Posts Tagged ‘youth’


betty 1971



we danced to our favorite

solo of drums

till Keith turned on

Folsom Prison Blues

and we dosey-doed

in a square-dance spoof,

Tom’s arm


but feeling no pain,

for we couldn’t see

through the smoke in the room

and we would be young forever.


When the haze finally cleared

to reveal gray hairs

we still felt the beat


as butterflies —

and it’s not really bad

being older.



© 1992, 2019 Betty Hayes Albright


(Re-post, reminiscing about the good old days, Iron Butterfly’s hit song “In a Gadda da Vida”, and Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues”.)


Blurry photo from 1971 (age 24), taken at an outdoor rock concert at Seattle Center. 

Dig the hat!  😊  

(I’m pushing a stroller with 6 month old son sleeping inside. He happens to be 48 today. Geez, time flies….)

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This world has changed

since you and I

allowed the years

to wrinkle by


without a pause

we didn’t notice

the quiet closing

of the lotus.


Now we fail

to recognize

the crinkles ‘round

each other’s eyes


when one says no,

the other yes —

a corner turned

yet I confess


that deep inside

I’ll ne’er forget

your Romeo

to my Juliet.



©  2018  Betty Hayes Albright


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(Remembering the summer of ’67)


It was a blue-sky summer

of beach love freedom

and baby-oil tans

but most of all

a hunger

for the daring wild truth.

We danced far away

from dead philosophers

returning to their coffins

and the icy leanings

of cynical professors.

And so it was

that long, fiery season

when heat ignited bodies

and the sun

kindled our souls

that Nietzsche’s god

rolled over

in his grave.



(c) 2013, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post from 2013, revised)






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The gray haired lady

next door

thought I didn’t see her

ducking behind a curtain

watching me

on my knees

weeding the rose garden

four months pregnant

long hair like Cher’s

with the bangs

husband on the porch

playing “Guess Who

on our new 8-track


if it was too loud.




I duck behind the curtain

convinced they can’t see me

watching them

as she sweeps the porch

pregnant belly half bare

short hair in spikes,

her boyfriend’s Harley

revving up

tattoos shining

heavy bass beating

from a window.

I hope they don’t see me

but yes

it’s just too loud.



© 2018  Betty Hayes Albright


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(a collage of memories)


Falling from the prom

first love stuck

to the seat of the car

till Beach Boy good vibes

lit my quarter-carat ring

as it snagged on my impatience

and scratched at your freedom

and one rainy Monday Monday

in a miscarriage of spring

you returned it to the jeweler

who confessed the stone was flawed.


Ten stairs down

in a choke-filled, red-eye cave

we found a collage

of wine-bottle candles

and short black beards

where daddy-o played chess

and argued on absolute bongos,

and espresso-laced poets

beat cement floor philosophy,

and black leotards

on bar stools sang

in dilettante protest

till someone spun Baez

and laughed

when I just ordered tea.


No cooking in rooms,

we ate pop-tarts cold,

connected the dots

in philosophy

pretending to like home-made beer

and the rain fell

on Glen Yarborough

and we knew the war

wasn’t over

but Camus didn’t care

and Nietzsche’s God was dead

so we slid brown leaves

to the A & W

and waited for mail

from home.


It began in May,

that shoeless summer,

long hair hung low

between hot bikini tans,

salt water steamed

from our backs,

eyelashes and dimples

crossed the railroad tracks;

there were lines

and moves,

and always forget-me-nots

growing from our cleavage.


He followed me

to green music nights

to deep-lidded eyes

in bell-bottom mirrors

where we listened to Dylan

and danced to the Doors

and slid down the hill

playing and laughing

between tangled hair

and a purple-beaded dawn.


House-mother asleep

I slipped with you

in the bark-soft rain

up waterfalls

to your winking lake

where you wet my lips,

St. Christopher pressing

into my breast

and the red canoe

rocked over the edge,

smiling at

tomorrow’s raised brows.


He said he liked

the way I walked,

sang Dean Martin

with his motorcycle cocked

till I went with him

to Sehome Hill

and he stopped being Dean

and the meadow grew thorns

as he twisted my slap

grinding into the shock

knowing I’d never tell,

for back then

women blamed themselves.



your ‘59 Fairlane

got us there

to cruise Birch Bay

and puzzle over

the Ode to Billy Joe

and we answered yes

to Gracie Slick

while smokey sunsets

stopped the show

and you held your stomach in

as we laughed

across a Sunday-funny dream.


We rode the night

on magic carpet street signs

where Joni sang hair-flowers

and headband crochet,

and the Taco Time spilled

and stuck to bare legs

as I felt your jacket comfort

in Sergeant Pepper incense

and the pull

of your blue-light eyes.


© 1993, 2015 Betty Hayes Albright


(a re-post, originally written in 1993. It’s been 48 years, yet 1967 – especially that long, hot summer – is still a vivid memory. It was a time of great change, personally, socially, politically, and spiritually.)

“Echoes” was originally posted on my 1960’s blog – Summers of Love .

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1965 drawing














Re-posted from my ’60’s blog: Summers of Love

(From 1965 – age 18)


This wasn’t what she had in mind,

she’d meant to keep his feelings light,

she hadn’t meant for him to fall,

in fact she never dreamed he might.

But then he said that heavy word

that stunned and made her want to flee

and when he asked her how she felt

no words would come, she wanted free.

She knew the fault was in her self

not to have seen the tenderness

that shined so deeply from his eyes

and spoke of more than friendliness.

If only she had heard his sighs

or felt his pulse beneath her touch

she might have realized weeks ago

his feelings had become too much.

Sparks that should have been snuffed out

had turned to flames within his heart,

she saw the glow and didn’t know

why she’d allowed his love to start.

This wasn’t what I had in mind,

her thoughts were pleading silently

but while her reasoning rebelled

her heart was pounding happily.


(c) 1965, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


Faded pencil drawing (c) 1965, 2015

(I was never an artist – poor guy doesn’t have any elbows.

And he’s standing on her toes!)

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(Written in 1963 – age 16)


Who am I, walking this earth

with my average looks and birth?

What am I doing here?

Do I deserve to be so near

to the beauty of grass and flowers

with my lowly, finite powers?


Where do I stand in God’s home?

Was I put here to write poem after poem?

Why am I standing so small

in universes containing all?

When am I – near the end of time?

Or are we humans far behind?


Will time and space ever rot,

or won’t the two ever stop?


© 1963, 2014 Betty Hayes Albright


(Re-posted from my 1960’s blog:  Summers of Love

Bad poetry, but same old questions….)

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