I’m the sunshine
In the rain,
Flower petals
Sprinkled over
Mud puddle,
Smile of the
Heartbroken,
With hope.

Another boy opened fire at the high school in Florida.  Despite our effort
to stop it, it happens more often than ever before. Homeschooling comes to
mind to keep our children safer.  Ultimately, that’s probably what most of parents will
do for their children.

By Byung A. Fallgren

I love his inclination
of remaining cool when
things go awry,
giving it a try.

On the flip side,
earphones are stuck
in his ears most of time,
cuts the conversation,
that’s when he’s not cool,
my tears create a little pool.

What can I do
to solve this dilemma?
I don’t want to take away
his joy of listening to the story,
I’d rather shout like the son Cory.

Or, he has to keep an ear open,
whether it be his left or right.
He says, “That’s quite alright.”

So anointed with compromise,
balance of yin and yang,
the jolt passes and mechanism of
our family-love runs smooth again.

By Byung A. Fallgren

Like estranged friend’s voice
she doesn’t like his choice
of remaining in silence
when they argue.

She thinks it’s like flower petals
sprinkled over mud puddle,
a precursor of separation
She wouldn’t want that in desperation.

On second thought,
better tactic is the silence
than having domestic violence.

If the silence is followed by
gentle discussion after hot steam
has escaped a bit,
it may lead to their
dream to be the eternal pair.

By Byung A. Fallgren

On the pages they sing
in many different notes:
intelectual,
straightforward,
ambiguous,
entertaining,
sarcastic,
the breezy and smug,
hypnotic with convoluted words,
Unbeknownst to ourselves,
we absorb silent voices
as our minds saunter round in
the forest of written words.
We chew and digest,
recognize divers quality,
embrace ones that resonate,
ones that help us mature in the way
rich soil does for sprouts,
hungry for more.

*
I remember what my daughter then 10-years old said in her writing
competition on diversity, sponsored by the state-wide-read newspaper:
“…when we don’t like diversity we don’t have music” which made her
win the competition.  Good to know that even young children don’t
fear the diverse crowd.

By Byung A. Fallgren

I’ve disabled “like” button
on my Home page, tossing
the yesterday’s encouragement
into the archive of memory.
Free from pressure, I fly;
I care no more about the number.
I stare at the blank spot where
the friendly faces sat before.
A lump formed in my throat,
tear welling.
I reactivate the button,
the precious number yet
a large group for my modesty
returned, brighten the screen,
and I smile at the sudden whim.
I care no more about producing
effective post.
Just write in my way and share.

By Byung A. Fallgren

It’s a long over-due attempt
we descend in gentle drops,
making the soft mud puddles,
with the idea of chemist,
with the spirit of alchemist,

trying to produce gems
from mud.  We become weary
yet we don’t easily fall back;
keep us from becoming slack.

We veer the course of the tradition,
turn into sleet with intense ambition.

In the distance,
thunder cackles, snorts.
We listen with patience
until we grasp
inspirational rhythms,
create algorithms.

© By Byung A. Fallgren

Wayfarer’s sprit
runs in our veins
as once we were.
Our days are pregnant
with perpetual issues,
we push and pull,
inspire one another.
We rise as beads of
purity, glee, navigating celestial beings,
our dreams.  We celebrate our eventual
descending, our destiny, for what we are.
We go back to the shore of our past,
where we overlooked the glitters,
long ago in spring haze,
search for them to no avail,
fret on the deceitful shore
mixing the gems in the pebbles,
tuck them into her bosom, lest
capricious waves steal them.
We go back  to the shore again until
we can reclaim what we lost,
surprised to see another gems
basking in the sun, camouflaged–
we take them home.

by Byung A. Fallgren

It creeps up on me as the judge grills.
I search in my heart for the right answer,
for having failed as a good daughter.
Being so far away, seeing her sporadically,
the pink-flowered Hanbok, she made
for me for the first day of my kindergarten,
the warmth of her hand that held mine,

in the deep ocean of memory,

I weep, wishing I could go back and

give her a hug.
What was born of the old selfishness?
Nothing, not a thing, except, gaining

some insight to see beyond the normal.
This dragon fire had not melt even
a little piece of the ice of the world pain,
merely flying ’round, singing the song
like a bird heard by few.

Let the salt water brim the eyes,
listening to her soothing voice,

and I learn to be reborn.

©Byung A. Fallgren

She left a kerchief
for the granddaughter,
the soft piece of love
with memories of childhood,
drooling nose, tears and all–
another gold
she can fold

into an angelic butterfly
carrying her beloved garden
on her soft wings
roses and begonia
and other memorabilia

to deliver them to
dejected souls
settles on the wall
reminding her of the undying love
with strength of problem-solve

We often thrive upon
the ancestral pedestal of love.

© Written by Byung A. Fallgren. Craftwork by Patti R. Smith.