Posts Tagged ‘reality’




The time arrives

when the walls come alive

and we see

between the molecules,

the shimmer and the might –

and every barricade

becomes a door.



(c) 2002, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright


(Image from a copyright free site, in 2011.)


After a little time off, I’m hoping to catch up with everyone soon!

My thoughts are with everyone who is affected by the U.S. government shutdown (directly or indirectly, as we all shall be soon).  I’m very saddened by the direction our country has taken the last two years.  This too shall pass – hopefully.



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What is it

that makes us dream

an alternate reality

as if such possibility

had fleshed in,

begot life?



(c) 1981, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


Re-posted from 2012, originally written in 1981. 

Photo taken in 2008.


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(From 1976)


Awaken me,

I’m sleep walking.

In jigsaw dreams

I shadow-box

flailing fists

against the air

to shake away the trappings.

Pry open

these amnesia-clouded eyes

that they may see

beyond this tangled trail of woe –

I long to hear

the Phoenix sing.

Come knead my heart

with cosmic yeast

until my spirit rises up

to navigate the river

that will take me

to the sea.

Please awaken me.



(c) 1976, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


Originally published in “Living Color”, (my humble chapbook) in 1976.


(a re-post)

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Last night

I saw your moon


waxing full

between the clouds,

its hug

wrapping me to sleep.


This morning

I saw your sunrise


spreading low

through the clouds,

its breath

flushing over my cheeks.



I see your sunset


easing down

below the clouds,

its rays

combing out my dreams.



(c)  1982, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright


(Written in 1982, taken out of mothballs and revised.)




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Time is no straight line,

it is a serpent

crossing the room sideways

like a glance.

It burns rubber


around every corner

tossing irony,

like bits of confetti

into our pockets.

Time dances a circle

around the fire of desire

then churns out to sea

on a wave of kelp,

unraveling one dream

weaving another.

It flip flops

in crazy eights,

bounces like a rubber ball

on a hot sidewalk

reflecting all angles

oblique and acute

but always right.

At its best

time is a spiral

lifting our vision

until the end

when it shrinks into a dot

in the palm of our hand,

and with one breath

blows us away

into the heart of forever.


© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post)


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How many colors

fit on the head of a pin?

Seven times seven

the Seamstress says.

And we,

like eyes of needles

tuck and shape the space,

and time is but a basting thread.


(c) 1997, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright


Special note:  Today marks my five year anniversary on WordPress and the above was my first posted poem.  Thank you to all the wonderful writers I’ve met here during these five years. It has been an enriching experience reading your poetry and prose, and coming to know many of you as friends. My sincere appreciation! Looking forward to continuing on…. 🙂

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(from 1995)


They told her

he didn’t exist,

that she had only fantasized

the shaman man

who read between

the secret lines,

whose eyes saw into

every dance

and behind each mask.

They told her

there’s no such thing

as one she’s always known

and loved,

that no one could have eyes

so deep.

They said it’s a fool’s pursuit,

she’d never find

such an intimate star.

But she touched one

and lived to tell the story.


(c) 1995, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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In the swarthy cloak of night

shines a fiery constellation,

each star a blazing point

joined beyond imagination.

Never myth, but legend

he still rides across her thoughts

and she will never be the one

to disconnect the dots.

© 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


(Painting a favorite of mine: Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night”)

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(a re-post)


The right words  

carve through opinions

break up hard-pan

flip our paradigms

upside down.

The right words

un-dam reservoirs of insanity

transport memory

to new peaks

uncovering fool’s gold

and sometimes

a diamond in distress.


(c) 2011, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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(just a scribble….)


Like a contrail from a jet

the past changes shape

shifting in the winds

of time and distance.

It expands and softens,

sometimes twisting

into grotesque serpents.

So, which is more real to us,

the sharp spear of the present

or the undulating spread

of memory?

Or can we ride them both?


© 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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