At the Son’s House

At the Son’s House

While their mom visiting her mom
overseas for a month,
take care of the kids.
The old spinster sis put it, Enjoy the grandkids.
Smile. First a few days are okay, doing the chores,
like cooking, doing the laundry, etc.

Nightly prowler out the window; strong smell pricks
the warm night air; white-stripped creature hidden;
what scared it? The smell steals my sleep;
I read a book.

Wind outside rattles the window; a cry of a child.
It’s wee hour and wide-eyed; dawn begins to knock
at the window; time to make breakfast, feed the kids,
and wave them on the bus.
I sit at the kitchen table and massage the temples;
many days are still ahead.
Email the sis: No husband and no kids. Why do you weep?

©Byung A. Fallgren

How I didn’t fall…

How I didn’t fall a Victim of the Man, (his memory)

I stand still, bewildered,
as my mom hugs me. The same hug she gave me
a long ago seem weird, like a bad witch’s grin.
I let my eyes follow her to her car and vanishes.
In my room, I stare blankly at the computer, pondering
about our a month-long part. Free, at last, from her
yelling; do your work, study, clean your mess.
I run my hand over the arm with ever existing black&blue;
they’ll disappear with her absence, only to return with her back.
Hey, join me, my crony, the missing boy, coxes.
Where are you?
you know the basement, the dark one, the kind man’s.
I dig in my memory of the chat.
My smile mingles with the smoke from my mouth; two elves in the dark outland.

Later, while packing, I saw her at my room door,
startling me. I knew it. she shakes her head. Son, don’t.
Her eyes like those of
a girl’s whose beloved pet is dying.
I left my backpack in the closet, muttering in my mind,
Until someday.

Since when, I don’t know, I hadn’t seen the bruise on my arm;
her voice, rustling bamboos.
That someday came only in my bad dream.

©Byung A. Fallgren


by Georgia Duglas Johnson

Through the moil and gloom they have issued

To the steps of the up winding hill,
Where the sweet, dulcet pips of tomorrow
In their preluding rhapsodies trill.

With a thud comes a stir in the bosom,
As these stick on the sight from afar,
Through a break of cloud’s coiling shadow
The gleam of a bright morning star!

Promise appeared in Bronze: A Book of Verses (BJ Brimmer
Company, 1922). Ms. Johnson was born in Atlanta , Georgia, in the late
19th Century. Her poetry collections include Bronze: A Book of Verses,
The Heart of a Woman, and others. She died in 1966.

No Reason to Hurry Home?

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No Reason to Hurry Home?

Life flow as little creek slow for
the semi-retiree; on the way home, stop by
the water, to see how the beavers’ doing,
no mud, no beaver, just a memory of
the hot summer evening, swim with
the children, and the stranger,

his bald head above the water,
like a hollow, pale pumpkin float
in the twilight…
stop at the bridge,
see the swallows’ nests, as usual all empty,
worry, lest they’ll be endangered species.
Head home, no reason to hurry, yet

feel like something waiting,
like a bruised desire or the one of a child.
Home, in the old box,
the ol’ unfinished project frowns;
mother in the grave. Urges, now’s the time
to blow the life in it. Or else. 

©Byung A. Fallgren