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
Due drops
(Myra Viola Wilds)
Within the due drops in the morning,
Shake their little diamond heads,
Sparkling, flashing, ever moving,
From their silent little beds.
See the grass! Each blade is brightened,
Roots are strengthened by their stay;
Like the dew drops, let us scatter
Gems of love along the way.
*
Myra Viola Wilds was born in Kentucky.
She authored poetry collection of Thoughts of Idle Hours
(National Baptist Publishing Board, 1915).
Learning the fallen Dancing-leaves
Drop him off at the clinic
for the ancient devil,
when the early retreat funds
gather like some golden leaves
at the threshold,
swoosh, swoosh, coded message
of the chill wind,
of the stubborn pandemic,
of the November election and
the fate of the neighbor,
the separated family
who came as the illegal immigrant.
Wish it all be the banal worry, and I will
enjoy the scrumptious sun, with no blush,
even the fallen leaves
dance in the brisk wind.
©Byung A. Fallgren
photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu
Another Fear
In the video, ghostlike images fly
round in the dark room. Out from
the walls, hide under the child’s bed,
shoot to the ceiling and dive
into the pillow then back to the ceiling,
shimmering, staring down at the sleeping child.
The boy screams in his sleep.
He only sees the the shape,
his eyes, too soft to see it through,
his mind, too simple to get the truth.
Don’t fear the glitch or ghost, son, she whispers.
Specter can’t hurt you; only breathing ones do.
Grow like a pine tree in the winter storm.
Do not wander ’round the shady pond where
lily pads and frogs don’t appear
as they are supposed to be,
where the snakes mimic ripples.
©Byung A. Fallgren
squirrel collects seeds
in the backyard pumpkin patch
three shattered pumpkins
in front of the clinic
fallen leaves frolic with the breeze
on the still green lawn
perched on the porch rail
witch cackles at Jack-lantern
ghost dances in the tree
burning forest showers ashes
mimicking snowflakes in autumn
owl calls for good magic
window box mums pray
trees hold onto the red leaves
still hopeful autumn
©Byung A. Fallgren
Although healing has taken over a month, the vein surgery is successful. I still have to wear the compression pantyhose for a few weeks more, which takes a painstaking effort. It is so tight that putting it on takes me almost ten minutes. Thanks to the advanced medical technology and doctors, the bulged leg veins and the pains are almost gone!
–Byung A.
Pumpkin, yet to be carved
was me when in the first grade, waiting
for the teacher paints my face for the stage,
heart blooming, wondering,
trepidation,
was me at twenty, when on the airplane,
listening to the silent cry from
deep inside me, an exploring soldier,
bright-eyed,
was me at middle-age, fighting the war
of parental affairs, finance, wading
across the leech infested swamp, only to get
to another one, tenacity,
now, all is in the autumn pumpkin: seeds ripen,
crisp flesh, set aside for the next season, respite
in orange glow, wonder how my friends are doing,
occasional flare of reverie yet letting it all free.
©Byung A. Fallgren
(Here’s another spooky story.)
Sometime ago, my daughter-in-law sent me some videos
with unusual images caught in the surveillance camera installed
at her house. Some photos show ghostlike images flying round
in the dark rooms—they don’t show in the lighted rooms. She and
her friends think it is Jin or Gene. My husband and I think it could be
a video glitch or electric abnormality.
My husband has a night vision camera. He said, one night
he looked through the lens and saw the same ghostlike images
flying around in and outside
my house. He believes that there are electric magnetic field and electricity
are in the air all around us. Is he right? I believe so. What do you think?
What do you think it is that the ghostlike one flies in the dark rooms?
–Byung A.
Faces of Autumn
We reflect myriad colors of faces
we have perceived in the passing season
like a broken mirror does in each
pieces as our leaves turn many hues of
red, gold…
with full of emotion:
disturbed by the voices of stones
those ignore very essence of law of
Nature, being, living, which echoes in
the dew drops of night,
in our red leaves.
She rides in the September sunbeams,
in the smile of brave ones. We cheer the
broken hearts, despaired, which mirrors
in the scent of Mother,
in our golden leaves,
fallen, gather beneath it the ambitious ones,
enrich the ancient beds,
as the young forest-creatures grow and
fatten for the coming winter, as
the trees recite the story of the autumn night.
*
This first appeared in the issue of The Avocet, Fall-2020.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 