At the Apple Orchard

We came from the city
to pick the apples, green, red and gold,
to fill our lungs with the scent of the fruits,
even the hidden worm-ridden scent 
is better than the city air;

we came to be surrounded by the atmosphere
of the shared goal--to be ripen, ripen only;
oh, that mature spirit!
wish to drown in it all day long, forever more.

We fill our baskets with
many hues and aromas,
but only one shared goal,
to take home;
to mix them with our daily lives,
to bake pies that bloom in our hearts. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

My two poems, Moaning of Moon and Unprecedented, flood have been
accepted for Fall printed issue of the Avocet, journal of Nature poetry.
Thank you, Charles and Vivian for accepting these pieces. 

Late August Morning

Touch of the wind lost 
the summer's heat;
older man's coolness,
yet the cotton leaves dance
in the reverie of yesterdays.

North wind, precursor 
of the snowman that
ignores the laughs of
the dancing leaves;
scheme for the October. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Maple of the Junipers, in my faulty eyes

Maple ensconces herself in the middle of 
the growth, of the junipers in the yard
by the house, rising above all the prickly needles.
her slender body, lush green leaves, bright in the sun.

Come, join us, the junipers had welcomed her, when,
as a seed, she fell from the air on a windy night.
frightened, wondering if she'd survive. survive she did.
flourishing in the cheers of the junipers.

Then, alas, I cut her off.
gazed at the junipers, who don't know how to say no.
Now, happy? I smile at them.

Sudden wails of junipers, only in my ears,
shivers; rebuke the human-centered behavior
that ruined the rare beauty.
I pick up the severed maple branch, set it on
the trunk, and watch it tumble down.

Ah, but the trunk is still there, cuddled 
in the bosom of the junipers, holding on
to the last hope, she will rise again. will she?
the thought lingers on, with desire.

©Byung A. Fallgren

  

August 
Helen hunt Jackson

Silence again. The glorious symphony 
Hath need of pause and interval of peace.
Some subtle signal bids all sweet sounds cease,
Save hum of insects' aimless industry. 
Pathetic summer seeks by blazonry
Of color to conceal her swift decrease. 
Weak subterfuge! Each mocking day of the fleece
A blossom and lay bare her poverty. 
Poor middle-aged summer! Vain this show!
Whole fields of golden rod cannot off set
One meadow with single violet;
And well the singing thrush and lily know,
Spite of all artifice which he regret
Can deck in splending guise, their time to go! 

Helen Hunt Jackson was born in Amherst, Massachusetts,
in 1830. She published five collections of poetry and was
posthumosly inducted into Colorado Women's Hall of Fame
in 1985. 

The moonlight
Yvor Winters

I waited on 
In the late autumn moonlight
A train droning out of thought--

The mind on moonlight
And on trains.

Blind as a thread of water
Stirring through a cold like dust,
Lonely beyond all silence

And humming this to children,
The nostalgic listeners in sleep,

Because no guardian 
Stirs stories through distance upon distance,
His eyes a web of sleep.

"The moonlight" appeared in Secession No. 7 (Winter 1924).
Yvor Winters, born October 17, 1900 in Chicago, was a poet,
critic and professor. He was the author of many books, including 
his collected poems (Swallow press, 1960, which won the 
Bolinger Prize. He died on January 25, 1968.

to Save your mind

When feels weary
close the door
to your mind
to keep out the harms.
run to the field
where the cows roam;
watch their peaceful life until
you can taste what they chew,
hear what they hear: perhaps,
buzzing bees 
collecting honey
or cicadas in the wind.

That's what i do 
when grownups turn into children,
mistake the guns with the toys.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Doe

On a warm evening, walking the dog
near the pasture, I saw an unusual event
unfold in the distance: 
a doe and fawn, chased by a coyote;
in an effort to keep up with
its mother, running for her life,
the fawn fell.
The coyote approached the injured fawn.
my dog, free from my grip, dashed to 
the predator, howling; the coyote fled. 
To examine the injured one, I got closer,
and it limped away to its mom
watching us from afar.
When the young buck with the limp leg,
excluded by his group,
the doe joined him walking in the night,
foraged together in the pasture or in my yard.
The doe and the buck with the crippled back leg
and lovely antlers; the nightly visitors,
now, enjoy midnight snack on
the leaves of my apple tree. The buck,
his antlers reaching for the moon, his mouth
to the apple; an art of nature.
As I watch them in the moonlight, in awe 
for her motherly love, tear wells in my eyes. 
How long? She doesn't care; just live in the
momentary joy.  But she knows instinctively 
that her care for her son in the season will pay off;
her son is well nourished and fat for the winter.
The night stealthily moves on, and they trot off
into the light of dawn. 

©Byung A. Fallgren  

 This piece was published in The Avocet, a Journal of Nature Poetry,
Summer--2022.  Thank you, Charles and Vivian for taking this poem. 

Stranger Things at the House

With her absence, supposedly will return in weeks,

I could not help but notice things pique my curiosity;

seen through the door ajar, the bow and arrow

laid across the bed. I'd rather not ask the son
about it, lest he got mad for snooping.
It could be the symbol of his or her fidelity
or even a little religious gesture; or maybe he is
preparing for a hunting trip, who knows.

While in the laundry room, items, like photos
in the frames, tucked in the corner, collecting dusts.

Don't they deserve the better place to be stored? But,
this time, too, I choose to remain silent,
thinking: little squabble, a religious act or just forgot
about them, and so forth.

For whatever it may be, I'd imagine for a healthy tree
than the withering flowers;

our lives are full of shades and lights;
like mountain and valley or rich and poor;
I'd think light and then add more hues.
 

©Byung A. Fallgren

i love you to the moon
 Chen Chen

not back, let's not come back, let's go by the speed of
queer zest & stay up
there & get ourselves a little
moon cottage (so pretty), then start a moon garden

with lots of moon vegies (so healthy), i mean 
i was already moon lighting
as an online monologist 
most weekends, so this is the immensely

logical next step, are you 
packing your bags yet, don't forget your 
sailor moon jean jackets while twirling in that lighter, 
queer moon gravity, let's love each other
(so good) on the moon, let's love
the moon
on the moon

Chen Chen is the author of When grow up I want to be a 
List of Further Possibilities (BOA Editions, 2017).