Night of the failed Northern light

They said it would show up over the hill
of the trash dumpster; the night-alone, with
the elf's plan to visit her, saying smugly, don't panic,
when see me, in the dark room. Only to help.
Don't, she said. Police often patrol in this neighborhood. 

Twilight lingers over the hill,
then the vail of night falls;
she waits for the sun's display
of his famed artwork. But no sign of it. 
just the reflection of white light from
the dwellings below the slope. 
an hour, two, and three fly away.
no fault of the sun, just the place
where the sun's display couldn't reach. 

as if to console, a long serpent of fog
lay pulsating along the dark river. 
a sudden bright light bounces and slides 
down the hill as though a little ball thrown 
by a child, as you guessed, a car traveling 
down the road. 

Now, bedtime, hour of the elf.
Keep all the lights on in every room is
one of the defense tactics, demanding,
more coins on his game. 

In the morning, no big memory
of the night; no elf; just taste of sour fruit
and smell of fungi bread. 

©Byung A. Fallgren  

Invisible thorn-bird

Are they even real?
some say yes,
some remain hush in fear;
or, say,
they are beach-collectors;
steal
gem stones from the waves.

Bull snake

Love
fear
intelligent
mouse catcher;
hide in the gutter when hot and sings.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Poets in their bassinet
Lucille Clifton

Poets in their bassinets 
dream a splendid woman holding over their eyes
a globe, shining with
possibility. Someone,
she smiles, has to see this
and report it, and they 
in their innocence 
believing that all will be 
as beautiful as she is,
whimper use me, use me
and oh how terrifying 
that she does. 

Lucill Clifton was a poet and the author of numerous collections,
she won the National Book Award, chancellor of the Academy
of American Poets. She died on February 13, 2010.    

My four poems are published in this issue. 
Thank you, editors, for taking the pieces. --Byung A. 

On the Gray Morning 

doves recite dirge 
sparrows chatter in anger
pigeons banter
old man grumbles in the kitchen;
poet rummages in the sky for a pen;

they all wait for the sun sing. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Suddenly he was there

Limper, I used to call him,
for his limping leg, after the day's
walk with his mom, when he was 
very young, turned into a disaster:
when a hungry coyote chased on him;
he ran so fast that he broke his leg.
since then, his mom was beside him;
even when he was excluded by the group;
she was with him wherever he went.

When his little fuzzy antlers turned to 
strong and grand, he began to be alone;
nightly visit to the back yard, also alone;
he'd eat the fallen apples alone;
he'd forage the grass all alone.
Summer slipped into the autumn and winter.

Then one summer night, he was there on the 
street, walking, limping, with his five does
behind; his great antlers pointing
at the moon.  
Marching in such a solemn silence,
would glance only once at the eyes 
behind the dark window.

He doesn't seem to remember the lady and the dog;
the dog who chased away the coyote from him ;
but the lady is all tears of joy of seeing him all grown;
with five does of his family!

©Byung A. Fallgren


 

My poem The Invisible Cloud is published in this week's journal. 

Thank you, editors, for taking the piece again for The Earth Day. 

--Byung

When the night thoughts flee

Too quick to take a note, but
one thing, a fine line on the word
rolling in the misty field;
what is it?
would I allow the bullying?
or, is it the insinuating heat wave
of the rock behind the boulder?
Simmer, resign;
I would not dwell on it;
go on; each moment is a gold,
now; the fragile hour. 

©Byung A. Fallgren