Category Archives: Reposted from elsewhere

Past Time

The best tribute I can pay to this piece, Betty, is to repost it so that others can stumble upon it – and you. The best poems are timeless.



She whittles

on a block

of solitude

until it’s gone

and pieces lie

about her feet

and slivers

bleed her hands


out another poem

that only he

will understand.



(c) 1995, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright


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sky become sea

dhamma footsteps

OLD NOTEBOOKS: East Anglia, England (originally dated October 8, 2012): 06.00hrs: I’m upstairs in the cottage, sitting at the desk placed in front of the small window looking out at the world. What a strange sight, everything is chocolate brown. The field was ploughed yesterday, I remember now, a man in a red tractor ploughing the earth into neat chocolate furrows, moving by small increments across the field and back, followed by a flock of pale grey seagulls making a tremendous mewing sound. It took him the whole day.

Furrowed chocolate fields, forever, like lines drawn in the earth, as you would draw with a pencil on a piece of paper, but on a huge scale; a measurement made across the field. Furrows as neat as a comb passes through hair and it leaves the strands precisely separated from each other, for a time. The strange thing is, though, it’s…

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Remembering Of A Something



I shall not remember this,
Nor shall be remembered for this.
And yet for a moment I am here,
Settled between grey hills in slow rain.
My love, still sleeping, her dreaming breath
A slow mist down by the river.

Where did it begin?
Moving on, just so,
As a shifting sunset.

Stone stretched thin until i admits hollowed light.
Dark cliffs wane, and here we are:
Saints as numberless as sheep,
Sheep as numerous as clouds.
Clouds piling to heaven then whispering to nothing,
Pushed by hills older than themselves.
The river runs thick and dark, naming each stone.
It is as easy to forget, sometimes, as to remember.
(Bitter ashes, black soot, husks huddled that once had faces).
How fast the grass covers it all, takes away cause and reason.

Here we are:
A silted green valley down to the sea at Llantwit,

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St Ives

How unexpected to find a second poem containing the word pilchard in such close (relative) proximity. And a fine poem too.



Where is the tang of salt,

the reek of the sea’s harvest?

No more the seafarer’s roll

caresses my pier side stones;

no more the women’s red hands

bear fish stained air to cellars,

to chapel, to marriage beds.

I am left to the idle,

the fanciful escapees

that smother my golden sands,

and the sea only knows rage

or seduction – picturesque

to the exclusion of life.

Pilchards were my life – “pilchards”!

Even the word lacks beauty –

‘a devious shining worm

of a man’ this oily fish

has become in a packaged age.

Eyes have turned to the shining

light, springing into the air,

to the translucent turquoise,

to shapes of leisured gesture,

and the abstraction of form.

But beneath, I lie silent,

founded in oil and offal,

grieving for the days of fish,

the certainty of produce,

of sea, land and working hands –

plain, factual…

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along the interstice

you’re a bull in my shop
believing yourself to be
companionately brutal

and each time
bone china flies

and each time
i am left
to sweep up my aisles
littered with shards of pellucid and greige

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Tick Tock

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

tossing irony,

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

weaving another.

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


(a re-post)


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yet let’s
not get draw
into the bipolar set-up
that simply fuels
the dysfunction

Eye Will Not Cry


Each day they’re saying something…
Never aiming to catch your attention…

Hoping you are distracted enough…
Not to seek out any intervention…

Uttering words without meaning…
And telling little white untruths…

Preaching to the ignorant masses…
From the elderly to the numbed youth…

But do you really hear them…
Do you understand their words…

Read in-between the constructed lines…
Or care what motivates their world…

A world where everybody cheats…
A world where everybody lies…

They wrap up all of the dysfunction…
Hide secrets deep behind their eyes…

Always standing in the shadows…
Sending messages to your ears…

Projecting from a cold dark place…
And preying on all your worst fears…

Telling you what they want you to hear…
Always force feeding you their version…

As you swallow with a pinch of salt…
They’re looking for the next diversion…

But they’ve failed to communicate…
To each and every single…

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Literary ‘dead’

Brooding Secrets

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.

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Sunday Quote : Where to focus


Hold tight to what is most yourself, Don’t squander it

Don’t let your life be governed by what disturbs you.

Abu al-Ala al-Ma’arri , c. 973-1058, Arab philosopher, poet, and writer. 

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Truly enviable, Bella. And what a shame “masterful” remains so tainted with outdated and unwelcome sexism. 😦

belas bright ideas

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.

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