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Posts Tagged ‘words’

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Recipes for poetry:

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Stir words with both hands,

mix into synaptic colors,

paint them on walls

again and again

until the room

screams in ecstasy.

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Cook words in test tubes

over the burner

that is your heart,

then spread on toast

like marmalade

and feed the hungry.

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Wrestle with words,

squeeze them,

break them into pieces,

pin them to the floor

of your solar plexus

and in the end

always let them win.

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 (c)  2004, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

 

(Formerly titled “Mentor”)

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Words

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Music rises from her garden,

goes off key

and disappears

into the sky.

Curious, she digs

with her bare hands

past dead roots

and rotting leaves

into birthing soil.

And there she feels a rhythm

pounding in the earth,

and the rise

of sacred humming

in her ears.

She drops a seed

into the hole

and out sprouts a melody

that grows into a tree.

Wind sings in its branches

and for the first time

in her life

she understands the words.

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© 1996, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post, revised)

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(A tribute to the poets)

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Our poems crisscross the world

intersecting

in a matrix of sharp points

or perhaps a gentle filigree,

the sun

winking through trees.

Our name is Passion

as the oceans pitch

and wail

and lightning splits

the sky.

When the earth shakes

beneath our feet

we shout to the universe

until our words scatter

like the stars

for everyone to see.

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© 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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(Old one from 1982)

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Love poems sound corny like

old songs on radios,

black and white movies

starring bad actors,

valentine flowers

and sugar too sweet.

What language is there

for ethereal chemistry?

We need some math:

say it with algebra!

Problems of love

could be solved with equations,

but no – we have words

that don’t know where to start

and don’t know when to quit

and never say quite

what we wanted them to.

There, I tried again.

 © 1982, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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Music rises from her garden,

goes off key

and disappears

into the sky.

Curious, she digs

with her bare hands

past dead roots

and rotting leaves

into birthing soil.

And there she feels a rhythm

pounding in the earth,

and the rise

of sacred humming

in her ears.

She drops a seed

into the hole

and out sprouts a melody

that grows into a tree.

Wind sings in its branches

and for the first time

in her life

she understands the words.

 .

© 1996, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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Beating of deep drum,

 smoke signal on horizon,

and then he was gone.

More is said in love’s silence

than what we can say out loud.

.

©  2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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 Things she learned from her mentor:

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Stir words with both hands,

mix into synaptic colors,

paint them on walls

again and again

until the room

screams in ecstasy.

.

Cook words in test tubes

over the burner

that is your heart,

then spread on toast

like marmalade

and feed the hungry.

.

Wrestle with words,

squeeze them,

break them into pieces,

pin them to the floor

of your solar plexus

and in the end

always let them win.

.

 (c)  2004, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright

.

 

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Music carved the walls

of his cave

while his lathe

spun out bowls

from the old elm tree.

She held one to her lips

and sipped the brew

of smooth intention

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and his music swelled the tunnels

and the caverns

of her heart

as she swayed to his tempo

while he penned his poetry.

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But the day came

when the music stopped

and there rose a wall

of silent drums

when all the words fell flat

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and there had never been

such a deafening quietude

nor had she ever known

such a glorious ache.

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(c) 2011, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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The right words  

carve through opinions,

break up hardpan,

wikipedia

flip our paradigms

upside down.

The right words

un-dam reservoirs

of sanity,

transport memory

to new peaks

uncovering fool’s gold

and sometimes

a diamond in distress.

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(c) 2011, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright

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I ask, why now

this smooth adrenalin fit,

these dreams

of hearts and tongues

that seal our magnet words?

Why now this low flutter?

Oh tender muse,

I pray you find me too

in this sweet swoon.

.

(c) 1994, 2012  Betty Hayes Albright

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