To Meet the Unborn Love

Outlook-Shadows of

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 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 grandma

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

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.

Monster and the Daughter

IMG_3743 (2)
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

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.)

Our Land

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.

What in the piece

David Oscarson #3
Photo by David Oscarson–

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

IMG_0687 copy

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