They argue like they breath.
Just because the light is there
doesn't mean the door to her room 
is open.
shock from the hot bulb that
knocks him down to the hard wood.
Slowly recover senses.

In evenings, it happens again;
her patience, limited. 

Burn-wound;
regret; exhaustion;
no word heals it.

a drop of morning dew; her tear
before she left; encouragement;
he rises;
but for how long? 

©Byung A. Fallgren

There
Robert Mezey

It is deep summer. Far out
at sea, the young squalls darken
and roll, plunging northward,
threatening everything. I see
the Atlantic moving in slow
com templative furry
against the rocks, the beaten
headlands, and the towns sunk deep
in a blind northern light. Here,
far land, in the mountains
of Mexico, it is raining
hard, battering the soft mountains
of flowers. I am sullen, dumb,
ungovernable. I taste myself
and taste those winds, uprisings
of salt and ice, of great trees
brought down, of houses and cries
lost in the storm; and what breaks
on that black shore breaks in me.

Robert Mezey was born In Philadelphia in 1935.
He enrolled at the University of Iowa and
completed his bachelor of arts degree.

Evening

You dream, sweat, 
and bloom; and leave fruits behind or
nothing at all.

You let out a big sigh,
amazed by the bareness within,
despite the wealth;
abundance is a matter of past.

Passing wind tolerable;
evening pensive;
morning sun seem more profound 

and beautiful.

©Byung A. Fallgren

At the sunflower Field

The farmer
charged you $15
for picking some flowers.

You, smart one, picked more than 
the flowers: the songs, smiles of 
the jovial gathering of the strangers.

In the sea of the giant blossoms,
no broken hearts of seagulls;
you can only smell the scent
of the waves;
and the day ebbs.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Great within Sabby

Jumbled clothes;
rocks on the beach;
depends on how well matched
in hues, shapes, tastes,
shabby can turn great. 

–Byung A. Fallgren

In the Moaning of Moon

Stealthily, CO2 level rises everyday,

so does the greenhouse effect, and more.

Earth, like elderly woman pants.

sweats, feverish.

Trees breathe in CO2, as the girl coughs.
She watches the moon, worrying
for her dog suffering from skin dieses;

She wants to know why the dog's 
condition worsens despite all the care.

You must use sun-block lotion, she says
to her pet. The moon moans. The girl and
the dog don't know why the moon is sad,
but the Earth knows;
she shivers in fear of what would happen
if more forests disappear;
if factories emit more CO2,
as if the leaves of our senses are falling
in the wind. Moon kisses on the trees,
the leaves that wouldn't fall, lest CO2 level
creeps up when they are gone; Haning on
to the trees till the next spring;
till the new leaves appear; new vigor.

©Byung A. Fallgren

July

Two big days:
his birthday and Daughter's 
wedding anniversary; two road trips,
and the half of the year gone;
like the daylilies' bloom.

Boiling heat,
frog on the lily pad meditates;
as the thunder growls 
in the dark clouds, with no drops;
rains of the man on the street. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Witching Hour

A squirrel on the road,
veer it, hit the guardrail;
in the rearview, see it
scurry away; sigh.

A squirrel on the handrail,
watches me watch it;
what is it thinking,
the day's stunt?

©Byung A. Fallgren

Wee Hour

A tiny voice:
"At the grand daughter's 
high school graduation,
face the aggressive in-law,
just relax and enjoy the happy day."

 

The Old

Don't like the past works,
but find in them a tiny grain of gold
that enhanced the soul?

Study the new with heightened eyes
and tongue; late bloomed or not;
old is gold. 

©Byung A. Fallgren