Posts Tagged ‘rebirth’


Oh garden bird

you kept a wild heart

between your ribs

as you danced

the morning zephyr

darting circles

through the phlox.

Your last song

sang of forgiveness

to the cat

before you died.

Let me hold

your empty body

till I feel again

the pulse

of swaying hills

and flying trees,

till my own wings spread

new feathers

and we both reclaim the sky.


(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post)




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When a tree is taken down

we grieve its silhouette collapsing

from a stricken sky.

It leaves a phantom

in the corner

of our eye,

the shadow

of a stolen trunk,

the staunching of osmosis.

We dampen earth

with our diluted tears

scattering seeds

among the fettered roots.

And if we listen carefully

we’ll hear the song of Gaia –

a forestation aria

of green that fills

the empty valley

after we are gone.


©  2012, 2016  Betty Hayes Albright 


(Revision of an older poem)

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A little weird, but maybe this will resonate on an intuitive level.

(From 1995, and related to previous poem.)


In the red room

we awoke

from spectral dreams.


In the orange room

we opened up

the blinds.


In the yellow room

we saw

past the horizon.


In the green room

we balanced

on our toes.


In the blue room

we flew

out the window.


In the indigo room

we landed

on the sun.


In the violet room

we slept

in mother-of-pearl.


In the red room

we awoke

from spectral dreams.



(c) 1995, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright 

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A Mayberrie poem – the conclusion (but never really the end)….

Thank you to everyone who’s had the patience to plow through this long series.


Skipping Stones

….continued from previous post, “Through the Door”.


Alas, it was all over.

The end had come –

or had it now?

When the world stopped spinning

she took a breath

and looked around.

What strange place was this?

Un-candled lights on the walls,

softly covered floors,

and what odd costume

’round her body?


And there, a man –

also dressed in foreign clothes

was watching her intently.

He was not unlike her king

with penetrating eyes

that knew her better

than she knew herself.


He reached out lightly,

touched her face,

explored her cheekbones,

chin and brow.

Drawn to him

(she could not stop herself)

she threw her arms around him

wanting nothing more

than to be with him forever.


But this moment is just fleeting,

he whispered in her ear,

for we are two stones skipping

on the waves across the sea.

At the end

we’ll reach the shore together

for this love will always be.


And so it is,

that in another time and place

neither king nor queen are they,

but carefree lovers

dancing underneath the trees

in the boundless fields

of a reborn Mayberrie.

And somewhere in the meadow

the old lady of the woods

hums an ancient melody

and smiles.


(c) 2013  Betty Hayes Albright

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(A Mayberrie poem – prelude to the conclusion of the series.)

It’s been 6 months since the previous two poems were posted, so to refresh: the king was leaving a bloody battle to return to Mayberrie, hoping to reunite with his beloved. And “she”, from the opposite direction, had also made up her mind to make the journey to Mayberrie to search for him.)


Through the Door


The journey through the woods

to the castle

loomed before her now

with a reborn urgency.

She only hoped to find the king,

to look into his eyes again.

The sun glared brightly

even as dark clouds pressed in

from the coast.

The woods seemed strange, uneasy now

but still she trusted

this familiar trail,

and singing softly to herself

she began her trek to Mayberrie.


By midday the clouds

began to shroud the sun

and distant thunder

echoed through the trees –

what new storm was this?

Rain began to hiss

through the trees

and she dared not stop to rest

but nibbled on a biscuit

as she hastened on her way.

It would be late afternoon

before the towers of the castle

rose above the trees.


The rain fell harder now.

She pulled her shawl

tightly ‘round her head

as a sudden chill

rose in her breast.

The loud tromp of horses

echoed just beyond the rise,

their sharp hooves pounding harshly

even in the mud.

It was happening too fast.


Before she could dive

into the darkness of the brush

a troop of soldiers

red-faced and unsmiling

spotted her.

She fled into the woods,

her shawl trailing behind her

as she heard the men dismount.

It’s her, one cried,

I saw the flashing of the ring!

Their voices cut through the gray

and spurred her on –

she knew the lady of the woods

lived just beyond

the trees ahead

and so her heart

rose to her throat

when just within a soldier’s grasp

she stumbled through the open door

and fell into a swoon.


The king granted his injured men

to take an easier path

while he traveled with no guard –

he must do this all alone.

Dark clouds along the coast

impelled him now to hurry

and it wasn’t long

before a heavy rain

began to fall.

Then suddenly his horse came to a halt

without command –

there was a strange, uneasy fear

rising in the forest.

Like a knife

cutting through the afternoon

he felt the cut of treachery

and without cue

his steed turned off the trail

and headed down an old deer path

guided by his own sense of doom.

Through the thickening woods they fled

as far away he heard the angry shouts –

could it be they’d take his crown so soon?

The thunder of the troops

grew close

but then he saw ahead

a familiar stand of trees –

he was very near

the old lady of the woods.

He felt the tension in the muscles

of his horse

and let himself be carried,

knowing he must make it

through the cottage door.


© 2013  Betty Hayes Albright


To be continued with final poem, “Skipping Stones”….


To read previous poems in this story, please click on the “Mayberrie” tab above. Links to each poem are listed, chronologically.

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(for S.P., written in 1992)


Into the funeral pyre

went all he had created –

poems, books, ideas,

the imagery of his life.

None of it is real,

he cried,

except this smoke and ash!

His anguished voice

cried out into the hills

and echoed back,

a knife

to pierce his soul.

And so for many days

he ate the ash

and breathed the smoke

till nothing else remained

but one undying ember.

He sighed, and as he did

his breath fanned the glow

into a warm diamond light

that rose into the sky,

and there at last he saw it,

his own brilliance on the pages

as he took up his pen

and began to write again.


(c)  1992, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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