Poetry

She Wishes to be in the Wall

~ Byungafallgren ~ 5 Comments 

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

~ Byungafallgren ~ 4 Comments 
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

In the Grieving More

~ Byungafallgren ~ Leave a comment 
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






Presumption

~ Byungafallgren ~ 4 Comments 
Presumption

We, oldies, look out the window quite often;
sometimes, our neighbors catch ourselves, and
we wave to each other. 

We heard the other couple arguing:
"So, you like the flatbellied old bee?"
"Like her flat belly is all."

"Let us divorce,
so you can marry the
flat-bellied woman."

The next day the arguing continued, and
the couple left home in seperate cars.
Are they going to get a divorce? 

After a while, he returnedalone and 
sat hunched on the porch. We thought 
she wouldn't be back soon--maybe, never.

"He needs some company,"
He was about to visit the man
when his wife returned.

Later that day, the couple showed up
at our door, all smily. In her arms are 
a couple of white puppies.

"Would you like one?" 
We both grabbed one of the puppies.
"Oh, isn't he cute?"  

© Byung A. Fallgren

He was not my father, only then

~ Byungafallgren ~ 3 Comments 
He was not my father, only then

His balmy eyes with a spring smile were
my father, whom i smiled at when i was a baby;
his sunny cheer on the first day of
my kindergarten was the seed of love, encouragement,
that empowered me throughout my life.

My father, the only father i've had, until one day,
my playful digging in the deep unearthed a piece
of shock that rattled my soul. my volcanic heart
could not bury in the dune of past.
i thought it was the end.
i listened to: whose love weighs more,
the one who saved you from the deep river
and nurtured you, or the one who discarded you
like a wad of flesh? The answer led me back to
the only father i knew.

© Byung A. Fallgren

At the Fair

~ Byungafallgren ~ 4 Comments 
At the Fair 

After browsing around with the beating August sun,
walking into the shady building with the cool air from
the fans is a sudden lift. The hot skin seemed to sigh of
relief, as the eyes dotting around the particular exhibitions:
homemade cookies and cakes, many flavored popcorns,
exotic clothes, and the coats made of fur and tails.
The little shop was full of fluffy garments, quiet as the
dead wild things. I touched the fur jacket, soft and silent.
Let my eyes linger on the tails hung on a rack. They seemed
wagging a little like they used to do as a fox, racoon, or other
tails would do with their friends. Only now, they cannot 
do more. Hope they had a good life before. Hope they were
all ready to return to the bosom of Mother Earth, before the
hunters intervene. My eyes linger on them, wishing to get one
as a keepsake. I turned to leave; for some reason, 
I want the fur to remain at the shop with the owner. 

© Byung A. Fallgren