The Hill

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The Hill

What shade of thoughts can sneak into
the ancient and reshape her? Blue or purple?
Neither can? She is a firm spring under
the soft bed; content as an owl in
the high tree of night.
She finds a tweak in her wardrobe
for seasons. She winks in the dress with
dandelion prints; dances in alfalfa-purple
bedsheets; loves romancing couple of garden
snakes in the tall grass; thrilled when the bunnies
chase the mice; be in awe when a buck with
grand antler gathers his does and forage
in the moonlight.
All these will be the past, when the hand of
bulldozer of city planner, smooths the land,
or, whittled away by Mother’s precarious hand.
Hide your trivial concern; she slips your note
under her pillow, glance at it only
in her dream of night.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Silence

Silence
by Babette Deutsch

Silence with you is like the faint delicious
Smile of a child asleep, in dreams unguessed.
Only the hinted wonder of its dreaming,
The soft, slow-breathing miracle of rest.
Silence with you is like a kind departure
From iron clangors and the engulfing crowd
Into wide and greenly barren meadow,
Under the bloom of some blue-blossomed cloud
Or like one held upon the sands at evening
When the drawn tide rolls out, and the mixed light
Of sea and sky enshrouds the far, wind-bellowed
Sails that move darkly on the edge of night.
*
Silence originally appeared in Banners
(George H. Doran Company, 1919.)
Babette Deutch was born September 22, 1895,
in New York City. She is the author of ten collections
of poetry, four novels, six volumes of children’s
literature. She died November 13, 1982.

Good news on the boring Sunday

I’ve received an acceptance letter from the editor at Terror House Magazine for
my poems: Lady in the Dark Stair Way;  Winter Solstice, guilt; Stupidity in the
Windy Evening. They will publish them February 21, 2021.
Thank you editor, Matt and the staff for taking the pieces.
*
Lady in the Dark Stair Way and Solstice, guilt are originally appeared 
on this site, before submitting to the revised version of the poems to
the Terror House Magazine. 

–Byung A. Fallgren

This January

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This January

Placid as the slow moving cow
with a large belly, in which a little calf
dreams of spring. Tantalizing with
the COVID vaccine yet to be avail
for the whole world.
Still, she is diligent,
shamble yet steady as
a dame with such a noble plan as
the inauguration of the new president.
We see her vigor in the drops
of melting boughs,
in the beam of the mountain 
in the white pullover.
She may falter yet keeps on going.
We hope for her bloom yet to come.

©Byung A. Fallgren  
 

Singing Juniper

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Singing Juniper

a robust juniper
in my yard
sings lullaby
with the hidden sparrows
gathered for the night

I’ve written this poem for my four-year old 
granddaughter. This is one of the poems 
I have sent to her email box which she’ll 
open when she can read–around seven.
One of the joys of getting old. 😉

–Byung A.

At the Twilight of New Year’s Eve

My beautiful picture

At the Twilight of New Year’s Eve

I keep looking back,
as if I have parted with an unfaithful friend,
forgetting something to say,
as if I have left home,
leaving my elderly mother alone.

I keep peeping into the window to my room,
tidy as the doll house in the toy store,
catching the shadow of a sullen ghost,

gibbers: sometimes, frozen lake turns
into a witch’s caldron,
when you 
quickly absorb shadows,

like the forest pond,
like the dragonfly’s eyes,
ripples even by the drop of  a little petal,
brood in the ice.

I nod, scoff, nod and scoff and nod.
Wish to keep the twilight in my room,
until I catch the resolution evasive,
sat it on my desk with super glue
for the new days.

©Byung A. Fallgren