This January

cropped-dscf01202.jpg

This January

Placid as the slow moving cow
with a large belly, in which a little calf
dreams of spring. Tantalizing with
the COVID vaccine yet to be avail
for the whole world.
Still, she is diligent,
shamble yet steady as
a dame with such a noble plan as
the inauguration of the new president.
We see her vigor in the drops
of melting boughs,
in the beam of the mountain 
in the white pullover.
She may falter yet keeps on going.
We hope for her bloom yet to come.

©Byung A. Fallgren  
 

Singing Juniper

IMG_3566 (2)

Singing Juniper

a robust juniper
in my yard
sings lullaby
with the hidden sparrows
gathered for the night

I’ve written this poem for my four-year old 
granddaughter. This is one of the poems 
I have sent to her email box which she’ll 
open when she can read–around seven.
One of the joys of getting old. 😉

–Byung A.

At the Twilight of New Year’s Eve

My beautiful picture

At the Twilight of New Year’s Eve

I keep looking back,
as if I have parted with an unfaithful friend,
forgetting something to say,
as if I have left home,
leaving my elderly mother alone.

I keep peeping into the window to my room,
tidy as the doll house in the toy store,
catching the shadow of a sullen ghost,

gibbers: sometimes, frozen lake turns
into a witch’s caldron,
when you 
quickly absorb shadows,

like the forest pond,
like the dragonfly’s eyes,
ripples even by the drop of  a little petal,
brood in the ice.

I nod, scoff, nod and scoff and nod.
Wish to keep the twilight in my room,
until I catch the resolution evasive,
sat it on my desk with super glue
for the new days.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Winter book in the Sky

Winter book in the Sky
By Andrea Ferrari– Buenos Aires–aferrari@stmary.edu

unworded  but voiced
in clouced-lines
on horizontal pale paper sky
white translucent 
           seagulls
write in black
drifting eastward,
the page is in a language 
unknown
rounded circling  
grasped bird-work
cry out in tales
in echoes
of forever returning home

Winter Solstice, guilt

winter_fog_200960 copy

Winter Solstice, guilt

Being born on this cold night
alone sob of guilt, worse
is the war-torn days.
Roars of metallic dragons
dance in the sea of fire,
trampling on the ashes,
above the shabby shelter,
hungry new born whimpers
as the buzz of bumble bee,
or howl like an abandoned coyote pup?
How did she do it? How did they manage
to hide from the reds?
Miracle, to have survived, with five kids,
yet to have infection in his mind,
occasional alcohol wouldn’t wash the wound.
Every solstice night, I fall deep, lost word,
amide the thoughts of the days of horror,
ache to comfort you.
Only if you were here.

©Byung A. Fallgren