We Dream the Dream Dreaming Us
                                by Brian Tierney

You say we should wait--
It must have snowed all night or season,

we don't seem to know
and there isn't a clock.

I say then 

we should 

wait, I
trust you.

The page is blank outside.
we haven't heard in days.
There is not enough time for a whole new plot.

Inside, the wax dilates.
We sit in the dark
and wait.

and are separate,
but looking at each other--

Brian Tierney is the author of Rise and Float (Milkweed Edition, 2022).
A former Stegner Fellow and the recipient of the 2018 George Bogin
memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America. He lives in 
California, teaches poetry at the writing salon.  

For the Spring Sun
walleye 
in the river
plays 
jumping & jumping
for the spring sun

Spring Grass
in the helmet
of morning dew
the blade
prepare
for the seasonal allergy

Countryside sentiment
afternoon ride
countryside where
pronghorns roaming
how wonderful to share
with them this moment

wire fence
by the road
weatherworn
but decorated with
an old cowboy boot

©Byung A Fallgren

Five Haikus

calves on the pasture
taking naps by their mom's side
prime time for the cows

upturned soil of field 
gets the nod of nearby oil pumps
a rich cowboy's dream

gas stations everywhere 
displays the high price of fuel
games of useless war

a new bouquet 
at the tombstone in the cemetery
a raven on the bench

guitar in the case
sees the clumsy old fingers
spring reverie 

©Byung A Fallgren


 
 

At the Spring Dawn
Angelina Weld Grinke

I watched the dawn come,
     Watched the spring dawn come,
And the red sun shouldered his way up
    Through the gray, through the blue,
Through the lilac mists.
The quiet of it! The goodness of it!
     And one bird awoke, sang, whirred
A blur moving black against the sun,
     Sang again--a far off.
And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,

Stretched to my fingertips,
     And I laughed.
Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,

     At the dawn,
         At the spring dawn.

(At the Spring dawn appeared in Negro Poets and their
poems in 1923.) Angelina Grinke, born in Boston February 27,
1880, was a journalist and poet. Her work was collected in
several reviews and anthologies. She died October 1958.
 

Voices of the Night Air

The night is still as the house
in the painting,
but many sounds eco
in the ears; voices of wind;
like the silent cry of the stars.

Absent voices of sane dream,
like the snow field in the calm winter nights.
Or, is it still there but the ears?

Why the vain search?
Empty the ears,
sing a song for the new door in the mist.
A sudden voice: who? who?

©Byung A. Fallgren

Some Rich Person

is me with some pennies in safe.

A dying rich man offered me a gold,
if I divorce and remarry after he's 
in heaven, which I stepped aside and 
let it pass, for I am rich with some pennies
in safe, with my hubby who ends every
spoken words with a chuckle, and pukes 
at a party.

A distant sis says she'd share her fortune,
if I 'pologized her and ask.
Sorry blooms in my garden all season,
but ask for more than a penny doesn't.

You can throw a square line 
and choke me,
but it would be vain;
better toss a little silver
you don't need;
for me to find love and all. 

©Byung A. Fallgren 

from the roof
melting snow drips
grateful mind

in the lawn
pumpkin seeds sprout
for spring only

grandpa's favorite
sitting in the back yard chair
sun bask, naked

baby rabbit hides
behind the purple iris
assuring sun

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Exodus
by Effie Lee Newsome

Rank fennel and broom
Grown wanly beside
The cottage and room
We once occupied,
But sold for the snows!

The dahoon berry weeps in blood,
I know, 
Watched by crow--
I've seen both grow
In those weird waters of Dixie!

Exodus appeared in the Crisis XXIX, no. 3 (January 1925.)
Effie Newsome, born January 19, 1885, in Philadelphia, 
was a poet from the Harlem Renaissance movement.
She's the author of Gladiola Garden, Poems for Second 
Grade Readers, published many poems in the Crisis,
and other leading journals from the Harlem Renaissance. 
She died in 1979.  

Climate
by Meghann Plunkett

It felt familiar, your mouth moving
     up my side like gale warning. My
        arm calico-mammatus clouds--
Blood brought to the surface.
Now I understand my childhood 
home. Releasing shingle after shingle
   into brutal air. Our front door
torn and flat in the yard. Violent 
gusts whipping through the marshes--
   the back of your hand.
       of what I have unlearned 
this was the hardest.
One sandpiper singing 
still, desire does not have to leave you ruined.

Ms. Plunkett is the winner of the Missouri Reviews Jeffery
E. Smith Editors' Prize and Third Coast Poetry prize.
She works as a television writer on various Trip the Lights
and Shondaland production.