golden beams of sunset
shines through the dark wall of clouds
like the late-late bloomer

©Byung A. Fallgren

Aroma was homey in the holy man’s
invisible presence. I glanced around
At the faces at the table.
“Do you mind my sitting here?”
Amicably I said.
“Not at all,” a plump lady replied.
Light conversation went on, pleasant as spring.

“Everything’s fine there?” A loud man lumbered over
To our table. Everyone turned to the man.
“I was just,” the man went on, his goggling eyes
Over me, the only Asian woman there, “wondering, since
She’s a trouble maker.”

Startled, I let my eyes followed the man strutting
Away. Strange man, I thought.
I turned to the plump lady. “We are getting along
Just fine here, aren’t we?” I asked.
“As long as you don’t make trouble, that is,”
She snapped. At the table, the balmy atmosphere earlier
Had turned to chill.

Pastor’s wife hurried to the empty table nearby, speaking
Under her breath, “He’s just, uh, joking.”
When I moved to her, she told me,
“He likes you.”
“Why didn’t he tell me so, instead of lying?”
Pastor’s wife shrugged.
Shaking my head, I changed the subject,
“How is Amy?”
“she’s getting married soon.”
“I’m happy for you, both,” I said.
As we chatted and laughed, the room regained
the warmth, and the nasty twister slipped
Out of the room.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Avocet, a journal of Nature Poetry,
Winter–2020

Hello, everyone,
I have been quietly supporting environmentalists for some time,
so I would like to break the silence by reminding you again
The Avocet, a journal of Nature Poetry that is packed with the
Nature saving articles and quality poems of Nature loving poets
in the world. I’m delighted to have my poem “Beneath the Snow
Dream Pulsates” published in the The Avocet, Winter–2020.
This is a compact volume with beautiful winter-themed poems
that walks you through wonders of winter beauty.
A sample copy is $7.50.
To buy the copy, write to:

Charles Portolano, Editor
The Avocet
P.O. Box 19186
Fountain Hills, AZ   85269

Thank you all.

–Pyong (Byung) A.

Beginning at the church was balmy
Spring, welcomed daffodils, azaleas,
Exotic forsythias and all,
Summer dared to not disturb, lest the
Season brief, yet brief it flew.
Sky, shadowed by cottonwood seeds,
Moaned; birds flocked and murmured in
Strange words; the river of
Pastoral guide often reversed to the ancient time,
Eyes and tongues of ghosts would micmic
Mocking bird, provoked murky waves in the room.
Sensible souls were silent,
With spirit of loyalty for the man of the house
High and formidable.
Pastoral language, often lost its original purpose,
Would test the new searcher in distress,
Stirred doubts and disbelief.
In the mind of the new, Buddha beckons
From the cavern, surrounded by the new crowd.
Is this a trend, or an odd one in the flow?

©Byung A. Fallgren