Wicked Husband


Wicked Husband

After struggle through the sea of
sand dune, finds an oasis–the job.
“Now, we can divorce.” He grinds.
“I no longer need your help.”
Her mouth forms O,
eyes overflow;
the door slams,
followed by cry;
“Selfish, rotten fish,
just don’t take my child away.”
He laughs like devil.
“You can’t afford the burden,
and the high rent, ” he sneers.
“I found a shack for you. Come see.”
He shoves her into the car,
heads to the place.
“See that?” He points it.
Her eyes flutter, nostril flare, seeing
the new dwelling. Confusion.
“No kidding!” Her anger and fear
evaporate. Big sigh. Her eyes overflow.
He pulls her closer to him.
“It’s real. You and I can afford it.”
“It is beautiful!” She cries. Her eyes dot
on their new home.
“You and I can afford it,” she says.
leans on him.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Near the End of April

Near the end of April
William Stanley Braithwaite

Near the end of April
     On the verge of May–
and O my heart, the word were dusk 
     At the close of day.
Half a word was spoken
     Out of half a dream,
And God looked in my soul and saw
     A dawn rise and gleam.
Near the end of April
     Twenty Mays have met,
And half a word and half a dream
     Remember and forget. 

Near the end of April appeared in Lyrics of Life 
and Love, H.B. Turner & Co, 1904. William Stanley
Braithwaite was born December 6, 1878, was a poet,
Editor. His books include Selected Poems, The House
of Falling Leaves with Other Poems. He died in 
Harlem, New York on January 8, 1962. 

Sounds of Spring, 2021

Sounds of Spring, 2021

Drip, drip, frozen soul in the melting snow
Descends from the eve,
Coo-coo-r-coo, pigeon cheers the blues,
Singing sparrows in the tree still asleep,
Ah–me, rebound from the ordeal of
the second dose of COVID vaccine,

My heart flies to the lake I used to go;
Envision the boat swoosh by;
Splash and churn; or a fish peeks out of the
Fishing hole in the frozen lake;
Go it, go it, admonition of the unseen bird;
I didn’t go for it, often than not, I know
But don’t know which;
When was the last time
I checked on my old friend?

From the horizon, whispers; ghosts of
Perished ones, dance with the birds,
Vanish into the clouds.
O, I must see them before the end of this spring;

At least for now, sounds
Of new born of the earth;
Drip, drip, coo-coo-r-coo-, ah-h–

©Byung A. Fallgren


As I expected at some point, I had a hard time with the second dose
COVID vaccine. Only one day with flue-like symptom, followed by
three days of recuperation. : )
They say that, now, Moderna and Pfizer are testing on the third dose
of the vaccine for mutated viruses.


by Alice Ruth Moor Dunbar-Nelson

A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, Kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,

Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

Alice Ruth Moor Dunbar-Nelson was born July 19, 1875,
New Orleans, Louisiana. Writer, activist for civil rights.
Her works: Violets and Other Tales, and more. She
died in September 18, 1935.