Our Neighbors

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Our Neighbors

As if by God’s finger points or
Like air-born seeds of cottonwood,
We settle down on the same street
As beginners or semi-ones, just
Brief greetings doable most of times
Of our hectic days.
Children’s affairs, monetary demands,
And so forth, plunge us into the sea of
Arduous games, forcing to be
Athletes of our lives.
Then the devil sneaks in, poking our
Heart-monitor, a no more stranger.
We seek the better place, like insects
With the broken antenna.
In realization, we straighten our back,
Tend the old garden,
We let the things run its course.

©Byung A. Fallgren


When the Pandemic Brings a Hope (#2)

Social Isolation, nothing new to me; yet
One of the effective rules to
Stop spreading COVID-19, and more.

On my trip to the post office,
I meet an x-neighbor and learn her daughter’s
Death two years ago.
I gawk, shocked; she was my daughter’s childhood friend.
“She had a brain cancer,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Now, I take care of her children.”
We continue on chatting. Then we hug,
Before parting, breaking the rule of
Keeping six-feet distance from each other
Not to spread the coronavirus–
We know we should not break the rule.

On my way back home, I stop by the warehouse,
Look for toilet paper, hand sanitizer, found none,
but a single pack of Baby Wipes.
I grab it.
Turning back, I drive along the countryside,
Inhale the cow-manure-tinted breeze,
Rustle of silk-skirt of the maid of Spring,
Her breath balmy.

On the path by the field, freshly plowed
And pulsates in anticipation,
A young mom carries, in her arms, her baby,
Two little girls and a dog skip along, carefree.
Somehow I know the wings of the pandemic
Will fall, soon.
And our lives will spring back.

©Byung A. Fallgren

When the Pandemic Brings a Hope


My beautiful picture


When the Pandemic Brings a Hope

When the dark tendrils of
Coronavirus creeps ’round,
Choke ones weakened,
       Drag away them ground,
Webbing, growing,
Weeds wild.

In the amid panic,
A forgotten friend clicks “Like”
               On my post on Facebook,
Brings the ancient memory,
Like the lovely flower at the brook.
I send her message,

How she was.
“Getting old.” A smile-image tells all.
“Come on over for a tea,”
                 I offer, to begin with small.
“Remember the social isolation rule.”
In sad realization, I text her:

“When this is over let’s get together.”
“Sure thing.”
The old animosity, dead,
               And one knows everything
Will be just fine. Friendship bounces anew
                In the days of threatening.


©Byung A. Fallgren







Wrong Method

Wrong Method 

 He throws a brash word
To touch her wings of mind,
She tosses it away like rind,
He laughs at her,
She scorns,

He tramples amok in her garden
Of her brainchild,
She deletes his image beguiled,
He is the vanished word
In the page of life.

Wishes him for better luck
Where angels’ tear drops
Bloom for him to pluck.

*A man in my town used to suggest I divorce and marry him.
He is brash and scornful about me being a writer. I rejected
him, of course. And I wished him for better luck with other
woman who is angel-like for him. To curve what sounds
a harsh part, I added some fun rhymes to the poem.

©Byung A. Fallgren


Complying with the Season

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Complying with the Season

 Spring begins then ends, giving the way to summer.
So does my book-writing days. Seven books later, I
have retired from writing books.
It has not made me famous. Nor have I caught the gold-bird.
But I have enjoyed exploring the world only exist in
my imagination. And that is worth every joyous pain
I have gone through.
I will still continue on writing though.
With the insight I have gained from the book writing,
I will focus on writing short story and poetry. It can be Done
much quicker than book. And I love it!
No one becomes wealthy by writing poems. But it
brings sharper, deeper, profound satisfaction, which
is, I presume, what propels poets to go on.
It is funny that I ended up being a poet! Considerably
pro one at that. And I can live with that.
Now that the coronavirus pandemic is threatening lives,
with uncertain future, I am fortunate to have something
to which I can immerse my self. No dreary thoughts can
harass me when I sit with a poetic muse.
I will write as long as my fingers can hold a pen. 

Stay safe every one.

–Byung A. Fallgren