Posts Tagged ‘vision’




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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We found a little box

with a speckled bird inside

and fed it bits of food

and water from a dropper,

until the day he asked

for a bigger place.


And so we placed him lovingly

inside a gilded cage

with trays of seeds

and a wooden perch

where he could hop about.


“This is fine for now,” he said,

“but tomorrow

I want something bigger.”


We quickly built an aviary

with maple trees

and blueberry shrubs

where he could flutter

through the leaves.


“This is nice for now,” he said.

But after several days he asked

to wing about the house,

and finally out the window.


We watched him fly

through forests and valleys,

and finally up into the sky

between the stars, and out

beyond the Milky Way.


A year went by

and one day he returned,

asking for his little box.

He snuggled down to rest, and said,

“This will do just fine –

for I can see forever

from here now.”



© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


Poem is from a dream I had last April. 

The image is a partial of a print my late parents had – artist unknown. (Update – the artist is Jill Fogelsong.)  The sun just happened to be shining through the window in a certain way, giving it a rainbow effect — which caught my eye. I wasn’t planning to post an image with this poem, but it presented itself just in time. Funny how things work out….

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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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Shaman man,

you knew every fold

hidden in the riddling

curtain of reality.

You saw the bare

bones of motive,

the underpinnings

of facade.

You were strength and power.

But you also knew tenderness,

the sweet kiss

on the cheek of a lover

slumbering in your bed.

But alas, you also knew

when to go.


Oh Shaman man

do not doubt another season,

a time not jaded

by an overdose of obstacle.

For when we touch

again, we’ll have

a thousand years to spare.

© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post)


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Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

inside tall men

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

still playing deep inside.


(c) 1992, 2014  Betty Hayes Albright

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When the sun

and all three moons

sink into the purple sea

it is the rarest dark of nights

and time to climb the knoll

up to her telescope.

She aims it

through the far-flung stars

always drawn to one

on the edges of the galaxy –

a tiny, twinkling sun

much like her own.

Perhaps it also holds a brood

of planets in its warmth,

and maybe there

another set of eyes looks back

across the wild darkness.


Her mate always scoffs at this

as do the other watchers

of the sky.

They scold her,

“Are we not

the only children

of the Great Divine?”

But she knows

the gods are not that small

and shakes her head

at arrogance

while polishing her lens,

knowing someday she will spot

a kindred planet in the heavens

and she will call it “Earth”.



© 2014, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post from last Sept.)



When you raise your hands

they’re filled with wind:

     I fly!

Lightning unchains your feet,

you beat thunder

from your chest:

     I dance!

There are no clouds

in your eyes

but they are not rainless:

     I bow.

Birds plant seeds

in your footprints.

I watch them grow into trees

that walk away

and back again.

They weave a sky

 of bark and green and sun,

and in the puzzle of light

I see your face.


(c) 1995, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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(revised, and title changed from “Still” to “Heed”)


“Where has gone the light?”

Gaia's Kiss

Gaia’s Kiss by charissa1066 via Flickr

they implored the emptiness.


“It’s not the candle,

but the flame

that matters,”

came the swift reply

in answer to their woe.


“Change must be the vessel

that carries Gaia

through the storm.

It was your dragging apathy

that drove her off

into the mist

where only those

with unveiled eyes

can still make out her form –

where only those

with opened ears

can still discern her voice.


“I am still here,

that humankind 

will learn to breathe

new life into the dust,

that earth shall rise

in startling vitality.

I am still here, beloved ones!

I am here, still

but now it’s up to you.”


© 2000, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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Like those nesting dolls

in graduated sizes

my sons became

encased each year

inside of bigger boys.

Now grown and sealed

they’re unaware

I still see through

a mother’s eyes

to all those younger little boys

playing deep inside.


(c) 1992, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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