Lovely Deadly Poppies, by Rita M. Yager
(yagojohn@aol.com)

Poppies

don’t
be afraid of me
just call me
a friend worried
for your imprudence

©Byung A. Fallgren

Mrs. F and the Bird’s Mind

The old lady buys a new bike and keeps it
in the shed. Weeks later, she finds
her red-and-blue darling covered with
bird poop, accusing her, “See what happenes
when you buy the stuff you don’t use?”
Her mouth drawn in thin line
she glares at the noisy bird nest at the edge of
the ceiling above the bike.
The baby wrens now silent, sensed the terror.
In her sizzling mind, her hubby grins.
“Like him, like the little sh*ts!” She grabs
an old fishing pole and, like a mad cat, swings
the stick to pull the straw hanging from the nest,
“Let me see you, little things!”
Mommy wren, with worm in her beak, shrieks,
startling Mrs. F falls
on her butt amid the bird poop.
Clutching her aching back, she struggles on her feet,
fights her temptation to yank the straw,
lest the nest with the baby birds fall.
She pictures the terrified little ones in the nest,
their little hearts pounding in the tiny, fuzzy chest.
She’s never before seen closer baby birds in the nest,
her curiosity, fueled by anger,
she pulls the straw a bit more forward to see them,
but the nest doesn’t budge.
Outside, the mommy wren squawks, shrill.
Mrs. F crawls out of the shed.
A week later, the babies and mommy wren,
in the tree outside her window, chirp in glee,
as if to tell her, “Thank you.”
Mrs. F laughs, her eyes brimming.
The birds fly away, except one.
“Go on,” Mrs. F tells it. “Join your siblings now.”
The chick gives her an enigmatic look and joins them
fly to the day moon winks. Mrs. F stares
at the empty nest in the box in her room, pondering.
She embraces the empty-nest syndrome for a little while.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

white dogwood, by Pat Hope (thetwohope@aol.com)

Dogwood fairies

three fairies
on the branch
dance
for the fallen souls
in the harsh wind

©Byung A. Fallgren

In the Days of Reform

It seemed it never occurred to him
this could end everything of him,
he might have to go back, if allowed,
with odd luck.
He will lose the limbs yet intact, caged.
Insanity, cruelty, is not abnormal
to the likes of him,
it has been lurking in the narrow crack,
deep within, smoldering,
to step on the neck of others.
What hole in the system
have they overlooked to see
him, his kind, fit for the job?
Perpetrating over and over,
abusing power, unjust,
is this real?
Why are we helpless,
fearing when it will happen again,
lamenting,
ashamed for not undoing  the wrong,
tired perpetually?
Change! we shout, marching,
smile, as we go.
*

*Yes, you guessed it. I wrote this poem after the man died
in the conflict with the police officer. Then the protest
swept the nation.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Particular Moment

Like the little kid on the cross walk
avoids the moment of getting hit
by a dozing driver,
a calf prances across the road,
escaping the moment of
getting hit by the car.
The moment of life and death vanishes
with the sigh and the heart beat skipped.
Her calf by her side,
the cow throws an annoyed look
at the driver momentary absent mind,
reminding of the concern of
the moment.
Like a tiny grain of each sand
make up the whole beach,
a little sprout grows to a tree,
a second builds to a moment memorable:
a thorn or sweet scented rose.

© Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Pat Hope (thetwohope@aol.com)

Hope

even the bird
pause
to listen
to the leaves’ whisper
hopeful spring-heartbeat

* When writing about tried and true subject as hope, which can be
boring and trite, I try to make it as if original. Or, add some
entertaining  quality to it.

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Summer Forest will be published in
The Avocet, Summer 2020 issue.
Thank you, Editor Charles, for choosing my poem.

–Byung A.

Mystery of the bag

The lake view, yellow and purple
Little flowers’ silent whisper,
The sunny pine-hill hums,
The bag hanging from the tree
Holds the stroller imaginative:

A SUV pulls up at the picnic table,
Smell of barbecue,
Loud music, laughters,
Even the tree branches dance
To the cheery mood.
A man hangs a plastic bag
On the tree.
“A gift for you,” with a grin he says.

When quiet again, the tree seems to wonder,
What is hanging from its branch.
The translucent bag reveals it a bit–
It’s something like…had been
In the gut of the man or the stars.
The tree stiffens in confusion,

Ill humor disrespects the beauty
Of the Nature.
If trees can think—
O but they might feel in a way we
Don’t understand—It would think,

The man must be an alien,
No human can be that rude
To our Mother Nature.
Gift from the alien—
A Hazmat suit, necessary to
Make it clear then.

 

©Byung A. Fallgren

The ghosts of the plane trees
by Andrea Ferrari (aferrari@stmari.edu.ar)

tree stumps line the street on both sides
disjointed lopsided limbs lie
felled out as from a man that still stands
in body trunk silence observing its carnage
in pieces of a puzzle now impossible

cars that need more street
side indifferent

didn’t hear the grind spray of
sawdust in spurts or each thump
as it grunted on dry grass

but at night their ghosts rise
thin translucent holographic
towards a dark heaven

ghosts arms upwards in neon white
transparent leaves in innocent
carbon dioxide shine

couldn’t hear if roots murmured growth
or were whispering of soil silence
when machines came and removed stumps