Windy Morning Irrigation Pivot

At the end of the long arm,
his water gun game show vs.
her monster-breath;
the wings of the shower fly free;
shoots the water to the sun.
It howls; the audiance of bull-fight;
shoots the water to the wind; with
one bright watchful eye;
no missed spots at the edge;
learn the cowboy.
His love for the cows, swaddled in
the law of Nature; no fault love.
Pink clouds; poem of the morning sun
dance on the dews on the green blades;
foraging deer; on the cowboy hat
in the wind. The wings of the shower
fly free in the wind; the cowboy.

©Byung A. Fallgren

(I’m traveling where Internet connection is often difficult.
In two weeks I’ll be back home.)

Photo by Susan K. Hagen

Morning sun and the lake

they
whisper to each other
every morning
of their tears
all night long

©Byung A. Fallgren

Our Land
by Langston Hughes

We should have a land of sun,
Of gorgeous sun,
And a land of fragrant water
Where the twilight is a soft bandana handkerchief
Of rose and gold,
And not this land
Where life is cold.
We should have a land of these,
Of tall thick trees,
Bowed down with chattering parrots
Brilliant as the day,
And not this land where birds are gray.

Ah, we should have a land of joy,
Of love and joy and wine and song,
And not this land where joy is wrong.

*Langston Hughes was born February 1, 1902 in
Jopline    Missouri. A powerful figure in the Harlem
Renaissance, he is the author of several poetry collections,
prose, , and plays, including The Weary Blues (Alfred A. Knopf
1926), Shakeepeare in Harlem (Alfred A. Knopf 1942), and others.
He died on May 22, 1967 , in New York City.

Photo by David Oscarson–doscarson@yahoo.com

What do you see in the above image, except the lovely flowers?
I see the cupped hands of the publishers to catch the
blockbuster book manuscript tossed out  by a frustrated writer. Or,
hum, I see but I let your imagination at it.

Some publishers search for gems that touch the heart,
with subtle scents lingering round.
Some works transcend it all;
make them perspire, lost in the profound sea of emotions, yet
unsure to send the writer a glass of champagne;
let it simmer in hopes it withers; it never does;
it always hits the heart with the same feelings.
They keep it in-progress, till long past due;
when the piece finds a home elsewhere, they sigh in grief.

😁–Byung A.

Pink Lilacs

Dried limbs don’t sing of spring–
unexpected cease,
the dark time of the Nature,
no alive one wants that.

Reminisce of yesteryears.
the big yellow butterfly’s caterpillars,
the pleasing aromas and bumble bees,
the foes and friends.
Then now, the surprise
at the foot,
the new saplings nudge and
wave to the sun.
How long will they take, to bloom again?
no one knows.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Knowledge
Louise Bogan

Now that I Know
how passion warms little
of flesh in the mold,
and treasure is brittle,

I’ll lie there and learn
how, over there ground,
trees make a long shadow
and a light sound.

Louis Bogan was born in Livermore Falls, Main
in1897. She’s the author of several books of
prose and poetry. The recipient of a 1968
fellowship from the National Endowment for
the arts. She died in 1970. 

Like bird, like human

On the twilight settled fence
the robin calls for her baby, Oriok, oriok,
I mimic her baby, Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi  
She glances at me on the back porch
then bursts in angry tone, Godoriko-goorooki. 
I say again, Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi. 
Like a mad dame, she kicks her feet and
took a flight toward the dark trees, calling, Oriok– 

I laugh then wince; something pricks in my heart;
her memory is still fresh; the owl that took her
first brood. Her angry voice; the mother’s,
whose son hasn’t come home after school till ten;
her head, full of gun-fire and bloody image of him.
She stares out the window at the darkened street,
her head pounds; the big wave crushes
against the wall of the cliff, over and over.

Past ten, her son slips in through the door,
unscathed, but whiff of pot smell;
the mad waves subside in her heart,
still, fire in her eyes.
Just a little joint with my friend is all,
he squeaks.
You are grounded, she yells.
In the dark trees, the robin and her baby squabble;
Oriok, oriok; Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi.   
I text my son; Goodnight, goodnight, you all.  

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem What about Others like me has been accepted to publish 
in The Avocet, Summer 2021, printed issue. Thank you editors at
the journal for choosing the piece. 

Here is The Weekly Avocet #444. To read it click the link below.

The Weekly Avocet – #444[1141]
This link will hide after a week.

–Byung A.

. 
Photo by Susan K Hagen–shagen@bscedu

What do you want to do with all the collections?

I collect anything ripples my mind;
rocks, to pry the journey;
words, to sail the sea unknown;
money, to breathe.

Some rocks end up being the garden border,
making the steps pause and think;
money, windchimes,
catch the winds blue and pink;
filler of the mud puddle,
the path high and low;
words, the builder of the fantasy, near & far–

moan of the mountain with pain or glee;
whispers of the night fog;
grunts of the earth at dawn;
echoes of the stars’ song.

©Byung A. Fallgren    

Photo by Kaya Kotzen–kkwisdomwoman@gmail.com

Tree

some of us
speak more
after
we
are perished

©Byung A. Fallgren