Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged ageing, change, entropy, nature, poem, Poetry, spirituality, writer's block, writing on November 25, 2018| 48 Comments »
.
He says she’s over the hill,
that she’s dancing
with entropy
toward the valley below
.
but she hears the call
of flickers, and the chitter
of squirrels,
and she sees ahead
.
lush meadows, tall trees,
and moss-covered stones
on the path
by a sapphire river.
.
There, she’ll follow the scent
of her own deep roots
to a range of mountains,
their tops hidden
.
in the subtleties he missed
between the lines
on her face
when e’er she smiled.
.
.
(c) 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Poetry 1990's, tagged creativity, ditty, frustration, humor, light verse, muse, poem, Poetry, verse, writer's block on October 4, 2018| 41 Comments »
.
Your muse didn’t run away,
she came to visit mine today.
.
I watched them climb the cedar tree
to drink their mountain berry tea,
.
and as the sky turned into rain
I watched them climb back down again.
.
They danced until their feet were dry –
and then I heard them call goodbye,
.
and now my muse has gone away –
it seems she fled with yours today.
.
When they arrive, please send her home
to change this verse into a poem.
.
.
(c) 1994, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
From 1994; dedicated to anyone else who has ever suffered from writer’s block!
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, Shadorma, tagged clipboard, muse, paper and pen, poem, Poetry, recipe, Shadorma, writer's block, writing on November 11, 2017| 36 Comments »
.
.
Fresh paper
on the old clipboard
new gel pens
with blue ink
ready to cook up a poem
waiting for my muse.
.
.
© 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Deep Water, Poetry 2010 - present, tagged ink, muse, paper, pen, poem, Poetry, writer's block on November 20, 2016| 12 Comments »
.
It’s waiting –
blank notebook paper
on my clipboard,
the kind I’ve always used,
college ruled
with a red line down the margin.
My pen is made
from recycled plastic
with blue gel ink
and feels good between my fingers.
Remember those leaky fountain pens
we had in grade school
that we filled from a bottle?
My favorite ink was peacock blue.
One Christmas my mom
gave me a ball point “quill” pen
with a fluffy pink feather plume
and matching ink.
Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,
a fountain of words,
inspiration and opinion,
countless pink poems of love
and injustice
followed by a stunned poem
when Kennedy was shot
two days after my 17th birthday.
Then came poems of indignation
about the war in Vietnam
and what was wrong with long hair,
mini-skirts and bare feet?
Ah, but I digress.
.
Now my muse
puts a finger to his lips
and tells me hush,
this is just non-poetic prose
after all.
He came to me
in a dream one night
arms folded sternly across his chest.
I wanted to pull them open,
wrap them around me,
kiss his face,
but he turned away.
I woke to find my pen
filled with invisible ink.
Can he see this,
or are these words
just feathery plumes of dust?
.
© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
.
(re-post)
Posted in Poetry 2010 - present, tagged Calliope, muse, poem, Poetry, writer's block, writing on August 11, 2016| 21 Comments »
.
Writer’s block, what spell is this
brutal paper-pen abyss?
.
Calliope is prone to fainting
locked inside a still-life painting,
.
she won’t stand for insipidity
nor a hint of crass cupidity.
.
Sometimes free association
brings the muse back from vacation
.
for just one sublime creation
or countless couplets of desperation.
.
Like the simile that shines
it’s survival of the fittest lines.
.
(Oops – mind the meter, it will matter,
just avoid the sing-song patter.)
.
Alas, my muse is on the lam,
still no strength to breach the dam.
.
Writer’s block – that dreaded curse,
for poets there is nothing verse.
.
© 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
.
Posted in Deep Water, Poetry 2010 - present, tagged invisible, Love, muse, paper, passion, pens, poem, Poetry, writer's block on July 1, 2013| 12 Comments »
.
It’s waiting –
blank notebook paper
on my clipboard,
the kind I’ve always used,
college ruled
with a red line down the margin.
My pen is made
from recycled plastic
with blue gel ink
and feels good between my fingers.
Remember those leaky fountain pens
we had in grade school
that we filled from a bottle?
My favorite ink was peacock blue.
One Christmas my mom
gave me a ball point “quill” pen
with a fluffy pink feather plume
and matching ink.
Holding it I felt like Emily Dickinson,
a fountain of words,
inspiration and opinion,
countless pink poems of love
and injustice
followed by a stunned poem
when Kennedy was shot
two days after my 17th birthday.
Then came poems of indignation
about the war in Vietnam
and what was wrong with long hair,
mini-skirts and bare feet?
Ah, but I digress.
.
Now my muse
puts a finger to his lips
and tells me hush,
this is just non-poetic prose
after all.
He came to me
in a dream one night
arms folded sternly across his chest.
I wanted to pull them open,
wrap them around me,
kiss his face,
but he turned away.
I woke to find my pen
filled with invisible ink.
Can anyone even see this,
or are my words
just another
rising plume of dust?
.
© 2013, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright
Posted in Poetry 1970's, tagged breakthrough, lightning, poem, Poetry, storm, writer's block on October 18, 2012| 17 Comments »
(An old one from 1978. Writer’s block plagued me then – and now.)
.
Sipping tea and vacant,
I nod and doze
but waken in a hot-charged light
that shatters night
and sizzles down
the window panes.
Ions glow,
ignite the sleeping coals
beyond the hearth.
.
What’s that? my children ask.
It’s just a storm, I whisper.
Hush!
.
Moments rumble
up my spine,
sparkle through my eyelids.
Heat crackles,
marrow bursts,
the floor shakes,
and then –
.
My kingdom for a pen!
I roar,
stumbling, leaping
for the door
as virgin words
begin to pour –
now all I need is time.
.
© 1978, 2012 Betty Hayes Albright
Click on image for more info.
Seasonings 