white dogwood, by Pat Hope (thetwohope@aol.com)

Dogwood fairies

three fairies
on the branch
dance
for the fallen souls
in the harsh wind

©Byung A. Fallgren

In the Days of Reform

It seemed it never occurred to him
this could end everything of him,
he might have to go back, if allowed,
with odd luck.
He will lose the limbs yet intact, caged.
Insanity, cruelty, is not abnormal
to the likes of him,
it has been lurking in the narrow crack,
deep within, smoldering,
to step on the neck of others.
What hole in the system
have they overlooked to see
him, his kind, fit for the job?
Perpetrating over and over,
abusing power, unjust,
is this real?
Why are we helpless,
fearing when it will happen again,
lamenting,
ashamed for not undoing  the wrong,
tired perpetually?
Change! we shout, marching,
smile, as we go.
*

*Yes, you guessed it. I wrote this poem after the man died
in the conflict with the police officer. Then the protest
swept the nation.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Particular Moment

Like the little kid on the cross walk
avoids the moment of getting hit
by a dozing driver,
a calf prances across the road,
escaping the moment of
getting hit by the car.
The moment of life and death vanishes
with the sigh and the heart beat skipped.
Her calf by her side,
the cow throws an annoyed look
at the driver momentary absent mind,
reminding of the concern of
the moment.
Like a tiny grain of each sand
make up the whole beach,
a little sprout grows to a tree,
a second builds to a moment memorable:
a thorn or sweet scented rose.

© Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Pat Hope (thetwohope@aol.com)

Hope

even the bird
pause
to listen
to the leaves’ whisper
hopeful spring-heartbeat

* When writing about tried and true subject as hope, which can be
boring and trite, I try to make it as if original. Or, add some
entertaining  quality to it.

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Summer Forest will be published in
The Avocet, Summer 2020 issue.
Thank you, Editor Charles, for choosing my poem.

–Byung A.

Mystery of the bag

The lake view, yellow and purple
Little flowers’ silent whisper,
The sunny pine-hill hums,
The bag hanging from the tree
Holds the stroller imaginative:

A SUV pulls up at the picnic table,
Smell of barbecue,
Loud music, laughters,
Even the tree branches dance
To the cheery mood.
A man hangs a plastic bag
On the tree.
“A gift for you,” with a grin he says.

When quiet again, the tree seems to wonder,
What is hanging from its branch.
The translucent bag reveals it a bit–
It’s something like…had been
In the gut of the man or the stars.
The tree stiffens in confusion,

Ill humor disrespects the beauty
Of the Nature.
If trees can think—
O but they might feel in a way we
Don’t understand—It would think,

The man must be an alien,
No human can be that rude
To our Mother Nature.
Gift from the alien—
A Hazmat suit, necessary to
Make it clear then.

 

©Byung A. Fallgren

The ghosts of the plane trees
by Andrea Ferrari (aferrari@stmari.edu.ar)

tree stumps line the street on both sides
disjointed lopsided limbs lie
felled out as from a man that still stands
in body trunk silence observing its carnage
in pieces of a puzzle now impossible

cars that need more street
side indifferent

didn’t hear the grind spray of
sawdust in spurts or each thump
as it grunted on dry grass

but at night their ghosts rise
thin translucent holographic
towards a dark heaven

ghosts arms upwards in neon white
transparent leaves in innocent
carbon dioxide shine

couldn’t hear if roots murmured growth
or were whispering of soil silence
when machines came and removed stumps