Photo by Andrea Ferrari (aferrari@stamry.edu.ar)
Perspective
When the Pandemic Brings a Hope (3)
Social Isolation, nothing new to me; yet
One of the effective rules to
Stop spreading COVID-19, and more.
On my trip to the post office,
I meet an x-neighbor and learn her daughter’s
Death two years ago.
I gawk, shocked; she was my daughter’s childhood friend.
“She had a brain cancer,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Now, I take care of her children.”
We continue on chatting. Then we hug,
Before parting, breaking the rule of
Keeping six-feet distance from each other
Not to spread the coronavirus–
We know we should not break the rule.
On my way back home, I stop by the warehouse,
Look for toilet paper, hand sanitizer, found none,
but a single pack of Baby Wipes.
I grab it.
Turning back, I drive along the countryside,
Inhale the cow-manure-tinted breeze,
Rustle of silk-skirt of the maid of Spring,
Her breath balmy.
On the path by the field, freshly plowed
And pulsates in anticipation,
A young mom carries, in her arms, her baby,
Two little girls and a dog skip along, carefree.
Somehow I know the wings of the pandemic
Will fall, soon.
And our lives will spring back.
©Byung A. Fallgren
When the Pandemic Brings a Hope (2)
When the Pandemic Brings a Hope
When the dark tendrils of
Coronavirus creeps ’round,
Choke ones weakened,
Drag away them ground,
Webbing, growing,
Weeds wild.
In the amid panic,
A forgotten friend clicks “Like”
On my post on Facebook,
Brings the ancient memory,
Like the lovely flower at the brook.
I send her message,
How she was.
“Getting old.” A smile-image tells all.
“Come on over for a tea,”
I offer, to begin with small.
“Remember the social isolation rule.”
In sad realization, I text her:
“When this is over let’s get together.”
“Sure thing.”
The old animosity, dead,
And one knows everything
Will be just fine. Friendship bounces anew
In the days of threatening.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Wrong Method
Wrong Method
He throws a brash word
To touch her wings of mind,
She tosses it away like rind,
He laughs at her,
She scorns,
He tramples amok in her garden
Of her brainchild,
She deletes his image beguiled,
He is the vanished word
In the page of life.
Wishes him for better luck
Where angels’ tear drops
Bloom for him to pluck.
*A man in my town used to suggest I divorce and marry him.
He is brash and scornful about me being a writer. I rejected
him, of course. And I wished him for better luck with other
woman who is angel-like for him. To curve what sounds
a harsh part, I added some fun rhymes to the poem.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Lady Plumber’s Song
Santa Clara Review, Santa Clara University‘s Magazine, has
accepted my poem Lady Plumber’s Song. It’ll be published
in Volume 107, Issue 2 of the Santa Clara Review in May.
Thank you, Editor Erika for choosing my poem.
–Byung A.
On the Same Hill
Talking River Review has accepted my poem “On the Same Hill.”
It will be published in the issue 48 of the Review. Thank you editors
at the Review for choosing my poems.
Talking River Review is the journal for the Lewis–Clark State College,
in Lewiston, Idaho. I’m exited to work with them in the days to come.
–Byung A. Fallgren
At the Blood Center
At the Blood Center
Millions of red petals of
Wondrous flower,
Stream down the little channel
Toward the reservoir,
Silent cry of
A child slipped off,
Mother’s arms to set free,
To help lift unknown
Slide down the wall of cliff.
Powerful wings of revival
For stranger,
Who
Will absorb
The part of me.
The only magic water ought to be
Shared, with even ugly sister-in law,
Over and over, for
We are the shadows and springs of all.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Weekly Avocet
Here is the link for The Weekly Avocet for this weekend.
guest post
Hydrangea Pruning
Vintage hydrangea inattention bent
Stressed reproducing multiple blossoms
Weeping with seeds for offspring
Relief would come with winter sleep.
Flower-heads are crumbled dust
Leaves have long since shred
The bush now a dormant skeleton
Ready for restorative operations.
I start to cut with caution.
Snap the white sapless stems
Remove age damaged stalks at the base
Unravel entangled branches.
I stand back to assess the essence
Observing natural growth patterns
Discarding superfluous extensions
Pruning just above healthy buds
A shorn skeleton now a sculpture
Stands ready for seasonal adornment
Fed with liquid gold compost
Mulched to ensure moisture retention.
The hydrangea would resist demise
But will excel with attention
Regrowth will burst exuberant
So too, will the sculpturing gardener.
Suzanne Williams – St. Michaels, MD – suzyww@gmail.com
Beneath the Snow…
Beneath the Snow Dream Pulsates
I remember the little girl
Who fed the wounded doe the pine nuts
Under this big pine tree, partially chard black
By the fire years before. Some of us the seeds
Had slipped through her fingers and lodged
Between the rocks, but a squirrel came and
Ate, except me hidden deep in the crevice.
Following spring, I saw a miracle:
A tiny sprout pushed out of the soil and
Grew. A spindly fella,
With soft green pine needles!
I watched him smirk, growing stronger.
Dormant in the soil, I keep my hopes up.
The little girl’s mom got her high school GED,
After failing the exam five times!
I’ve failed only one season.
That spring, the girl and her mom planted
A little tree near the spindly friend,
Making me sigh, with envy.
Beneath the snow,
I flex my muscle and keeps
My desire strong and high
As my ancestors, the regal pine trees,
To be a part of this mountain where
The little girl and her mom picnicked
On the grey moss-covered boulder. Where
The black pine trees stand meditate revival.
©Byung A. Fallgren
*This first appeared in The Avocet, Winter 2020.
Byung A. Fallgren 