The moonlight
Yvor Winters

I waited on 
In the late autumn moonlight
A train droning out of thought--

The mind on moonlight
And on trains.

Blind as a thread of water
Stirring through a cold like dust,
Lonely beyond all silence

And humming this to children,
The nostalgic listeners in sleep,

Because no guardian 
Stirs stories through distance upon distance,
His eyes a web of sleep.

"The moonlight" appeared in Secession No. 7 (Winter 1924).
Yvor Winters, born October 17, 1900 in Chicago, was a poet,
critic and professor. He was the author of many books, including 
his collected poems (Swallow press, 1960, which won the 
Bolinger Prize. He died on January 25, 1968.

to Save your mind

When feels weary
close the door
to your mind
to keep out the harms.
run to the field
where the cows roam;
watch their peaceful life until
you can taste what they chew,
hear what they hear: perhaps,
buzzing bees 
collecting honey
or cicadas in the wind.

That's what i do 
when grownups turn into children,
mistake the guns with the toys.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Doe

On a warm evening, walking the dog
near the pasture, I saw an unusual event
unfold in the distance: 
a doe and fawn, chased by a coyote;
in an effort to keep up with
its mother, running for her life,
the fawn fell.
The coyote approached the injured fawn.
my dog, free from my grip, dashed to 
the predator, howling; the coyote fled. 
To examine the injured one, I got closer,
and it limped away to its mom
watching us from afar.
When the young buck with the limp leg,
excluded by his group,
the doe joined him walking in the night,
foraged together in the pasture or in my yard.
The doe and the buck with the crippled back leg
and lovely antlers; the nightly visitors,
now, enjoy midnight snack on
the leaves of my apple tree. The buck,
his antlers reaching for the moon, his mouth
to the apple; an art of nature.
As I watch them in the moonlight, in awe 
for her motherly love, tear wells in my eyes. 
How long? She doesn't care; just live in the
momentary joy.  But she knows instinctively 
that her care for her son in the season will pay off;
her son is well nourished and fat for the winter.
The night stealthily moves on, and they trot off
into the light of dawn. 

©Byung A. Fallgren  

 This piece was published in The Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry,
Summer--2022.  Thank you, Charles and Vivian for taking this poem. 

Stranger Things at the House

With her absence, supposedly will return in weeks,

I could not help but notice things pique my curiosity;

seen through the door ajar, the bow and arrow

laid across the bed. I'd rather not ask the son
about it, lest he got mad for snooping.
It could be the symbol of his or her fidelity
or even a little religious gesture; or maybe he is
preparing for a hunting trip, who knows.

While in the laundry room, items, like photos
in the frames, tucked in the corner, collecting dusts.

Don't they deserve the better place to be stored? But,
this time, too, I choose to remain silent,
thinking: little squabble, a religious act or just forgot
about them, and so forth.

For whatever it may be, I'd imagine for a healthy tree
than the withering flowers;

our lives are full of shades and lights;
like mountain and valley or rich and poor;
I'd think light and then add more hues.
 

©Byung A. Fallgren

i love you to the moon
 Chen Chen

not back, let's not come back, let's go by the speed of
queer zest & stay up
there & get ourselves a little
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden

with lots of moon vegies (so healthy), i mean 
i was already moon lighting
as an online monologist 
most weekends, so this is the immensely

logical next step, are you 
packing your bags yet, don't forget your 
sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter, 
queer moon gravity, let's love each other
(so good) on the moon, let's love
the moon
on the moon

Chen Chen is the author of When grow up I want to be a 
List of Further Possibilities (BOA Editions, 2017).    

Palimpsest 

Of all the good trails,
i chose the muddy one
that injured the bone;

the pain, the passing years 
haven't erased it;
cloudy days it still pulsates.

wrinkled spirit, no cream 
can smooth it; like grumpy 
old friend, still there. but,

why do you bother to delete it at all?
Let it all fall to the sky of time.
or, i would be born new in the sea;
be a sister of the waves. 

©Byung A. Fallgren