Category Archives: Poem – Not Written By Me Though
Tick tock clock click
Clunk click every trip*
Locked in up tight
Count down to zero
Time is no straight line,
it is a serpent
crossing the room sideways
like a glance.
It burns rubber
around every corner
like bits of confetti
into our pockets.
Time dances a circle
around the fire of desire
then churns out to sea
on a wave of kelp,
unraveling one dream
It flip flops
in crazy eights,
bounces like a rubber ball
on a hot sidewalk
reflecting all angles
oblique and acute
but always right.
At its best
time is a spiral
lifting our vision
until the end
when it shrinks into a dot
in the palm of our hand,
and with one breath
blows us away
into the heart of forever.
© 2014, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright
Pen; a shamefully legalized sword and
a paper of forced reflections, I am just
a rented massacre frantically walking on a narrow lane,
burdened with ostracized thoughts and glimpses of reality;
denied, I was once told that my words have the power
to change the stagnant and uplift the meek voices,
but I am a fiction; dead, poetry; marginalized,
a novel unheard
for all they wear is white and all I know is to stain.
Truly enviable, Bella. And what a shame “masterful” remains so tainted with outdated and unwelcome sexism. 😦
That strong wiry body she wore
like a curse, smiling all the while,
nature diffusing her with passion
for dun and verdant, fruit and flowers
astounding nimble fingers, eyes darting
and dancing with delight not reciprocated
in a world of humans she tried to forgive
as we communed in silence, renegotiated
until endings inserted themselves
as they will, all gardens being temporary;
And refusing to take further insult
from a species short on integrity tried
to end it, booze and pills, vomit clumped
in a long tangle of hula hair, cradled
skeleton rocking back and forth, back
and forth, rejoin the living, meet us
again on terms of this earth, let us touch
the sparkle, share wisdom and laughter
while sifting over mounds of harvest
heaped onto old unblemished porcelain
as we pass time reflecting on budding
cloves and sliding doors to worlds
beyond the veil.
I grew up amidst plenty, Depression-era
lack transformed into expensive Japanese
silk paintings hung above a cut glass table,
black lacquer chairs, raw silk seats reserved
for holidays unfit for seven children, dreams
of people I never really knew, though
they precipitated my life;
I might have preferred distressed plank flooring
and a wood-fired oven over cork and carpet
and all the confusion, byproducts of too much
striving and not enough stillness;
motivations well understood by me now,
having thrown myself into enough fires
to acknowledge and amend miscues, misdeeds;
Like Arjuna in the Baghavad Gita,
many have have beheld the face of divinity
as it exists in all creatures and life forms
everywhere, whether perceived as good or bad;
I, too, tremble at the feet of this knowing.
CORNER OF THE EYE
(A touch of faery sight)
I see, and not quite see, this sleek man in blue
Quietly through the oak woods of Sunart,
(Just so, as through your own mind now),
The whispered past and the roaring futures.
Green rock, black root, the boulder house split,
Door leaning ajar, and the elders:
Roof and walls of a tumbled croft,
And hearth music in the song of insects
That drub the late summer air
In the folded waiting of the far north.
Listen to a tuning fork, high and clear struck.
The sense of it continuing on, a breath on sound,
A pulse of wingbeats. That is how it feels,
Stepping between the path and the oak
And the high larch, and the dripped lichen.
Watched by the timeless, curious eye.
Gone, to them, in a single blink,
As they to me, a flit of mind
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Illustration by Arushi Gupta
Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past.
– Anne Lamott
If Hope were a guest I would lock her in a cellar.
If Hope were a movie I would not eat the popcorn.
If I saw Hope on a sidewalk, half broken, I would keep on driving.
If Hope knew the real me she would run screaming.
If Hope were a digestive biscuit she would be full of animal fat.
If Hope attended your wedding you can be sure you’ll end in divorce.
If Hope were sitting here I would tell her I want her back.
If Hope saw me naked she would say, We’ve got work to do.
If Hope found this poem she would burn it.
If Hope were a bartender everything would be on the house.
If Hope were a fruit she would be an apple.
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This is why.
a world where most of the earth
would stone two women in love
and those women who break the glass ceiling are often
unrecognizable as women
for they eat
with their bean soup
the dry wafer of other females
If I tell you
I am not prideful
it is the quiet and the book
an occasion of solitude
interspersed with longing
I’ll never be a loud mouthed girl to hang your spurs upon
but still I know how to talk to the moon
and I believe in you
poorly lit by lamps
like yellow faces downcast
we walk vigorously
hand folded in hand
and that simple act
above any gift or benediction
When we are apart
monsters live under my bed
shadows rinse in continuing pass
the joy of breaking bread
the unseen art of war
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Written by Jacob Ibrag
Infused with intentions to question
every direction, she stood tall between mythical
creatures and fictional characters. ‘I see through your
words and misguided suggestions. Others feast on your
promises of limitless pleasures, rejecting the road painted
with growth and lack of instant gratification. I pray to fail
and rise, to drive through all your influence, to laugh
when I’ve fallen, to never give you an inch.’
Photography by Luca Pierro
“Share this.” OK … (And I love it BTW)
I never told you I loved you enough, the only ones
to whom it might have mattered and mattered much,
how could I? There are certain things one apprehends
only with age, the fact that most parents were
mere children themselves when they raised us up;
Now when I look back, I am able to glimpse humanity
more humbly instead of simply placing familiar labels,
Mom and Dad, great brazen fire-breathing dragons
of the household, both admired and feared
for their outsized demeanor, similar to the church God
I prayed daily would grant me safety and comfort
in place of the warm arms I yearned to fold myself
into, though dared never trust;
Even with busy single parenting, I was not able
to reflect upon the scope of the job, absorbed
as I was in all things survival to comprehend;
too enraptured in my own harried drama to sit back
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“And with endings”
(Which always beget beginnings,)
MUSIC FOR THE END
I shall not go into tomorrow
( though I may dream there).
These poems poised to begin again.
Our music, the only thing to give us birth.
What the endless aeons of starlight have waited for.
At this river’s edge – the taste of tears and flowers.
I shall dream tonight the distance –
Roaring waterfalls in Yolmo,
And the pearl liquid silent waters:
Loch Craignish after rain.
Do what we may, it will never be enough.
We paint the day and start again.
The gods have cursed us with their beautiful weaknesses.
With poetry that will not stay,
With friends and with loves
And with endings.