Photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu

Butterfly Angst

Butterfly in the garden 
Has no interest in the nectar
Just holding onto the petals
Lest the summer will fade

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

photo by Margaret Fox—foxblue1973@gmail.com

 In the Smell of the Breakfast

 Scent of cooking seeps into the room,
tickles my conscience.
Little chore will do well
for the retreated soul.
I turn in my bed and drift back to…
a calm unconsciousness.
Strong odor snatches me back.
Burning!
Sound of scraping, scrap and scrap.
Let him correct it.
Let him correct all the mishaps he conjured,
trash them all, yours and mine,
let them turn into the due drops on the grass,
rise into the morning sunbeam, and
newly wed we will be.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Our Footprint
by Sam Doctors (samdoctors701@gmail.com)

Our footprint
grows beyond Gala’s 
ability to meet our demands.
We dip into the store of water,
we spread across the land
we foul the air with fire,
filling the air with detritus,
taking without thought
of seven generations,
or even the next,
so that others 
may in future have less and less
and the little or none.

Prayers of the Winter Trees

Donned in white prayer’s dress,
trees pause before the long pray,
as the morning walker admires

bright jewels on their heads.
What might they harbor in their
white coats?

A squirrel peeps out
from its tree home, like
a shivering child begging for coins.

Have you mailed the check yet?
The trees taunt low.
Holiday dinner ought to be in time.

Hurrying down the trail,
listen to them pray for
the winter creatures and all.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Due drops
(Myra Viola Wilds)

Within the due drops in the morning,
Shake their little diamond heads,
Sparkling, flashing, ever moving,
      From their silent little beds.

See the grass! Each blade is brightened,
Roots are strengthened by their stay;
Like the dew drops, let us scatter
     Gems of love along the way.

*

Myra Viola Wilds was born in Kentucky.
She authored poetry collection of Thoughts of Idle Hours
(National Baptist Publishing Board, 1915).

Learning the fallen Dancing-leaves

Drop him off at the clinic
for the ancient devil,

when the early retreat funds
gather like some golden leaves

at the threshold,
swoosh, swoosh, coded message

of the chill wind,
of the stubborn pandemic,

of the November election and
the fate of the neighbor,

the separated family
who came as the illegal immigrant.   

Wish it all be the banal worry, and I will
enjoy the scrumptious sun, with no blush, 

even the fallen leaves
dance in the brisk wind.

©Byung A. Fallgren  

 

photo by Susan K. Hagen–shagen@bsc.edu

Another Fear

In the video, ghostlike images fly
round in the dark room. Out from
the walls, hide under the child’s bed,
shoot to the ceiling and dive
into the pillow then back to the ceiling,
shimmering, staring down at the sleeping child.
The boy screams in his sleep.
He only sees the the shape,
his eyes, too soft to see it through,
his mind, too simple to get the truth.
Don’t fear the glitch or ghost, son, she whispers.
Specter can’t hurt you; only breathing ones do.

Grow like a pine tree in the winter storm.
Do not wander ’round the shady pond where
lily pads and frogs don’t appear
as they are supposed to be,
where the snakes mimic ripples.

©Byung  A. Fallgren

squirrel collects seeds
in the backyard pumpkin patch
three shattered pumpkins

in front of the clinic
fallen leaves frolic with the breeze
on the still green lawn

perched on the porch rail
witch cackles at Jack-lantern
ghost dances in the tree

burning forest showers ashes
mimicking snowflakes in autumn
owl calls for good magic

window box mums pray
trees hold onto the red leaves
still hopeful autumn

©Byung A. Fallgren

Pumpkin, yet to be carved

was me when in the first grade, waiting
for the teacher paints my face for the stage,
heart blooming, wondering,
trepidation,

was me at twenty, when on the airplane,
listening to the silent cry from
deep inside me, an exploring soldier,
bright-eyed,

was me at middle-age, fighting the war
of parental affairs, finance, wading
across the leech infested swamp, only to get
to another one, tenacity,

now, all is in the autumn pumpkin: seeds ripen,
crisp flesh, set aside for the next season, respite
in orange glow, wonder how my friends are doing,
occasional flare of reverie yet letting it all free.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Faces of Autumn

We reflect myriad colors of faces
we have perceived in the passing season
like a broken mirror does in each
pieces as our leaves turn many hues of
red, gold…
with full of emotion:

disturbed by the voices of stones
those ignore very essence of law of
Nature, being, living, which echoes in

the dew drops of night,
in our red leaves.

She rides in the September sunbeams,
in the smile of brave ones. We cheer the
broken hearts, despaired, which mirrors

in the scent of Mother,
in our golden leaves,

fallen, gather beneath it the ambitious ones,
enrich the ancient beds,
as the young forest-creatures grow and
fatten for the coming winter, as
the trees recite the story of the autumn night.

*
This first appeared in the issue of The Avocet, Fall-2020.

© Byung A. Fallgren