Jean Moody–flmoody@hotmail.com

Self Reflection

When everything goes wrong
self-esteem also goes rock bottom;
something in the deep flashes green.

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Morning Sun and the Lake appears in The Weekly Avocet #465. 
Thank you, Charles, Vivian, and Valerie for choosing the piece. To read it and 
other poems, please click on the link below.

The Weekly Avocet – #465[1989]

Praise the Cereal of the Kitchen god

Mom, buried in insomnia-hill,
slips into
the comma-like-rose-garden at the dawn’s vil,

why bother to wake,
once in a blue occasion,
let the children help themselves,
with cereal and milk,
before going to school;
it’s full of vitamins and minerals;

let the grandpa wave them on the bus;
ah, no problem.
She can even write a poem
in the half-asleep-dazed state in the perfume of rose,
the prayer for the children’s safety,
trusting God,

while Fruit loops and Cheerios sing
in the mouths of the saints;
love song for her.

©Byung A. Fallgren

I wrote this poem during the time I took care of my grand kids for a month;
With insomnia, sometimes I fell asleep at dawn and had hard time to
get up to make breakfast, so I let the children eat cereal and milk before going to school,
and let grandpa wave them on the bus. I had never been more grateful to the cereals
than that time. 😊

Running Water
by Alfon Sina Storn

Yes, I move, I live, I wander astray
   water running, intermingle, over the sands.
I know the passionate pleasure of motion;
   I taste the forests; I touch strange land.

Yes, I move–perhaps I’m seeking
   storms, suns, dawns, a place to hide.
What are you doing here, pale and polished–
   you, the stone in the path of the tide?

This poem appeared June 1925 issue of Poetry. Ms. Storn was an 
Argentina poet and teacher. She authors many collections of verse, 
including Mundo de siete Pozos (Editorial Tor, 1926).
She died on 10-25-1938. 
 

Warnings

Skiers skip going down the slope;
travelers postpone their plan;
as the weather man warns of the snowstorm.

Hostile warning: a chicken tells the cows
that the dog belittles them;

they stiffen and guard against the dog;
their invisible ears hear
what the physical ones don’t.

What should the dog do,
bite the chicken for slandering?
He or she is too gentle to do that;
waits for the slow cows to learn the truth,
believing the truth always come out.

Meanwhile, the dog endures his or her image dying
in the miasma;
even after the air clears by the sweet breeze,
the stench lingers like dross.

©Byung A. Fallgren

One Night
by Juan Ramon Jimenez

The ancient spiders with a flatten spread
Their misty marvels through
the withered flowers.
The windows, by the moonlight
pierced, wound shed
their trembling garlands pale
across the bowers.

The balconies looked over to the south;
the night was one immortal and serene;
From field afar the newborn spring times’ mouth
wafted a breath of sweetness o’er the scene.

How silent! Grief had hushed its spectral moan
Among the shadowy roses of the sward;
Love was a fable–in shadow & overthrow
Trooped back in my rides from oblivion’s ward.

The garden’s voice was all–empires had died–
The azure stars in languor having known
the sorrows all the outcries provide,
With silver crowned me there, remote and lone.

One night appeared in Hispanic Anthology (G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1920).
Juan Ramon Jimenez was a Spanish poet awarded the
Nobel Prize for Literature in 1956. His many works include
La Soledad Sonora (Revista de Archivos, 1911) among others.
He died on May 29, 1958.

night of the first frost
home invading boxelder bugs’
death in sudden chill

game of the first frost
garden mums lost their bright smiles
at sudden cold night

bygone hot summer
mirrored in November sky 
search for the missing child

©Byung A. Fallgren

My two poems Woodpecker and Singing Juniper are published in 
the Weekly Avocet-#463. Thank you Editors at the journal for choosing
the pieces. To read the Weekly Avocet, please click on the link below.
This link will hide after a week.

The Weekly Avocet – #463[1859]

Byung A.

dwindling frog song
as weather begins to cool
banish the Covid virus 

*

I bet he will write again

why do I invest my precious hour
writing poems that lead me to dead end?
the man with MFA rants.
I will never write again. 
He is just one of us many poets
struggling with bills to pay.
How long can he survive not holding the pen?
I bet he will write again soon,
longs to see, at the tip of the pen,
the lovely fairy that delivers the pieces
to some generous editors who hate rejections;
she even surprises him with near miss prize.
Pleasure of sharing my word with the world
is too much to trash,
he will shout in the wee hour, long live the poetry!    

©Byung A. Fallgren

Sound of One October Afternoon

In the backyard, when read a book,
with the warm sun by my side,
myriad sounds tease my ears.

Sound of apple in the tree ripening,
its aroma, green yet sweet in the eyes;
at the children on the scooters the dog barks;
a flock of doves’ coo, flashing the patterns
in the near sky, flying artists;
the lone bumble bee groans,
hovering over the withered blooms, grumbling,
where do all the others go?

A stealth approach, silent yet loud,
in my inner ear as the time:
two brothers, with the slender and delicate
antlers, bucks!
their curious eyes on me,
what’s that lady on the chair doing?

I smile, a long smile, until they turn and
moon, their white moons, and trot off.
I brush off and get up, grateful for
the blissful moment, untainted
by the somber world bruised.
Embraces me silence,
etches in my mind a note. I miss you.

©Byung A. Fallgren