed

like a dozen geese

searching for a season.

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When she called his name

to the ocean

it churned

to salt butter

on her toast.

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When she called his name

to a sliver of moon

it hung like a lamp

on the dark side

of doubt

and this time she knew

that he heard.

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(c) 1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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Moon like an opal

hanging from a coral thread

veiled by fairy clouds.

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(c) 2013, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(photo 9-14-2013)

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Wax the stars, old moon –

hone your path across the sky,

peel away the night.

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(c) 2013 Betty Hayes Albright

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Tides rise and curtsy

as the sea does a ballet

with old diva moon.

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(c) 1992, 2013  Betty Hayes Albright

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Moon waxed too full

and shattered into pieces

at her feet.

She gathered up the silver shards

to form into Moon again

but they no longer fit

and so she reached her hands

into the sky

and tendered them with Sun

and with a deep caress

she smoothed the bits

and pieces

into Heart.

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©  2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A Mayberrie series poem)

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She pretends

that he can hear her thoughts,

but lord, the fog is rolling in –

it rides the tide into the caverns

smoothing out the lover’s hollow

in between the driftwood and debris.

One time she found a double shell

and gave him half to hold his heart

while hers stayed in a candle box

until the day it shattered

from the impact of his silence.

But still she holds the pieces near

and when the moon is full, pretends

that he can hear her thoughts,

but knows most likely

they’ve been lost

or muzzled by the sea.

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(c)  2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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(For the next poem in this series, please click here .

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When we gaze

into the moon

from separate lands

the point is focal,

burning smoky craters

in the valleys

where we meet.

Within that rounded

memory of sun

there’s no dark side.

It just waxes in the middle

as it scrolls to the west,

but wanes

in the silence

when we look away.

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©  2012   Betty Hayes Albright

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Moon


Climbing

the pine tree

one branch

at a time,

spreading

on ripples

that mirror

in the pond,

taking

the long way

to rise.

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(c) 1994, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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