Treasure in the Sewing Chair

In the old box chair,
a pink vase sleeps
between the little pillows,
embroidery, colorful dream.
The gifts of the law-ma, long gone,
the rose-pink vase,
the florets of her needle work,
the surprise;
the moon in the rain,
her last poetry;
the magic words
lull the purple old grains
of feelings, tend to stir the past.
Her face on the vase smiles,
and so do I.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Love Songs
by Mina Loy

We might have coupled
in the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
where wine is spilled on promiscuous lips

We might have given to a butterfly
with the dirty  news
printed in blood on its wings.

Mina Loy was born in London December 27, 1882.
She is the author of Lunar Baedeker, artist and writer,
she died in Colorado in 1996.

Conundrum on the Dream

My dreams used to be the echoes of the days’ play
of my own, real and pure.
As the years grew the dream lost all its true source,
tainted by strange force.

The voices of faceless one from outland,
somber stories, a soulless actor, me in fantasy land,
jumbled. Immoral flash fiction. Horror stories
of the twisted past and now;

unknown skeleton under the bed,
the heart-twisting emotion and feelings,
so real. I wake in the wee-hour, yet anger free,
sense the eyes in the moon in the tree.

In my closed eyes the wave rushes over,
slowly drag me back to the red sea.
I thrash the hacker off,
delete the images with a huff,

wonder if it would be like the effort
of changing the constellation of stars.
Or, invite the one rude
into my virtual sitting room, might be crude?

*
If you believe your dream is the reflection of your
thoughts and feelings of your daily life, think again. There
are people who manipulate your dream. I have read the articles
about people who learn to read mind go farther and insert
images into mind while you sleep, to make you see it as if your
dream. It is a way of communication, they say. Who are they?
The technic is designed to help secret service workers, like FBI
agents and the likes of them, to solve the crime. But nowadays,
criminals use it to steal information from people.
Weird? Yes, but it is true.

(C) Byung A. Fallgren

Marshlands
by Emily Pauline Johnson

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim,

The pools low lying, dark with moss and mold,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold,

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and cvoozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the heaving night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows O’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapers creep
thick, gray and humid, while the marshes sleep. 

* Emily Pauline Johnson was born on March 10, 1861,
Canada West. She is the author of three collections of 
poetry. She died on March 9, 1913. 

 

Photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu

Butterfly Angst

Butterfly in the garden 
Has no interest in the nectar
Just holding onto the petals
Lest the summer will fade

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

photo by Margaret Fox—foxblue1973@gmail.com

 In the Smell of the Breakfast

 Scent of cooking seeps into the room,
tickles my conscience.
Little chore will do well
for the retreated soul.
I turn in my bed and drift back to…
a calm unconsciousness.
Strong odor snatches me back.
Burning!
Sound of scraping, scrap and scrap.
Let him correct it.
Let him correct all the mishaps he conjured,
trash them all, yours and mine,
let them turn into the due drops on the grass,
rise into the morning sunbeam, and
newly wed we will be.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Our Footprint
by Sam Doctors (samdoctors701@gmail.com)

Our footprint
grows beyond Gala’s 
ability to meet our demands.
We dip into the store of water,
we spread across the land
we foul the air with fire,
filling the air with detritus,
taking without thought
of seven generations,
or even the next,
so that others 
may in future have less and less
and the little or none.

Prayers of the Winter Trees

Donned in white prayer’s dress,
trees pause before the long pray,
as the morning walker admires

bright jewels on their heads.
What might they harbor in their
white coats?

A squirrel peeps out
from its tree home, like
a shivering child begging for coins.

Have you mailed the check yet?
The trees taunt low.
Holiday dinner ought to be in time.

Hurrying down the trail,
listen to them pray for
the winter creatures and all.

©Byung A. Fallgren