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Late at night

after she washes her face

and slips from her dress

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she becomes a teardrop

quaking with grief

on the tip of God’s tongue,

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but there —

see how the light

shines through.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright 

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Comes that moment
when eyes connect
with a stranger’s
and we feel
that deep click
in the gears
of the cosmos

and we’ve known them
forever
and it doesn’t matter
we’ll never meet again.
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© 2012, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
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(re-posted from 2012)

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IMG_0261

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What is it

that makes us dream

an alternate reality

as if such possibility

had fleshed in,

begot life?

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(c) 1981, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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Re-posted from 2012, originally written in 1981. 

Photo taken in 2008.

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Beyond the unforgiving core

of gravity

she births herself

through molten rock

and hard-pan crust

into the space that soars

above the rant of tempests,

of burning bushes,

sun, moon,

the spin of stars

and far beyond

the fabled edges

of the universe

no longer up or down

but circling straight

into the riddle

of her Self.

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© 2013, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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A re-post from 2013.

This was rewritten from an old poem, published

in my 1976 chapbook “Living Color”.

 

 

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I would be the tide

that moves your sea

as waves of you

go breaking through my soul,

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and you – the gust of wind

that plays my flute

would hear my drumming

in the ocean’s roll.

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(c) 1995, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2015)

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When the sun

and all three moons

have set

into the purple sea

it is the rarest dark of nights

and time to climb

the promontory

to her telescope.

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She aims it through

the far-flung stars

always drawn to one

on the edges of the galaxy –

a small, twinkling sun

much like her own.

Perhaps it also holds a brood

of planets in its warmth

and maybe there

another set of eyes

is looking back.

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The others scoff

and scold her,

“Are we not

the only children

of the Great Divine?

Are we not

the epitome of creation?”

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She knows the gods

are not so small

and impotent,

and soon she’ll find

another fertile world.

Shaking her head at arrogance

she polishes the lens.

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© 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-posted from 2014 – revised)

 

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Grief does not tip-toe

it comes

on lead feet

leaving deep prints

in the earth

to collect our tears

and send them over-flowing

to the stream

that joins all sorrow

winding to the sea.

And in the walk-about

where we are left to keen

wildflowers bloom around

the weeping willow tree.

.

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©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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