Photo by Jean Moody–flmoody@hotmail.com

Self Reflection

When everything
Goes wrong
Esteem-self also
Reaches rock bottom
I see my reflection
From the deep
Gives me green

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu

Butterfly Angst

Butterfly in the garden 
Has no interest in the nectar
Just holding onto the petals
Lest the summer will fade

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

photo by Margaret Fox—foxblue1973@gmail.com

 In the Smell of the Breakfast

 Scent of cooking seeps into the room,
tickles my conscience.
Little chore will do well
for the retreated soul.
I turn in my bed and drift back to…
a calm unconsciousness.
Strong odor snatches me back.
Burning!
Sound of scraping, scrap and scrap.
Let him correct it.
Let him correct all the mishaps he conjured,
trash them all, yours and mine,
let them turn into the due drops on the grass,
rise into the morning sunbeam, and
newly wed we will be.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Our Footprint
by Sam Doctors (samdoctors701@gmail.com)

Our footprint
grows beyond Gala’s 
ability to meet our demands.
We dip into the store of water,
we spread across the land
we foul the air with fire,
filling the air with detritus,
taking without thought
of seven generations,
or even the next,
so that others 
may in future have less and less
and the little or none.

Prayers of the Winter Trees

Donned in white prayer’s dress,
trees pause before the long pray,
as the morning walker admires

bright jewels on their heads.
What might they harbor in their
white coats?

A squirrel peeps out
from its tree home, like
a shivering child begging for coins.

Have you mailed the check yet?
The trees taunt low.
Holiday dinner ought to be in time.

Hurrying down the trail,
listen to them pray for
the winter creatures and all.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Due drops
(Myra Viola Wilds)

Within the due drops in the morning,
Shake their little diamond heads,
Sparkling, flashing, ever moving,
      From their silent little beds.

See the grass! Each blade is brightened,
Roots are strengthened by their stay;
Like the dew drops, let us scatter
     Gems of love along the way.

*

Myra Viola Wilds was born in Kentucky.
She authored poetry collection of Thoughts of Idle Hours
(National Baptist Publishing Board, 1915).

Learning the fallen Dancing-leaves

Drop him off at the clinic
for the ancient devil,

when the early retreat funds
gather like some golden leaves

at the threshold,
swoosh, swoosh, coded message

of the chill wind,
of the stubborn pandemic,

of the November election and
the fate of the neighbor,

the separated family
who came as the illegal immigrant.   

Wish it all be the banal worry, and I will
enjoy the scrumptious sun, with no blush, 

even the fallen leaves
dance in the brisk wind.

©Byung A. Fallgren  

 

photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu

Another Fear

In the video, ghostlike images fly
round in the dark room. Out from
the walls, hide under the child’s bed,
shoot to the ceiling and dive
into the pillow then back to the ceiling,
shimmering, staring down at the sleeping child.
The boy screams in his sleep.
He only sees the the shape,
his eyes, too soft to see it through,
his mind, too simple to get the truth.
Don’t fear the glitch or ghost, son, she whispers.
Specter can’t hurt you; only breathing ones do.

Grow like a pine tree in the winter storm.
Do not wander ’round the shady pond where
lily pads and frogs don’t appear
as they are supposed to be,
where the snakes mimic ripples.

©Byung  A. Fallgren