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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

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

.

(a re-post)

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Pause

.

It all begins to crinkle,

the leaves, the sky

the boundaries of our vision.

Green ruffles turn to gold,

romaine edges of a dream

that curls and wrinkles

in the sun’s retreat.

Our shadows too turn ragged,

we feel them

stretch

and fold

their origami corners

that we too may slumber

in the pause

between now and again.

.

(c) 2000, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

.

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(From 1986)

.

It screams a common wail

at night

while we in separate sleep

hear cries

of banshees calling for a mate

or

noon whistles – time for lunch

or

warnings of war

or

a bad opera

and

then we awaken

from our dreams

it’s someone else’s problem

we shrug our collective shoulders

and drift back

into the sleep

of apathy.

 .

 © 1986, 2013  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from last August, revised)

.

I burrow under

leaves and twigs,

slide past thorns

and nettles,

chew through my own roots

to mate with worms

where the soil is dark

and sweet.

Earth plugs my ears

with lullabies

and I sleep

sealed

in tomorrow’s rose.

 .

(c) 1992, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(remembering a first marriage…)

.

Do you remember

silver man,

when we were two wings

flying one dream

beneath warm quilts?

But one night

I couldn’t breathe

and tore off the covers

when you couldn’t help

but throw

your pillow down.

We rolled

from the edges

of the bed

and let the feathers

settle

into the spread

of time.

Still now and then

one catches my eyeIMG_5141

floating to the floor.

.

(c) 1993, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Compost

Compost

.

I burrow beneath leaves and branches,

slide past thorns and nettles,

chew through my own roots

to mate with worms

where the soil is sweet

and dark.

Earth plugs my ears

with hot lullabies

and I sleep

sealed in tomorrow’s rose.

~ (c) 1992

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