Feathers

.

She likes feathers –

leaves of lace,

wings in willows

kissed with grace,

.

trails of moonlight,

velvet strings,

dew-lit grass

and faerie rings.

.

She likes watercolors

in the trees

and lichen stirring

in the breeze

.

and mossy fractals

around lagoons

and gossamer tendrils

in founts and plumes.

.

She likes sea spray

on crystal clear

and Agape in

the atmosphere

.

and deep behind

a filigree shawl

undulations

on the wall.

.

She likes feathers,

leaves of grace,

time on the wing,

a kiss on the face

.

and ribbons dangling

from the mirror

and sweet suggestions

in her ear.

.

.

© 2021  Betty Hayes Albright

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Winter Fire

.

I am the water

you draw from your well –

steep me

into your tea.

.

I am the slice of hot toast

on your plate –

let me melt

your fresh apple butter.

.

I am the evergreen

on your morning walk –

breathe me

into your shadow.

.

I am the eyes

meeting yours in the marketplace –

see the pangs

of my hunger.

.

I am the line

down the middle of your road –

follow me

through the desert.

.

I am the match

that lights your winter fire –

catch my sparks

in a jar.

.

I am the shooting star

in your fevered night –

wish for me

one more time.

.

.

(c) 1995, 2020 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post, revised….)

 

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Deep July

.

Come meet me

in the secret garden

living green

and dancing yellow,

join the bees

and beg their pardon

where the hive

grows sweet and mellow.

.

Free of fear

and saved from doom

let us dance

in yonder meadow

where the wild ones

stand and bloom –

spare the truth

and spoil the credo.

.

Oh my love,

let’s long abide –

dance the tango

free from care.

Meet me

on the other side –

unloose your heartstrings,

take the dare.

.

.

© 2020  Betty Hayes Albright

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Silk Dust

.

After her shower

she writes a poem

in the condensation on the mirror,

then watches it evaporate.

.

It was all about the fragrance –

the coconut

in her shampoo,

the rose water on her face.

.

She remembers what he liked –

Emeraude and Chantilly Lace

while he wore English Leather

which drove her over the edge.

.

They’d dance past the chaperones

and steal away to his car,

Lou Christie on the radio

and lightning striking twice

.

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.

.

.

©  2020  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Wist

.

It doesn’t seem

that long ago

you came

but could not stay.

.

Our paths were crossed

and time got lost –

seems only yesterday, and yet

.

the moon still beams

and waxes full

above the sea

beyond the knoll

.

where we grew young

so long ago

when Eros came to play.

.

.

© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Just another entropic scribble.  🙂  )

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Signals

.

Beating of deep drums,

puff of smoke on horizon

and then you were gone.

.

More is said in love’s silence

than we can e’er say out loud.

.

.

©  2012, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Reposted from 2012, revised.)

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Grace

.

She dammed her feelings

for him

with a bone cork

and Earth became

a rocking jug

with aching sides

and tears

that leaked through cracks

.

and there was naught

but a dry, brown light

across the sky.

.

And when the gods looked down

they cursed the plug

and ground it to dust

with their fists.

.

Earth shuddered

and roared

in a great awakening

of heat and light

.

until at last

there rose

in her breast

the endless rainbow fount

of love undamned.

.

(c)  1995, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(Revision of an oldie, first posted in 2011.)

.

 

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Steam

.

We fan the embers

turning to flamingo flames

parsing the silence

.

like a blue-white star –

fire so hot there is no smoke,

just the melt of time.

.

Vermilion night,

soft sizzle of sparks afire –

it begins to rain.

.

.

©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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It Won’t be Long

.

Many years ago

and still

you’re with me

in the silent deep

.

where time spins faster

before our eyes –

.

it won’t be long

until that blur

is just a knowing smile.

.

.

©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Offering

.

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

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