Illusion

Wile typing at dawn, I see, in my peripheral
vision, something stirs in the dark doorway
and drag itself toward my desk. Charlie?
I peer under my desk; seeing nothing, I sigh;
the cat's been gone for years now.

On the back porch, I gaze at the sky;
a head of a dragone looms over the cloud
and stares at me before vanishing.
It looks so real; my heart is still jumping.

I saw, in the store, my neighbor. when
I'm about to greet her, she shoots a leery
eyes and turn. What did I do? I want to
poke her head, but I just stared. all that 
morning, the mad eyes stuck in my mind,
like a millions of maggots.

Later that afternoon, she sat on the porch
alone, drinking coffee. I sauntered over.
 She says, "Come, sit."
Grabbing a chair, I studdy her smile and
noticed a swallon sty in her eye smearing her smile.
I laugh; the illusional day!
We chat for a while, as the ladies in gray.

© Byung A. Fallgren  

The Empty House

There used to be a sign "Welcome"
outside of the front door, now gone;
the weathered garage door, with a 
broken-glass hole, through which 
a lonely ghost to stare at the familiar sign,
propped outside the door to the neighbor;
the ghost wonders, if no one comes, will
they also move away? 

A counselor would say, "Reach out."
A wise one said, "Treat others as you would
like them do for you." If you want them to visite 
you, do it yourself first. It should be mutual,
to be more going and enjoyable.  

--Byung A. Fallgren

December Night

dazzling, leaping cheers,
with Christmas lights;

in the sky, the stars,
celestial decoration;

the crescent moon
observes the Earth
with poetic eyes. 

© Byung A. Fallgren

Winter Backyard

The Bull snake, in the hole beneath 
the junipers's feet, thinks of the lady who
gestured to him on a spring day,
to go down the slope before her;
he moved aside, startled, to let her go 
down the slope; she insisted he go first;
oh, such a civility of her;
would it live even in the winter?

The rabbites empty burrow under
the porch, after the neighbor's dog
chased them away to the bog;

the Russian olive tree that spies the neighbor,
with a bough hanging over the fence;

now, they all watch the snowflakes in silence;
how harmonious they look in a glance. 

© Byung A. Fallgren

At the Vein Specialist's Office

"Do you do those things?" the nurse asked.
"Do what?" I said.
"Nevermind," she said. "Just respect us."

Case of  rude patients problem. I smiled. "Respecting
the respectable people is my name."
"Put on only undie, wear the gown, and lie on the table." her
voice was windy. Case of rude nurse. I sighed for the missing Please. 
But quickly dismissed it; I was more concerned of the dreadful
pain I was about to face.

I recalled the receptionist's caution: "Wear a thick diaper. the pain
will shock you." So I did as instructed. 
The pain. The thick diaper. Goosebumps shooting out on
my varicose-veined leg. I took a deep breath. After removing
the problemetic vein, I will be free of pain. 

A young doctor in his white gown came in. And stood close
to my table and stared at me in the gown and the senior diaper,
the poor leg waiting for surgery. 
"Oh, sooo cute," he said. "I want to hug and writhe on the bed.
She's just like my mom." His eyes lingered some more.
I removed the facial mask, and told him, "I know I am incredible 
shrunken old lady. Please start and get it over with the surgery."

"Oh, sure," he said. "I was thinking how the vein should be 
removed; cut at the low end, and then the upper thigh one.
Before that, this and that should be done."
I shuddered. 

What seemed hours later, the surgery was over. 
I was genuinly thankful for his ardent effort. 
"Thanks, doc. The pain is less thatn I feared."

"Good to hear it," he said. And quickly left the room.
Quicker than I wanted him to be. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

AI Bird in the Morning

Like an old lady's hair,
the sky is gray,
even the birds are hiding.
When the insomniac writhes
in the bed with winter gloom,
a sudden bird sings in the room,
lifting the mood.
It sings again.
No bird, but a broken alarm,
chrirp, chirp. such a preety voice,
as if to say, Happy Thanksgiving!

© Byung A. Fallgren

She Wishes to be in the Wall

When teenager, she flew round the univerce,
charmed by the stars that fill her heart with
colorful dreams with bright patterns;
when twenties, she moved to the city where
her beloved dream, the fragile fledging nests;
she would not leave her side, even the
handsome lover has no power to keep her;
when thirties, and beyond, she is alone, but
enjoys to be with her dream, the true love;
sixties come around, to remind her to be
unshaken, with no tears, which only makes
her to love the furrows and loose fleshes,
within and without;
pushing seventy, she knows the only place she
would go to is in the wall, the silent and lofty wall,
to be with the other lonly, yet proud souls. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Horseshoe Creek

The dirt road stretched miles,
nearly two hours of bumpy ride.
what draws us there again and again?

The sitting black boulders on the hillside,
the twitching ears, slow-moving maws,
and the grayed cow-pies, the signs of life
of the boulders. The ghostly dwellings,
undying ladies of the Silver Mine in its hay days,
 
the tattered white curtains of the broken windows,
waving in the winds, welcome the passersby;
as the old school bell rings of silent call
for the shouting and laughing children.
a little yellow butterfly suddenly appears
flutters away ahead,
as the distant mountain of forests smiles,
like grandpa at the Senior Living Place.

Swoosh of clammers of the pines, and
cluck-cluck of wild turkeys sauntering near
by the creek that sings the deep water and
the hidden school of fish; simple, fresh feature
of the place, whirling deep sense of comfort;
the generous Mother Nature's rec. center;
we toss a line, have a picnic, and so on,
and leave, and come again, and again. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Cat, Fence, and Autumn

wild grape vine
on the fence
caught 
on fire
in crimson

runaway cat
living
in the shrubs
ready 
to go home

© Byung A. Fallgren

In the Grieving More

Handsome, lost his wife at 69, began 
his days sitting in his chair,
staring at the pair
of his slippers,
as if they were her on the first day he met,

dazed by her beauty. Dark spots appeared 
on his face, mushrooms of sorrow,
that would last unknown tomorrow;
deep wrinkles guided the invisible 
tears toward the corners of the mouth. When

the nephew called him, he'd lift his head, eyes 
gazing blankly toward him. Nephew offered,
"Let's go for a stroll." But he preferred 
dropping his head in silence. "Go fishing then."
His head remained as Thinking Man.

He was glued to the chair most of the days.
One day he freed himself from the chair
and asked, "Is my woman still at Computer Repair?"
Nephew sighed. "No. She's visiting her mom and dad."
"When she's coming home?"

"She's taking it forever, uncle."
"Tell her to hurry.
"don't scurry."
Every day the same conversation he would repeat,
eat, and sleep as he used to,

until one day: he lay on the dandelions in his lawn,
watched the clouds; he appeared to have no more pain.
The couple's urns have lain
side by side above the mantle, like they used to sit
on the deck, side by side. 

© Byung A. Fallgren