Bond
by Juana de Ibarbourou
I grew
Only for you.
Cut the acacia boughs that demand
Only destruction at your hand!
My bosom blew
Only for you.
Uproot me–in its natal hour
My only doubted were it candle or flower.
My waters blue
Flow for you.
Drink me–never crystal knows
So pure a tide as in this channel flows.
Wings I knew
Only for you.
Pursue me! (Quivering firefly,
Veil your flame from every eye!)
third booster shot
of Covid gave me reaction
protection fever
sun is soft and shiny
but no birds are singing
winter morning
when he heard the judge’s
verdict, the teen’s leg turned rubbery
not guilty
Sage Grous mates
unaware of their loss of vast habitat
Mother Nature weeps
waking in the morning
toys on the dashboard greet me
childhood moment still alive
©Byung A. Fallgren
photo by Howard Gershkowitz–the gersh@lox.net
venturing youth
waterfall glides down the cliff
daring unknown
©Byung A. Fallgren
Decoding the Fall Colors
Enjoying the Fall leaves, colorful,
I hear Sun’s whisper: remember, too,
decode my message in the Fall colors.
Of all the colors of sun’s message,
the pale yellow warns of
the vanishing rain forest;
the shy lavenders, the polluted oceans and
endangered marine lives;
the gray one, plethora of CO2 in the air,
the green house gas, the holes in the ozone layer
in the atmosphere, the sharp ultraviolet ray,
health problems of animals and us;
little white flowers, melting artic ice,
harming the ecosystem;
the beige tan, the contaminated water source,
river and the lake;
the orange leaves, ailing of the Earth;
the bold red, the embarrassed sun,
like the one in the thick smog.
O the rose in the pink, our waking, hope;
plan, work, to save our Mother Earth.
With beam, the sun waves the flag.
©Byung A. Fallgren
*This piece first appeared in The Avocet, Fall 2021, printed issue.
Thank you, Charles, Vivian, Valerie, for accepting the poem.
Who’s there in the Wee Hour? first appears in The Weekly Avocet, #466.
Thank you editors at the journal for choosing this piece.
To read it and other poems, please click the link below.
The Weekly Avocet – #466[2066]
Jean Moody–flmoody@hotmail.com
Self Reflection
When everything goes wrong
self-esteem also goes rock bottom;
something in the deep flashes green.
©Byung A. Fallgren
My poem Morning Sun and the Lake appears in The Weekly Avocet #465.
Thank you, Charles, Vivian, and Valerie for choosing the piece. To read it and
other poems, please click on the link below.
The Weekly Avocet – #465[1989]
Praise the Cereal of the Kitchen god
Mom, buried in insomnia-hill,
slips into
the comma-like-rose-garden at the dawn’s vil,
why bother to wake,
once in a blue occasion,
let the children help themselves,
with cereal and milk,
before going to school;
it’s full of vitamins and minerals;
let the grandpa wave them on the bus;
ah, no problem.
She can even write a poem
in the half-asleep-dazed state in the perfume of rose,
the prayer for the children’s safety,
trusting God,
while Fruit loops and Cheerios sing
in the mouths of the saints;
love song for her.
©Byung A. Fallgren
I wrote this poem during the time I took care of my grand kids for a month;
With insomnia, sometimes I fell asleep at dawn and had hard time to
get up to make breakfast, so I let the children eat cereal and milk before going to school,
and let grandpa wave them on the bus. I had never been more grateful to the cereals
than that time. 😊
Running Water
by Alfon Sina Storn
Yes, I move, I live, I wander astray
water running, intermingle, over the sands.
I know the passionate pleasure of motion;
I taste the forests; I touch strange land.
Yes, I move–perhaps I’m seeking
storms, suns, dawns, a place to hide.
What are you doing here, pale and polished–
you, the stone in the path of the tide?
This poem appeared June 1925 issue of Poetry. Ms. Storn was an
Argentina poet and teacher. She authors many collections of verse,
including Mundo de siete Pozos (Editorial Tor, 1926).
She died on 10-25-1938.
Warnings
Skiers skip going down the slope;
travelers postpone their plan;
as the weather man warns of the snowstorm.
Hostile warning: a chicken tells the cows
that the dog belittles them;
they stiffen and guard against the dog;
their invisible ears hear
what the physical ones don’t.
What should the dog do,
bite the chicken for slandering?
He or she is too gentle to do that;
waits for the slow cows to learn the truth,
believing the truth always come out.
Meanwhile, the dog endures his or her image dying
in the miasma;
even after the air clears by the sweet breeze,
the stench lingers like dross.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 