Mystery of the bag

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Mystery of the bag

The lake view, yellow and purple
Little flowers’ silent whisper,
The sunny pine-hill hums,
The bag hanging from the tree
Holds the stroller imaginative:

A SUV pulls up at the picnic table,
Smell of barbecue,
Loud music, laughters,
Even the tree branches dance
To the cheery mood.
A man hangs a plastic bag
On the tree.
“A gift for you,” with a grin he says.

When quiet again, the tree seems to wonder,
What is hanging from its branch.
The translucent bag reveals it a bit–
It’s something like…had been
In the gut of the man or the stars.
The tree stiffens in confusion,

Ill humor disrespects the beauty
Of the Nature.
If trees can think—
O but they might feel in a way we
Don’t understand—It would think,

The man must be an alien,
No human can be that rude
To our Mother Nature.
Gift from the alien—
A Hazmat suit, necessary to
Make it clear then.

 

©Byung A. Fallgren

The ghost of the plane trees

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The ghosts of the plane trees
by Andrea Ferrari 
(aferrari@stmari.edu.ar)

tree stumps line the street on both sides
disjointed lopsided limbs lie
felled out as from a man that still stands
in body trunk silence observing its carnage
in pieces of a puzzle now impossible

cars that need more street
side indifferent

didn’t hear the grind spray of
sawdust in spurts or each thump
as it grunted on dry grass

but at night their ghosts rise
thin translucent holographic
towards a dark heaven

ghosts arms upwards in neon white
transparent leaves in innocent
carbon dioxide shine

couldn’t hear if roots murmured growth
or were whispering of soil silence
when machines came and removed stumps

 

 

Spring Song

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Spring Song

Little butterfly kisses on
The dandies basking in the sun
On the pine-scented hill green,
Brook warns the fish frolicking carefree
Not to swallow the fake warm on the hook,
The fish didn’t listen to the high brook,
To the fisherman’s delight.
He shows me the fish dangling from the hook,
“I know you eat trout.”
“Let it go.” I pout.
“No one should die on this lovely day
Of spring. Not even the trout.”
Fish swims back in the laughing brook,
No one should die on this barmy spring,
Not even the brook trout,
Enjoying, like me, the sunny day out.

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©Byung A. Fallgren

Seven weeks later

Seven Weeks Later

Stepping out door
After stay-at-home rule,
The only thing new seems
Added folds and furrows
On our face.
We turn back
With caution,

Keep on
Looking into the field
With the usual greens,
In hopes to find
Unusual one
Elusive,
Right magic suspended
In the game of
Elfin spring.

Oh, but even this ill-flow will
Fade into the blue sea of past.
We will then reminisce the
Warmth and beauty we’ve held
For one another
In the dark season.

Hudson River Park Flora 9 copy

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Particular Afternoon Lake

 

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Particular Afternoon Lake

In the silent pause of a dame
She embraces the occasional
Rhythmic pecking of a woodpecker,
Distant hums of a boat.
She wonders, how’s everything,

Beneath the still water
Mimicking the halted time
Of the pandemic,

Listens to the sound from within,
The sound, unusual beat of the heart,
Movement, stealth of
An old man.

From afar, a gull cries,
Like a whimpering child,
For the granny in distress.
A jumping fish teases a little
Duck swims by, like
A fun-loving gaffer pinches
The butt of a girl and smiles.

 

©Byung A. Fallgren