Author: Byungafallgren

Cleverness, modern Wave

~ Byungafallgren ~ 2 Comments 
Cleverness, Modern Wave

The Farmer entered a contest,
after putting together the words
she raised and nurtured,
which she thought great,
waited for five months, hoping she'd win.

The final month, countdown;
four, three, two; the final week, she got a letter
from the judge: "Dear contestants, will you see me
at the ceremony?"

Having been suffering from arthritis, the farmer replied;
"I'm sorry, Ma'am, I won't be able to, perhaps next time."
Soon after that, she got a rejection letter from the judge.

The heartbroken farmer realized: the judge chose ones who
would go to the ceremony. What a trick.

She nods, with wry smile; 
this is how the brains of shady modern souls work;
in doing so, quality of winner's work and
the contest compromised.
Next time, she knows what to say to a clever judge.


Byung A. Fallgren

Aunt

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Aunt

She was sick and nowhere to go, Mother said. So
she came to us, her brother's home. Most of her days
she sat in her room, looking out the door at us, little kids
in our room looking at her thin face, with wry smile, for
hugs were not allowed; only hello and blown kiss.

Wearing her shame, like a thick, bruised skin,
the possibility of spreading the disease to the loved ones,
she wished her days were brief; she would wait for the day
she could rest, beneath the snow of the backyard mound.

After she had gone, Mother came down with the aunt's 
breath and fever; worried for us; blamed the aunt's gift that
would bring the doom home; we all were wrapped in her shadow.

To this day, we siblings have been free of the aunt's 
feverish breath; wish it would stay that way, like the days
of the vanished wind. Aunt's ghost smiles like the olden days,
when she could play with us kids.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Drifting

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Drifting
Olivia Ward Bush-Bank

And now sun is tinted splendor sank,
   The west was all aglow with crimson light;
The bay seemed like a sheet of burnished gold,
   Its waters glistened with such radiant bright.

At anchor lay the yachts with snow white sails,
   Outlined against the glowing, rose-hued sky,
No ripple stirred the winter's calm repose
   Save when a tiny craft sped lightly by,

Our boat was drifting slowly, gently round,
   To rest secure till evening shadows fell;
No sound disturbed the stillness of the air,
   Saved the soft chiming of the vesper bell.

Yes, drifting, drifting; and I thought that life,
   When nearing death, is like the sunset sky;
And death is but the slow, sure drifting in
   To rest far more securely, by and by.

Then let me drift along the bay of time,
   Till my last sun shall set in glowing light;
Let me cast anchor where no shadow fall,
   Forever moored within heaven's harbor bright.

Olivia Ward Bush-Bank was born on 2-27-1869,
in Sang Harbor New York. A poet, short story writer, 
journalist, she was the author of Original Poems
(Louis A. Basinet, 1899), and more. She died on 
4-8-1944.