The View on the Side of the Road

Silver sky and the land join in the sea of smog;
submerged, the wind turbines wave their arms,
like drowning octopuses.

Drying lake gives her way to the green invaders,
like old soldiers with no weapons.
The smoke will dwindle with the winter’s arrival;
dried lake will begin to refill
as the irrigation stops
in October.

Nature replenishes what she has lost,
but she cannot revive the perished creatures;
polar bears, beavers, and others may live only
in the children’s story books.
In the smoke, the wind turbines point fingers,
as we panic at the foot of the crumbling hills,
fumbling on the plans on the surface of the sea.

©Byung A Fallgren

Photo by Suzanne Cottrell, Easter Painted turtles 

Silent Language of the Water and Air

We listen to the silent language of 
the water and air around us,
they change moment by moment,
like the river’s flow, with the tailored wisdom
just for each of us, learning the eyes of sky. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

At the Son’s House

While their mom visiting her mom
overseas for a month,
take care of the kids.
The old spinster sis put it, Enjoy the grandkids.
Smile. First a few days are okay, doing the chores,
like cooking, doing the laundry, etc.

Nightly prowler out the window; strong smell pricks
the warm night air; white-stripped creature hidden;
what scared it? The smell steals my sleep;
I read a book.

Wind outside rattles the window; a cry of a child.
It’s wee hour and wide-eyed; dawn begins to knock
at the window; time to make breakfast, feed the kids,
and wave them on the bus.
I sit at the kitchen table and massage the temples;
many days are still ahead.
Email the sis: No husband and no kids. Why do you weep?

©Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Patricia Hope, Oak Ridge, TN–thetwohopes@aol.com

Naked Pink Lady

in the rush
to show off
lovely blossoms
just forgot
the leaves

Byung A Fallgren

How I didn’t fall a Victim of the Man, (his memory)

I stand still, bewildered,
as my mom hugs me. The same hug she gave me
a long ago seem weird, like a bad witch’s grin.
I let my eyes follow her to her car and vanishes.
In my room, I stare blankly at the computer, pondering
about our a month-long part. Free, at last, from her
yelling; do your work, study, clean your mess.
I run my hand over the arm with ever existing black&blue;
they’ll disappear with her absence, only to return with her back.
Hey, join me, my crony, the missing boy, coxes.
Where are you?
you know the basement, the dark one, the kind man’s.
I dig in my memory of the chat.
My smile mingles with the smoke from my mouth; two elves in the dark outland.

Later, while packing, I saw her at my room door,
startling me. I knew it. she shakes her head. Son, don’t.
Her eyes like those of
a girl’s whose beloved pet is dying.
I left my backpack in the closet, muttering in my mind,
Until someday.

Since when, I don’t know, I hadn’t seen the bruise on my arm;
her voice, rustling bamboos.
That someday came only in my bad dream.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Phyllis Castelli–phylliscastelli@gmail.com

sing for the weekend
expecting something exciting thing
just another Friday ritual

Byung A. Fallgren

Promise 
by Georgia Duglas Johnson

Through the moil and gloom they have issued

To the steps of the up winding hill,
Where the sweet, dulcet pips of tomorrow
In their preluding rhapsodies trill.

With a thud comes a stir in the bosom,
As these stick on the sight from afar,
Through a break of cloud’s coiling shadow
The gleam of a bright morning star!

Promise appeared in Bronze: A Book of Verses (BJ Brimmer
Company, 1922). Ms. Johnson was born in Atlanta , Georgia, in the late
19th Century. Her poetry collections include Bronze: A Book of Verses,
The Heart of a Woman, and others. She died in 1966.

September Pumpkin Flower

pumpkin flower on the fence worries
lest it might produce a raw progeny
for October festival–Trick-or-Treat    

 

No Reason to Hurry Home?

Life flow as little creek slow for
the semi-retiree; on the way home, stop by
the water, to see how the beavers’ doing,
no mud, no beaver, just a memory of
the hot summer evening, swim with
the children, and the stranger,

his bald head above the water,
like a hollow, pale pumpkin float
in the twilight…
stop at the bridge,
see the swallows’ nests, as usual all empty,
worry, lest they’ll be endangered species.
Head home, no reason to hurry, yet

feel like something waiting,
like a bruised desire or the one of a child.
Home, in the old box,
the ol’ unfinished project frowns;
mother in the grave. Urges, now’s the time
to blow the life in it. Or else. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Decoding the Fall Colors will be published 
in The Avocet, Fall printed issue. Thank you editors 
at the journal for accepting this piece.

The Weekly Avocet #456 is here for your reading enjoyment. 
Please, click the link below to download. 
The Weekly Avocet – #456[1662]