Florets

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The poetess opens

like a book

bound in silk

with florets in the margins

and gold-edged pages turning

.

and turning

with every breath

of the Muse

reading over

her shoulder.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Musings

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Your muse didn’t run away,

she came to visit mine today.

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I watched them climb the cedar tree

to drink their mountain berry tea,

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and as the sky turned into rain

I watched them climb back down again.

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They danced until their feet were dry –

and then I heard them call goodbye,

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and now my muse has gone away –

it seems she fled with yours today.

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When they arrive, please send her home

to change this verse into a poem.

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(c) 1994, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block! 

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Recipe (a Shadorma)

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Fresh paper

on the old clipboard

new gel pens

with blue ink

ready to cook up a poem

waiting for my muse.

.

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©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Invisible Ink

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It’s waiting –

blank notebook paper

on my clipboard,

the kind I’ve always used,

college ruled

with a red line down the margin.

My pen is made

from recycled plastic

with blue gel ink

and feels good between my fingers.

Remember those leaky fountain pens

we had in grade school

that we filled from a bottle?

My favorite ink was peacock blue.

One Christmas my mom

gave me a ball point “quill” pen

with a fluffy pink feather plume

and matching ink.

Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,

a fountain of words,

inspiration and opinion,

countless pink poems of love

and injustice

followed by a stunned poem

when Kennedy was shot

two days after my 17^th birthday.

Then came poems of indignation

about the war in Vietnam

and what was wrong with long hair,

mini-skirts and bare feet?

Ah, but I digress.

 .

Now my muse

puts a finger to his lips

and tells me hush,

this is just non-poetic prose

after all.

He came to me

in a dream one night

arms folded sternly across his chest.

I wanted to pull them open,

wrap them around me,

kiss his face,

but he turned away.

I woke to find my pen

filled with invisible ink.

Can he see this,

or are these words

just feathery plumes of dust?

 .

© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post)

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Muse on the Lam

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Writer’s block, what spell is this

brutal paper-pen abyss?

 .

Calliope is prone to fainting

locked inside a still-life painting,

 .

she won’t stand for insipidity

nor a hint of crass cupidity.

 .

Sometimes free association

brings the muse back from vacation

 .

for just one sublime creation

or countless couplets of desperation.

 .

Like the simile that shines

it’s survival of the fittest lines.

 .

(Oops – mind the meter, it will matter,

just avoid the sing-song patter.)

 .

Alas, my muse is on the lam,

still no strength to breach the dam.

 .

Writer’s block – that dreaded curse,

for poets there is nothing verse.

 .

© 2016  Betty Hayes Albright

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Flavor

They say passion

is addictive

chemistry

inside the brain

but she knows

this isn’t true

for she can quit

at any time

but her muse

is a pusher

dropping him

into her dreams

and she just likes the flavor

and would gladly

wear the patch

that bears his name.

 .

.

(c) 2013, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Invisible Ink – 2013 posting

.

It’s waiting –

blank notebook paper

on my clipboard,

the kind I’ve always used,

college ruled

with a red line down the margin.

My pen is made

from recycled plastic

with blue gel ink

and feels good between my fingers.

Remember those leaky fountain pens

we had in grade school

that we filled from a bottle?

My favorite ink was peacock blue.

One Christmas my mom

gave me a ball point “quill” pen

with a fluffy pink feather plume

and matching ink.

Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,

a fountain of words,

inspiration and opinion,

countless pink poems of love

and injustice

followed by a stunned poem

when Kennedy was shot

two days after my 17^th birthday.

Then came poems of indignation

about the war in Vietnam

and what was wrong with long hair,

mini-skirts and bare feet?

Ah, but I digress.

 .

Now my muse

puts a finger to his lips

and tells me hush,

this is just non-poetic prose

after all.

He came to me

in a dream one night

arms folded sternly across his chest.

I wanted to pull them open,

wrap them around me,

kiss his face,

but he turned away.

I woke to find my pen

filled with invisible ink.

Can anyone even see this,

or are my words

just another

rising plume of dust?

 .

© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

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Which is right, and what’s left?

Confused muse is poised

at the edge of the sea,

one foot in the water

she dances strangely.

One hand in the waves

and one in the dunes,

her head throwing darts

while her heart flies balloons

so she spins in the wind

till her words are a blur

and all she can write

is something obscure.

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©   1994,  2012   Betty Hayes Albright 

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(Source of the photo is unknown – something sent to me years ago….)

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Resuscitation

Oh Muse,

source: wikipedia

into our empty lungs

blow deep

the lucid sky.

Inside these brimming

unsung hearts

pump earth

and trees and fire.

Smooth the scars

that line our veins,

infuse them

with the sea,

till we inhale

your playful light

and breathe out

poetry.

.

(c) 1994, 2011 Betty Hayes Albright

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Interruption

I ask, why now

this smooth adrenalin fit,

these dreams

of hearts and tongues

that seal our magnet words?

Why now this low flutter?

Oh tender muse,

I pray you find me too

in this sweet swoon.

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(c) 1994, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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