The Warden & the Coyote
   from the conversation between my parents
   I eavesdropped as a child

My father loved his tiny office, his new world:

the old wooden desk,

the rickety chair; his new job as a warden;

low pay but better than the old job, police officer.

The solitariness, the pine trees, trees;
the meditating woods; the silence;
they mind their own business; don't bother 
to know what the new warden is like;
if he's square but sane and righteous guy.

One afternoon, returning to his office from
the routine work, checking round the woods, 
my father found a coyote in the chair,
with a smug smile. It resembled to the sly one
he'd seen at the old police station.
He winced at the dark memory; filthy 
as the frothy sea waves.

What are you doing here? He frowned.

Just checking on you. Coyote narrowed an eye,
still smiling. In this remote place, 
you could get killed and no one would know.

Ha. Why you care? Father stepped on the cigarette butt.
I know why you are here. He took a bill out of 
his pants pocket and toss it to the animal.

Go buy yourself a little bite and don't come back!

The coyote grabbed the crumpled bill, the warden's 
precious daily allowance, and jeered,
see you later, warden.

My father's eyes trailed the skunk between the trees.
In his mind, image of him drifted away in the red wind.
He shook his head; not this time.

(Note: in this poem, the coyote is used as a symbol of self-inviting, 
sly man who used his tactic to take people's money.)



©Byung A. Fallgren 

The Man whose Voice Has been Taken from His Throat
 Naomi Shihab Nye--1952

remain all supple hands and gesture

skin of langue 
fusing its finest seam

in fluent light
with a raised finger

dance of lips
each sentence complete

he speaks to the shadow
of leaves

strung tissue paper
snipped into delicate flags

on which side of the conversation
did anyone begin?

wearing two skins
the brilliant question mark of Mexico
stands on its head
like an answer

At the Arts & Crafts store before Christmas

hustle and bustle 
of the people
to buy the ornaments
as if wishing
the magic tree

colorful balls
crammed in the clear bag
look at the shoppers,
wondering if rainbow spirit 
is finally blooming

at the artificial flowers' shelves
blooming four seasons 
arranged neat and gorgeous
with absence of scents
like empty beauty pageant 


©Byung A. Fallgren 

 

Moment of the Sun in the Shadow

When we don't see the negative
appearance of within,
the reason for being narsistic
or be wild goer,
while the cells shrink.
The reflection in the mirror or
still water points to 

what we miss to see;
how we correct the wrong;
the mind, the real us;
where the dark lake turns clear to mirror
the blue sky and the clouds; where 
the snake can be morphed and born a sainthood;
or the moment of the sun in the shadow;
if only we could grab it safe,
the gay youth, full of dreams,
would've grown to reach the peak. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Matthew Shepard, who was gay, died in October 1998
after two men beat him and left him tied to a fence 
on a plot of land outside Laramie, where he was 
attending the University of Wyoming.  Today,
a portrait honoring the life of Matthew Shepard is
on display at the Washinton D.C. 
 

 

Winter Blue Remedy Song

As a remedy we tend to 
think of the ones shivering
in the cold, in the land near and far,

while the senile ones on the top
play the game of war.

Another winter blues, the one you can see
             in the dying plants;
             in the tears of a mother;
             in the shudder of the moon; remedy

yet to be found;
hidden in the bottom of
the conscience, gem in the rock;
             wish it points to the light. 


©Byung A. Fallgren

Night

Winter night
his snore keeps her reflect
on the past blue;

the refugee
the rain gutter recites 
the war poem;

lighted window
the night rain drums
in November;

artic dream
polar bear dreams of
old ice home.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Sister, one of the two fingers

Her eyes see things others don't
when it comes to her bro.
when she catches his post on the Facebook
about his past surgery as if recent one
and his worry on the hospital bill, 
her senses go purple alert; halt her impulse
to send him a check, give her mom a call
to make sure if he'd do that.
Mom says it must be a hacker.
she'd call her brother for sure.

Mom's heart blooms: she knew
two fingers are better than one,
like a nation needs ally. 

--Byung A. 

 

Keeping her safe

As the sea rise with the global warm
The villages grow skyward? 
Tall and wind-ridden? but away

From iron grab of angry ocean.
The vulnerable woman we neglected.
Memory of yester years, dreaming

To go back to her
Of yester years. Is it too late?
Why not keep her safe now?

*

unbelieving or selfishness
everywhere signs of global warming
but smokestacks still emit CO2


©Byung A. Fallgren



 
   

in some Assuming

once been a fiction writer, some think 
her poems are lies, with horror and thrill and all.
"It must be some fiction trying to..." they'd jeer.

She smiles then shudder at the imprudence
of it, then with pity, jokes, "Probably you are
right." then shrugs. Nevertheless,

she examines her poetry; sees it as true and 
hurried as the impatient dame herself.
only needs to morph more.

"Assume all you might," she whispers them, "but
know that, in doing so, you lose your empathy
and quality of word; what a waste. 

"That's how we lost each other, long ago,
on the green hill, on a balmy, dazed day.
what follows: years of tossing at night in doubt."


(c) Byung A. Fallgren


 

The Mother and Daughter, like lunar eclipse

The daughter who is born writer
doesn't write and tells her mom to write,
like the mom used to tell her. Now,
her mom has become the daughter's youthhood.
She's the daughter is the mom is the daughter...
the mom would do it for the daughter,
like the daughter should've done it for the mom;

they are two in one.
Who would've guessed it?
Not the Earth, nor the moon. 


(c) Byung A. Fallgren