Perhaps the World Ends Here
Joy Harjo (1951--)
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter
what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set
on the table. So it has been since creation,
and it will go on.
We chase chickens and dogs away from it. Babies
teethe at the corners. They scrape their
knees under it.
It is here that chickens are given instructions on
what it means to be human. We make men at
it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the
ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put
their arms around our children. The laugh
with us at our poor falling-down selves and as
we put ourselves back together once again at
the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an
umbrella in the sun.
We have begun and ended at the table. It is a
place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place
to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have
prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow, we
pray of suffering and remorse. We give
thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table,
while we are laughing and crying, eating of
the last sweet bite.
Joy Harjo was appointed the new United States poet laureate
in 2019. Born in Tusa Oklahoma in 1951. She is a member of the
Musoke/Creek Nation.
Author: Byungafallgren
Dealing with a decade old unfinished.
Sometimes, reworking on an unfinished old project can give you a new hope. I wrote a children's picture book a decade ago, but left it unfinished, because I could not afford to hire an illustrator, nor did I have a strong ambition to do it myself. Recently, I took out my old paint brush and started working on the illustrations myself. And found it quite challenge but enjoyable. Below are some of works I have done so far.
–Byung A. Fallgren
Beans
Beans Mary Oliver--1935--2019 They are not like peaches or squash. plumpness isn't for them. They like being lean, as if for the narrow path. the beans themselves sit qui'- tilly inside their green pods. In- stinctively one picks with care, never tearing down fine vine, never noticing their crisp bod- ies, or feeling their willingness for the pot, for the fire. I have thought sometimes that something--I can't name it-- watches us I walk the rows, accept- ing the gift of their lives to assist mine. I know what you think: this is fool- ishness. They are only vegetables. Even the blossoms with which they begin are small and pale, hardly sig- nificant our hands, or minds, our feet hold more intelligence. With this I have no quarrel. But what about virtue?
Light at the Edge
Light at the Edge Her fingers tap dance around the mound, starting at the little round button at the center, the ritual done each month for decades. The mound and the button lost their youthful bounce; still tricky; the tiny lump comes and go at the touch, fooling the serious fingers. You need an Ultrasound on that spot, says the x-ray technician. Lying on the table as the woman examines to catch the illusive devil, she crosses her fingers. As her heartbeat quickens, the devil floats above the table, grinning. Time for you to go. She shut her eyes. Not yet, I still have lot of things to do! Wait here, the woman tells her. I'll be back with the result. She feels her mouth dry like been dead for days. The woman returns with stiff face. Her heart sinks to the floor. We do not find anything scary, the woman says. a long sigh of relief escapes from her. Thanks. ©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
Eight haikus of my works appear in The Weekly Avocet--#510. Thank you, Charles and Vivian for taking these pieces.
Curious and Counting
Curious and Counting Arisa White How do I get in your atmosphere? Tell me about your sign, look me planetarily --those Venuses in your eyes? There was no thought after you and I wrote it down. Wandered to the wailing with my back exposed. My kind of Sunday, your knees buffalo and kicking up plains. We go sockless for beauty. Ribbons unwind bring us to tied, I'm at your symmetry, remembering all your digits and your lucky number mine. Arisa White is a Cave Canem poet whose works is rooted in black women way of knowing. The author of Who's Your Daddy (Augury Books, 2021) among other titles. She is an assistant professor of Singlish and creative writing at Cole College.
Thank you, workers!
Happy Labor Day! And thank you for your hard work, everyone in every field: doctors, nurses, police officers, farmers, auto mechanics, engineers, scientists...
The Weekly Avocet
At the Apple Orchard
At the Apple Orchard We came from the city to pick the apples, green, red and gold, to fill our lungs with the scent of the fruits, even the hidden worm-ridden scent is better than the city air; we came to be surrounded by the atmosphere of the shared goal--to be ripen, ripen only; oh, that mature spirit! wish to drown in it all day long, forever more. We fill our baskets with many hues and aromas, but only one shared goal, to take home; to mix them with our daily lives, to bake pies that bloom in our hearts. ©Byung A. Fallgren
Moaning of Moon
My two poems, Moaning of Moon and Unprecedented, flood have been accepted for Fall printed issue of the Avocet, journal of Nature poetry. Thank you, Charles and Vivian for accepting these pieces.
Byung A. Fallgren 