See-Saw

.

The old Shaman

placed his hands

on the trunk

of an ancient tree

.

fitting his fingers

between the ripples and creases

of the bark,

until he heard a whispering –

.

“Oh, spare me from

the greed of the axe

and the fickle see-saw

of humanity!”

.

But from the distant edge

of the forest

the old Shaman also heard

the growl of a chain-saw

.

and he smelled the exhaust

and the gasoline,

and he heard the shouts

of timbering men

.

and so he bowed his head

and wept,

as a drop of pitch

landed on his cheek.

.

.

(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Offering

.

She still remembers

his deep embrace    

in the open entryway

.

and the salty taste of urgency

on the tongue

of an April day

.

and their offering

to the gods

as it hung in the sun to dry

.

to fluff and fold,

but tenderly —

in the wrinkles of goodbye.    

.

.

(c) 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

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Spring Break

.

O vernal sun,

come sweeten the rain

as you plant your secrets

under thick moss —

.

lend the forsythia

pots of gold

and warm the stones

that circle our garden —

.

let poppies buzz

and sword ferns uncurl

as Earth becomes great

with tender.

.

.

(c) 1994, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

An old one, never published here… that I know of.  

.

Wishing everyone in the northern hemisphere a beautiful Springtime!  🌷 

And to all of us – north, south, east, west – may love, wisdom and peace someday reign on this mixed up world of ours. 💚

 

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March

.

Earth’s belly growls

when the wind

scours the valley

and rain swells the sky.

.

Shadows loosen,

pressing more tightly

under rocks,

clinging closer to fences

and trees.

.

Flickers arrive

flashing new red

under their wings

.

while down below

the garden stirs —

and Gaia’s favorite color

is green.

.

.

(c) 1994, 2019  Betty Hayes Albright

.

 

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Florets

.

The poetess opens

like a book

bound in silk

with florets in the margins

and gold-edged pages turning

.

and turning

with every breath

of the Muse

reading over

her shoulder.

.

.

© 2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

.

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Splash

.

In the middle

of the bridge, I’ll stop

.

and drop my secrets down

to the fast-flowing waters

.

where they’ll agitate confession

howling over the falls

.

to evaporate a rainbow

in that splash where every river

.

meets its absolution

in the sea.

.

.

(c) 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

.

 

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Coming of Age

.

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

.

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How to Weigh a Poem

.

Pour it

through your fingers

taste its color

on your tongue

be it raw, or breaded

with salty metaphor.

.

Take its temperature

on your forehead

then weigh it tenderly

careful

not to put your thumb

on the scale.

.

.

©  2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

.

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Recipe (a Shadorma)

.

.

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 

.

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A Poet’s Blood

.

A poet’s blood

flows to the brain

and out again

with just one change –

the cells are richer,

colored by

a metaphor,

a mystic eye

that sees it all

from higher land

then bleeds on those

who understand.

.

(c) 1992, 2016 Betty Hayes Albright

.

(a re-post)

.

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