Spring Birds' Song

Within the pink world,
the sweet smell and cozy;
he leans to her, yawns, and closes his eyes.
She nudges; don't be so lazy, dear,
hawk's eyes are a magnet to us. 
Ah, he murmurs, have faith in the blossoms,
while their magic lasts; like the lone house,
stands unscathed in the ruins of the twister.
I'll keep an eye open for you;
flowers and magic are whims of wind;
my love is the root of an oak tree. 

This poem first appeared in The Avocet, A Journal of Nature Poetry,
Spring issue, 2025. 
Thank you, Vivian and Charles for taking this poem. 
--Byung A. Fallgren

The Things I Love
Scottie McKenzie Frasier

A butterfly dancing in the sunlight,
A Bird singing to his mate,
The Whispering Pines, 
The restless sea,
The gigantic mountains,
A stately tree,
The rain upon the roof,
The sun at early dawn,
A boy with a rod and hook,
The babble of a shady brook,
A woman with a smiling babe,
A man whose eyes are kind and wise,
Youth that is eager and unafraid--
When all is said, I do love best,
And where there's kindness, peace, and rest.

Scottie Frasier, born on September 7, 1884,
in Alabama, was a poet, editor, and lecturer.
She authored several poetry collections. She died
on November 21, 1964.   

The Swinging Wicket Sings

the sum of the past sounds:
laughing children, screams of the couple;
victims and survivors;

the barking poodle and her pups;
the past echoes, after they are gone,
except for the uncle and the mud. 

© Byung A. Fallgren 

Spring Night
Sara Teasdale 

The park is filled with night and fog,
   The veils are drawn about the world,
The drowsy lights along the paths
   Are dim and pearled.

Gold and gleaming the empty streets,
   Gold and gleaming the misty lake,
The mirrored lights light sunken swords,
   Glimmer and shake.

Oh, is it not enough to be 
Here with this beauty over me?
My throat should ache with praise, and I
should kneel in joy beneath the sky.
Oh, beauty, are you not enough?

Why am I crying after love
With youth, a singing voice and eyes
To take earth's wonder with surprise?
Why have I put off my pride,
Why am I unsatisfied,
I for whom the pensive night
Binds her cloudy hair with light,
I for whom all beauty burns
Like incense in a million urns?
Oh, beauty, are you not enough?
Why am I crying after love?

Sara Teasdale, born on August 8, 1884, in St. Louis, is the author 
of several poetry collections, won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry and 
the Poetry Society of America's Prize. She died on January 29, 1933.   


    

Gray Morning Light

the gray light 
of the morning
let it 
touch you
with a healing hand

© Byung A. Fallgren