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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

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She lives in earth tones –

soft colors of

amber and sage

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brush across her arms

on terracotta mornings

and lavender afternoons.

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Bracelets of seashells

on pink ribbons

play on her wrists

.

as her celadon skirt

sways like the tresses

of the willow

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and she dances

in the garden –

invisible.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Sorry for being way behind reading blogs. 

Hope to catch up with everyone soon! 💚

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red love heart christmas

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When we hurt,

grief wants nothing more

than to light a candle

and sit with us

in our keening.

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If we look it in the eye

we’ll see

its soft depth

as it holds us tenderly

to the flame.

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And when we’re ready

we’ll hold it in return

and watch the spiral

of warm smoke

rise to the sky.

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© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Photo from Pixabay

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background balance beach boulder

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When I cross

your path again

I’ll build a cairn

for you, my friend –

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and all who pass

shall add a stone

and ne’er shall

we be alone.

.

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© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Photo by Pixabay

 

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Baby spider, no bigger

than a pinhead

snuggles next to the sink

for three days,

sustained by dust motes

and a sip of water

from a speck of mist

.

until this morning

when she fluffs him

into a tissue

and he rides willingly

through the house

and out the back door

to the garden, and then

.

as if knowing,

he drops down

into the leaves

of the orange Calendulas

which have just begun

to bloom.

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(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Capricious one

I often wonder

if in truth

our hearts grow fonder

.

longing for

the agate blue

of sky-reflecting

drops of dew,

.

of simple pleasures

on the skin

and tender truths

to wrap us in

.

fine threads of wisdom

knit with choices

weaving through

those distant voices

.

firing up

our tender hopes

while mating in

kaleidoscopes.

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Then shall we

consummate the sun?

I wonder,

oh capricious one.

.

.

© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Baby leaves unfurl

from trees planted long ago —

tendered new in spring.

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© 2012, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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Originally posted in 2012… revised.

(Photo from 2012)

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The old Shaman

placed his hands

on the trunk

of an ancient tree

.

fitting his fingers

between the ripples and creases

of the bark,

until he heard a whispering –

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“Oh, spare me from

the greed of the axe

and the fickle see-saw

of humanity!”

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But from the distant edge

of the forest

the old Shaman also heard

the growl of a chain-saw

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and he smelled the exhaust

and the gasoline,

and he heard the shouts

of timbering men

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and so he bowed his head

and wept,

as a drop of pitch

landed on his cheek.

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(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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