Photo by Derrick J. Knight

Jewels of the Forest

poor ranger as he was,
lonely and weary;
in evenings, leaning 
against the old trunk, thinking
of his children and wife
                in the village;

the old tree, covered in lichens;
reminds me of my late father;
his arm skin, once, dry and roughen;
with all the shadow of the world.

He gazes at the red berries, like rubies;
how he wished they were real.
Unbeknown to himself, he picks
the red berries, the little rubies;
he would give them to his children,
would make necklaces
              and bracelets;
he smiles;

smiles at the berries;
            they whisper: 
take us as many as you want.  

©Byung A. Fallgren

When walking in front of the Library

While he went inside, I walk,
for the books are still at the beside.

A man in a t-shirt and shorts sits
by the sidewalk, gabs on the phone;
just then a pickup truck pulls in
the parking lot, and two men emerge;
they too are in t-shirts and shorts;
the short man hollers to the man
on the sidewalk; "Hey, what you doin' there?"
They all talk gibberish.

As I pass by, one of them taunts: "Wow, she's...
gibber, gibber...."

Ignoring I get into my car and read the paper,
at the same time wondering what they are;
still working age men; shouldn't they be at work
at the hour? The short man leaves, leaving the two;
his voice sounds familiar but don't know 
where I heard it;

in my nightmares? the one who 
used to threat me to bring him money, or kill.
I shake my head; hope it is overdone joke
even in the nightmare; or in real.

No amount of money justifies to kill a person;
Earth is too beautiful place to sow and dwell

on such an act. They could be or not be. 

When he is back with books, they are gone.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Let No Charitable Hope
Elinor Wylie

Now let no Charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am by nature none of these.

I was being human, born alone;
I am being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing a stone
The little nourishment I get.

In mask outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But more has merited my fere,
And more has quite escaped my smile.

Elinore Wyle born on September 7, 1885, in 
Summerville, New Jersey, was poet and 
novelist. She died on December 16, 1928 

Ode to the Exceptional ones
of the near miss Victim's Story

They care and righteous;
they are invisible as air;

no one knows
where they are in this dry world;

some believes from heaven;
some call them angels of the night;

but they are there
when one needs.

when one is threatened by the tacky poison;
run among the harmless and helpless ones;

morning glories that bloom
to observe the world 

first thing in the morning
then close the petals to consider

when to grow mighty winged creatures.
they would be there right before

one gets down
by the sticky poison. 

©Byung A. Fallgren
 

 

The Monkey Show, social media

He feigns as if to save
   the baby monkey from drown;
rub, squeeze, the tinny blue belly,
   until the milk gushes out of the mouth,
cheeks, and into the pink ears,
   unaware of the viewers' horror-hit eyes.

his hand continues pinching; shaking
   the little animal. he might say: this is only a test
to see your reaction;
   a snake slithers out of his grin; believing
he could fool the eyes; not know the fact that
   to do what he has done takes
a heart of steel or stone.

Why would he presume we could enjoy the show?
Because it is October? Why would Halloween need
all those gores? Because some sick minds wield
the guns and knives at school and malls?

As there are many thorny trees in this world, so are 
   many marigolds that thrive on love; that need to write 
a poem to allay the heart; to get some sleep at night. 

©Byung A. Fallgren