Hey there my Friends,
My sincere applogies, for not posting for a while. 
I've been on a trip and lost internet connection.
Here I am today, and try to get back on the normal schedule. 

Longing to hear their Music,

It is a June evening,
the last light of the twilight long gone,
without the usual giving
of their little present of the day's music.
What's happening?
wondering mind searches in the grass,
there's no finding,
not even a little dead wing.
The image of the man with a tank on his back
flashes, spraying. 

Insects are an important member
of a healthy ecosystem, with no food,
birds are dying;
with no birds, trees lost one of their ways 
of spreading 
the seeds, etc..

Like the olden days , how about burning
some sagebrushes to repel the mosquitoes?
a grandma implores, bring 
back the night music band--Crickets & Frogs. 

© Byung A. Fallgren

 

My poems, Morning Wher I Live, Pink Vace, Pink Lilacs, Spring Tree Song are published in this issue. Thank you, Charles, Vivian, for taking the pieces.

She Settled there to be with Her Mother's Eternal Place

The old friend waits for me outside of the door
to her apartment, at the end of the long, dingy hall.
In recognition of her morphed figure, I smile.
"Come on in," she says.
Her beaming face lightenes up the place; yet,
her room, conforming to the rest of the place; dim;
is gray every senior's favorite color?
Gray hair; gray emotion.
Red mood is a taboo; a villain, the cause
of insomnia and heart failure.

I'm doing better than the shape I am in," she quips. 
I nod to be nice; stealing a glance of her pot belly and
missshaped eye lids;
for which she blames the recent Parkinson's.

I humor the subject: "Do you live here all alone?"
"Uh-huh." We both laugh. 
"I like a poodle," she says. "But I can't take care of it."
We continue on chattering; me, informing of 
my writing life; her, about the neighbor and 
the weekly card game, etc.

"My son is supposed to pick me up," she says.
"I am going to watch the ball game in the city."
"Your son moved to the city and you stay in this little town?"
She nods, matter fact.
I nod; her family's root is in this town and so this 
is their resting place; so will hers to be with her mother.
Something stirrs in my heart; melancholic;
her alonness at the somber place, waiting...until...
she a leaf in the wind?

Ah, just enjoy; this is the part of our life; like that. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

On the Same Hill

We Pursue
The same dream,
Complying with the laws,
Purple and yellow
On the same hill.

I remember 
How I got here,
Just as others do;
Some are here by the wind;
Desperate waves,
Baffling the concerned.

We avoid 
making more tears;
Find the right solution,
To put everything 
In order and
Embracing all. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

This poem first appeared in Talking River Review
Issue 48, Spring 2020.
 

Spring Birds' Song

Within the pink world,
the sweet smell and cozy;
he leans to her, yawns, and closes his eyes.
She nudges; don't be so lazy, dear,
hawk's eyes are a magnet to us. 
Ah, he murmurs, have faith in the blossoms,
while their magic lasts; like the lone house,
stands unscathed in the ruins of the twister.
I'll keep an eye open for you;
flowers and magic are whims of wind;
my love is the root of an oak tree. 

This poem first appeared in The Avocet, A Journal of Nature Poetry,
Spring issue, 2025. 
Thank you, Vivian and Charles for taking this poem. 
--Byung A. Fallgren

The Things I Love
Scottie McKenzie Frasier

A butterfly dancing in the sunlight,
A Bird singing to his mate,
The Whispering Pines, 
The restless sea,
The gigantic mountains,
A stately tree,
The rain upon the roof,
The sun at early dawn,
A boy with a rod and hook,
The babble of a shady brook,
A woman with a smiling babe,
A man whose eyes are kind and wise,
Youth that is eager and unafraid--
When all is said, I do love best,
And where there's kindness, peace, and rest.

Scottie Frasier, born on September 7, 1884,
in Alabama, was a poet, editor, and lecturer.
She authored several poetry collections. She died
on November 21, 1964.   

The Swinging Wicket Sings

the sum of the past sounds:
laughing children, screams of the couple;
victims and survivors;

the barking poodle and her pups;
the past echoes, after they are gone,
except for the uncle and the mud. 

© Byung A. Fallgren 

Spring Night
Sara Teasdale 

The park is filled with night and fog,
   The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
   Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
   Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights light sunken swords,
   Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be 
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
Oh, beauty, are you not enough?

Why am I crying after love
With youth, a singing voice and eyes
To take earth's wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,
I for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,
I for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
Oh, beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?

Sara Teasdale, born on August 8, 1884, in St. Louis, is the author 
of several poetry collections, won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and 
the Poetry Society of America's Prize. She died on January 29, 1933.   


    

Gray Morning Light

the gray light 
of the morning
let it 
touch you
with a healing hand

© Byung A. Fallgren

What Insomnia Conjures

Ongoing sleep disorders
pluck the memories;
dilutes judgments.
the email from the publisher smashes my head:
“Although your book is written deftly and engagingly,
we can’t accept your book because
it has already been published elsewhere.”

Alas, I’ve forgotten about the poetry collection that
I had sent to the publisher six months before,
and self-published it at Amazon.

“If you have a manuscript that has not yet been published,
I want to see it,” she says.
O, yes, I will. I hurry to pick up poems from the old pile;
it takes time; editing; proofreading, etc.

Try to forget the unlucky collection; despite its beauty,
it is destined to be buried in a dump, unless…
I’ll pick it up, in my bosom, give it a warm bath, and
dress it in wonderful words before sending it to
a contest judge? Or, else.

©Byung A. Fallgren