To Meet the Unborn Love
I remember her plea
to live closer, so
she can give her hand
when I need.
Her words then, the petals in the wind;
fallen stars in the deep sea,
lost in the dark sea.
Her words now, the blades,
dancing in my heart;
I writhe on the shards.
The blade and petals whisper:
you flew so far away
on the night of blizzard;
to find the hope
on the other side,
to meet the unborn love;
the essence of your being.
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Mother-in-law,
the most complex seeds of the plant;
Daughter-in-law must choose; just right one;
one raw pick, she’ll tend the garden shabby,
with sweat vain;
haste pick, faces the days of
the red string of the feline. Or
see the end of the season.
Wise pick, the garden gets sunny day;
with some days of sleet.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Gift from the grandma
Her paint smocks on the clothesline
reminds her of her grandma;
she always loved the colorful bedsheets,
esp. ones with pink and yellow combination;
she said, they not only did cuddle me,
spring coziness, but lead me to the dream of
the life, with my late husband,
bitter and sweet; rough and gentle.
When her grandma passed on she gathered
all her bedsheets, turned them to the smocks;
lovely paint smocks for her.
In the smocks she is confident;
learn the art of her grandma’s good life;
her paint brush dances on the canvas;
she flies higher.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Ways of killing the innocent passerby
I was in the Walmart, dragging
my afternoon-tired leg
through the isle when passed by a middle aged
woman gabbing loudly to her husband.
We happened to see one another in
the next isle and the next, her voice,
still reciting the cacophonic alien poem.
Stole a glance at the woman;
her face; the surface of moon seen from
the long distance, with many craters.
Her leery eyes scraped me, her alien poem
turned to clear English, though harsh:
…tomb…she’s dying for me, this pork rind…
Woops! forgive my wince for the painful leg;
I smiled to her back; thanked the spacious store;
nook I could disappear into; a pang in the heart;
was she self-conscious of her face;
all it takes to redeem it, though,
soft voice and smile;
She must’ve left it on the moon
of her consciousness, like I did in my leg pain.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Hello everyone, finally I’ve returned home from the exhausting trip and
get back to the regular writing schedule. 😊 Visiting people can be
joyous if not dealing with downside. But I suppose, life cannot be always sweet.
Painting by Annie Kuhn
Monster and the Daughter
In the girl’s colorful dresses hung
from the cloth-line,
can you see the monster with
a red eye, flanked by its cronies
whisper to the girl?
Her mom does; it resembles the one
in her nightmare;
she grabs it but it escapes through
between her fingers;
she tries again and again;
her hand and soul ravel;
petals in the hales;
she pulls her daughter closer;
the girl runs off,
thinks her mom is the monster thrusts her
in the dark maze.
Mom moans, hopes she’d get out of the shell;
after all, she’s herself.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Windy Morning Irrigation Pivot
At the end of the long arm,
his water gun game show vs.
her monster-breath;
the wings of the shower fly free;
shoots the water to the sun.
It howls; the audiance of bull-fight;
shoots the water to the wind; with
one bright watchful eye;
no missed spots at the edge;
learn the cowboy.
His love for the cows, swaddled in
the law of Nature; no fault love.
Pink clouds; poem of the morning sun
dance on the dews on the green blades;
foraging deer; on the cowboy hat
in the wind. The wings of the shower
fly free in the wind; the cowboy.
©Byung A. Fallgren
(I’m traveling where Internet connection is often difficult.
In two weeks I’ll be back home.)
Photo by Susan K. Hagen
Morning sun and the lake
they
whisper to each other
every morning
of their tears
all night long
©Byung A. Fallgren
Our Land
by Langston Hughes
We should have a land of sun,
Of gorgeous sun,
And a land of fragrant water
Where the twilight is a soft bandana handkerchief
Of rose and gold,
And not this land
Where life is cold.
We should have a land of these,
Of tall thick trees,
Bowed down with chattering parrots
Brilliant as the day,
And not this land where birds are gray.
Ah, we should have a land of joy,
Of love and joy and wine and song,
And not this land where joy is wrong.
*Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902 in
Jopline Missouri. A powerful figure in the Harlem
Renaissance, he is the author of several poetry collections,
prose, , and plays, including The Weary Blues (Alfred A. Knopf
1926), Shakeepeare in Harlem (Alfred A. Knopf 1942), and others.
He died on May 22, 1967 , in New York City.
Photo by David Oscarson–doscarson@yahoo.com
What do you see in the above image, except the lovely flowers?
I see the cupped hands of the publishers to catch the
blockbuster book manuscript tossed out by a frustrated writer. Or,
hum, I see but I let your imagination at it.
Some publishers search for gems that touch the heart,
with subtle scents lingering round.
Some works transcend it all;
make them perspire, lost in the profound sea of emotions, yet
unsure to send the writer a glass of champagne;
let it simmer in hopes it withers; it never does;
it always hits the heart with the same feelings.
They keep it in-progress, till long past due;
when the piece finds a home elsewhere, they sigh in grief.
😁–Byung A.
Pink Lilacs
Dried limbs can’t sing
the touch of spring–
unexpected cease;
the dark time of the Nature;
no alive one wants that.
The only solace;
reminisce of yesteryears;
the big yellow butterfly’s caterpillars,
the pleasing aromas and bumble bees;
the foes and friends.
Then now, the surprise
at the foot;
the new saplings nudge and
wave to the sun.
How long will they take, to bloom again;
no one knows.
©Byung A. Fallgren
