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.

They were hydrogen.

He was nucleus

stable, self-contained,

she was electron

buzzing-surround

caught by attraction

held firmly in place

unable to split.

.

©  1982, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

(re-post of a poem written in 1982)

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(a collage of memories)

.

Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.

~

Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I just ordered tea.

~

No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.

~

It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.

~

He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.

~

House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.

~

He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.

~

Overheating,

your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.

~

We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hair-flowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.

.

© 1993, 2015 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post, originally written in 1993. It’s been 48 years, yet 1967 – especially that long, hot summer – is still a vivid memory. It was a time of great change, personally, socially, politically, and spiritually.)

“Echoes” was originally posted on my 1960’s blog – Summers of Love .

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Called the lioness to the eagle,

it’s time for you to fly,

I’ve wakened from my dream now

and we have to say goodbye.

Goodbye, goodbye, my playful friend,

you brought such joy to me

as you sang in the branches

of the sapodilla tree.

 .

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

then why must it end?

Can’t we be friends forever

just like we’ve always been?

Could it be that I’ve hurt you

since I have another friend?

Is it because I’ve brought her here?

I cannot comprehend.

 .

Called the lioness to the eagle,

how could you not know –

it hurts to see her fly with you

when I must stay below.

Now fly to your lofty cliffs

and let my heart be free

to make room for another

in the sapodilla tree.

 .

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

this was our meeting ground.

We each brought many things to share,

this was our lost-and-found.

I found new things that I had missed,

and you found lost things too.

I’d hate to think that it’s all gone,

that now I have lost you.

 .

Called the lioness to the eagle,

but you have found a mate.

You never understood my love,

you can’t reciprocate.

But I’ll still be your friend somehow,

my thoughts will fly to you

on a higher meeting ground somewhere –

goodbye, my friend. Adieu.

 .

She watched him slowly turn away

and soar out to the sea

as her tears watered the roots

of the sapodilla tree.

 .

©  1983, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright

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(This was first posted last November, as a lone poem – but there are two more parts I neglected to share – to follow.)

.

Called the lioness to the eagle,

let me fly with you

to your favorite places –

I long to see them too.

.

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

I’ll never have you here.

You’re stuck on terra firma,

gravity has made that clear.

 .

Called the lioness to the eagle,

then nest down here with me.

You can have the highest branches

in the sapodilla tree.

.

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

it’s teeth and claws I fear.

I’m sorry, but the sky is safe

and I must stay up here.

.

Called the lioness to the eagle,

It’s safe here on the ground.

My paws have been declawed

and my teeth have been filed down.

.

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

your muscles frighten me.

Just one of your embraces

and I would cease to be.

.

Called the lioness to the eagle,

you won’t suffer my embrace.

I wouldn’t try to hold you

for I’ve given up the chase.

.

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

you’d hypnotize me then .

Your eyes have such charisma

that I’d ne’er be free again.

.

Called the lioness to the eagle,

I won’t gaze at you too long.

I could never mesmerize you

for your will is much too strong.

.

Sang the eagle to the lioness,

then I will be your friend

in the sapodilla tree

until the sky calls me again.

.

Purred the lioness to her heart,

we’ve won his trust this day.

She curled up underneath his wings

and hid desire away.

.

© 1982, 2011 Betty Hayes Albright

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. . . . . (reposted from my 1960’s blog)

.

Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.

~

Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I asked for just some tea.

~

No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.

~

It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.

~

He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.

~

House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.

~

He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.

~

Overheating,

your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.

~

We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hairflowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.

.

© 1993, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(For poetry from the 1960’s, you’re invited to visit my “coming of age” blog at

http://rememberingthesixties.wordpress.com .


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Supper

You buy the heavy groceries –

wine, the mayo,

the bag of sugar

while I buy lighter foods –

bread, lettuce,

the salmon fillets.

Together

maybe we can make

a balanced meal.

.

(c) 1984 Betty Hayes Albright

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How brief

the sweep of fire

you hurled across my sea,

so brave the flash

that seared our night

and lit the harbored diamonds

in my soul.

How high on my horizon

did you ride the wild arc,

how deep

inside my breast

you came to rest.

(c) 1994, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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