Raven, the memory

In my ill bed, I heard the cry
of the raven.
I flung open my eyes;
Mom used to say "when a raven cries someone dies."

Still feverish, I stared out the window.
So, I'm going to die? the thought frightened me;
a wink of death.

"Mom," I called. no response. unusual. 
I kicked the blanket, got out of the room,
and searched through the house, in vain. 

Mom used to chat with a village mom;
toward her house I ran;
the afternoon sun followed me.

Arriving at the house, I fell into 
Mom's arm, in the yard. 
"Let's go home," I said.
"You should be in bed."

"I'm scared."
"What happened?"
Embarrassed, I said no word.

That evening, Dad said 
"The oldest village man passed today.
Ninety-eight. Good age to leave."
Mom nodded.

Her hand on my forehead, Mom smiled.
"The fever is gone!"
I sighed.
What did it mean; crying at my window? 

©Byung A. Fallgren

On the Drive to meet the daughter

Fluffy little dog and lamb play
in the blue field of sky; on the way
to the town where she will stay.

But the cars and trucks on the road 
are racing; competing;

semis sandwiching the little car;
as the gust bellows from the wheat field.

The lone scarecrow waves a Safe Drive song:

Home is near at the end 
of the silver lane,
where the flower boy is waiting for you
at the railroad cross, with a bouquet of
cotton clouds and lambs; in the sky.

So, it seems; hard to see it unfolds
in no known seconds.  

©Byung A. Fallgren  

Avoiding the Villane

Being an insomniac,
do some 3 a.m. hike on the trail of
thoughts, then meet the authors in the pages;
sometimes, they are kind to send me
to the sleepy slope of grab the alternative; any book.
Words are not to be blamed;
need to be lost in the blank world;
not to be bothered
in the known hours of pain.

–Byung A. Fallgren

Vanishing Song

Chirping of baby robin,
vanishing song of late summer;
hops after its mother, then
fly away together,
leaving the yard empty.

At the Empty pool

a little yellow swimsuit
and a pink sandal,
scattered round the pool;
on the still water,
ponders the golden setting sun.


©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Garden Lullaby
(for the grand child)

Two bumble bees play
with the flowers
saddened by the rain.

Two bumble bees fall
in the puddle;
sink and sink.
Sun saves the bumble bees;
drink and drink.

©Byung A. Fallgren

In Something Seems Great

When an idea seems great but not on second thought,
rescue it; dress it round on the second visit.

Living oversea, away from my siblings,
my brother used to chauffer for me when I visit.

Aged and worn, the brother no more my rescuer.
Sis says he cannot greet you at the airport; when you visit.

Texting and Facetime are the only they can do for me;
they can still shop together, but for me no more visit.

Don't punish a person for being a venturous; you cannot stop.
Someday one will show up at your door; no surprise; one's visit.

I am not a ghost, your little old sis, with a new driver;
from the travel agency for my old days' visit.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Argument

Four-thirty in the morning, the next door woman yells,
Her children blubber; blubbering and yelling.

The cry echoes in the neighborhood. What's going on?
Getting ready for the camping trip. Dark valley ghosts yelling.

My parents used to argue often; I thought they'd divorce,
which didn't happen, but they continued on yelling.

My daughter and her hubby repeat the family tradition. 
Suddenly for days they stop yelling.

Red rose plants appear in the little garden at the front door.
I never know why. I only pray the roses flourish; no yelling.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Above poem is another GHAZAL I am practicing. Ghazal is Arabic 
poetic form, like sonnet, ghazal has strict rule requirement. 
 

   

Pain

There are red-pain, amber-pain, and gray-pain;
as stabbing pain. headache, and dull pain.

Of all the pains, feeling no energy and sad (gray-pain)
can be ignored or considered as no pain.

My brother's plethora of white blood cells kills red cells;
whose condition, beyond treatable; feels gray-pain,

which can be confused as no pain. At the stage,
the doctor would say: keep him comfy as less pain.

Medical marijuana, why does he not try? Sis says,
not to worry, his son knows better, he has no pain.

I do not believe it. every illness comes with pain.
His son might know of the degree of his pain,

than me living in oversea. If so, fine, but not so to me.
What if he suffers in silence the pain?

As usual, my tummy growls, then swoosh, the pain passes;
it can be serious. Byung, see your doctor for the pain.

 ©Byung A. Fallgren

Above poem is GHAZAL, Arabic poetic form I'm interested in learning
lately. Like sonet, it has strict rule requirment, which I don't like, but as I do 
practice, I find it fun. 

Heart toughened 

Once in a year trip to see them,
might as well let it be the day
for the granddaughter's ballet recital,
perfumed by the lilac bloom.

Packing the suit case, with slow brewing
joy and Jun day scent; but 
a strange, brief stench.

Sudden ringing of night phone;
heart churns with the daughter's 
dismal voice: "We have a problem.
the septic revers flood the basement,"

(No wonder the stench.)

"If you still coming, stay in a motel, sorry."

My heart, calm as lake;
it's just a thrown stone on the lake;
my heart still recalls the midnight teen's 
car event.

"Dad and I will be there. we've got to see 
her perform, sweetheart."

the reversal stench flood;
the midnight police call;
toughened heart;

I can still sleep through all that!

©Byung A. Fallgren
 

Art of Love

"Wife wants you and dad come over,"
his voice on the phone. "It's holiday!"
"I'm cooking, Mom." her voice 
a background song.

"Sure, we'll be there," I chime.
At first, genuine appreciation. 
On second thought:
her cooking, spicy and greasy, yet tasty;
with cabbage, tofu, etc.
all those known to be healthy food;
my tummy says no; my heart yes.
I'd just visit, 
for the food is visit is art of Love.  

©Byung A. Fallgren