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Posts Tagged ‘passion’

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Shaman man,

you knew every fold

hidden in the riddling

curtain of reality.

You saw the bare

bones of motive,

the underpinnings

of facade.

You were strength and power.

But you also knew tenderness,

the sweet kiss

on the cheek of a lover

slumbering in your bed.

But alas, you also knew

when to go.

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Oh Shaman man

do not doubt another season,

a time not jaded

by an overdose of obstacle.

For when we touch

again, we’ll have

a thousand years to spare.

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© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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(a Mayberrie poem)

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Once a week

she braves the village,

trades her woven scarves

for bread and cheese,

and candle sticks.

She offers just a veiled smile

and searches every face;

she dare not speak

of things she shouldn’t know.

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At dusk she climbs the deer path

to her cottage on the hill

and there she lights one candle stick.

As wisps of smoke slide up the wall

like lovers twined

she gazes at the flame and sees

battle-weary men at rest

tending to their fire;

and there!

in the shadowed edge

a single silhouette.

He turns her way

as though he feels her near.

 

She reaches through

the waxen light

and hangs her heart

around his neck,

then throwing kisses

to the night

she banks the fire

in his eyes

and blows the candle out.

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A re-post, revised)

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She holds a sphere

of white hot light

in hands stretched high

to reach the night.

“Oh Eros”, she prays secretly,

“come take this round

of your creation,

guard its flame

forever more

and I’ll dance gratefully

in the embers,

one man’s fire

seared into my palm.

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(c)  1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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In dreams you know

the who of me.

You press me to your chest

like a missing rib, bare

and white.

You breathe into my lungs;

your blood is fire

in my veins.

The visions in my heart

are your visions;

the toil of your brow

fills my cup.

We melt secrets

between our limbs.

In dreams you know

the why of me

and I know the everywhere

of you.

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(c)  1995, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

 

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He trekked north

with the vernal sun

carving his name

across her sky

so she would not forget.

And as he touched

those new frontiers

she wondered, had anyone

conquered her so?

When spring returns

will the sun reach as high,

or will it stop short

of her maiden arc

and will she hear wild geese cry?

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(c) 1996,  2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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He could climb

a rock-cold mountain,

guard lost lambs

on faceless cliffs

and she would circle round

to warm his earth.

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And he could carve his image

into a totem pole

of selves

on top of selves

and she would kiss the tower

of rising heads.

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And he could blow new colors

from his hemlock pipe

and she would paint them

on her cheeks

while he peeled back

the many masks

of God.

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(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post – formerly “Biding”)

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In spring she waits

for tethered clouds

to fly apart

so she can ride

the northbound sun

as it barrels through the trees.

She wonders if his sky is blue,

and if the shore

where they embraced

is held together still

with sandy logs

and braids of kelp.

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But today she takes the longing path

that weaves close to the river

with its folded banks

and tangled roots.

Waddled crows

once hopped the rocks

to warn them of intruders.

She wonders if he sees it still,

the vernal sun

that laced their days,

and if their memories are safe –

and do they intertwine?

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©  2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A Mayberrie poem – re-post, revised)

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