On the Same Hill
We pursue
The same dream,
Complying with the laws,
Purple and yellow
On the same Hill.
I remember
How I got here,
Just as others do;
Some are here by the wind;
Desperate waves,
Baffling the concerned.
We avoid
Making more tears;
Find the right solution,
To put everything
In order and
Embracing all.
This first appeared in Talking River Review,
Issue 48, Spring 2020.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Uncategorized
The Weekly Avocet
Untitled
Untitled
Lance Henson
Here is a place where nothing can die
Darkness that lives beneath the leaves
We bring our nights there without knowing
We bring our fear there before the signing begins
We bring our silent names there hoping we are forgiven
We bring our hands there scented of a river
We bring our prayers that hide and watch us
The landscape where we have held the loose feathers
Of a fallen bird
And awakened in the land of the unseen
Herse in the place where nothing can die...
Lance Henson is a poet, teacher, and cultural activist.
A member of the Cheyenne Nation of Oklahoma, Henson
has authored numerous poetry collections, he lives in
Bologna Italy.
Her Nails
Her Nails
Of all the nails.
Her fingernails
Are the loveliest,
Yet you regard it at the least.
Oval, pink, and neat;
In the heart; and great.
But they morph into something
You fear but should be bracing;
With no fear, raging sea, like peril,
When your force goes over the hill.
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
As if some little Artic flower
As if some little Artic Flower
Emily Dickinson
As if some little artic flower
Upon the polar hem,
Went wandering down the latitudes,
Until it puzzled came
To continent of summer.
To firmament of sun
To strange, bright crowns of flowers,
And birds of foreign tongue!
I say, as if this little flower
To Eden wandered in–
What then? Why, nothing, only,
Your inference therefrom!
Emily Dickson was born on December 10, 1830, in
Massachusets. Her first poetry was published posthumously
in 1890.
Four Haiku
Four Haiku
leaves under the snow
wait for the snow to melt away
falling is not fun
a skidding leaf
after the street sweeper
some others follow
snow day silence
no creatures stirring
only a bunny hops
blacktop road
glistens with melting snow
mirrored sky
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet, and more
My four Haiku are published in this issue.
Thank you, Charles, Vivi, and Valerie, for taking the pieces.
The Weekly Avocet
As Girl
As Girl
Annie Wenstrup
At six being a girl meant Tinkerbell
nail polish and pointed, pink Barbie shoes.
Sequined fairy wands and slippers that fell
off my feet when I ran. Outside the blue
sky a backdrop for green grass, the sweet
June tree that was home base. Everything caught
my eye sparked. Rain-freshened earthworms,
armored rollie-pollies, and firefly dots.
At night the television played the news.
Its cyclopean eye returned my stare.
The got-like purple reflected a parade
of women and girls like ewes. Fair
and lovely. I thought they were adored.
Later, I was not a girl anymore.
Annie Wenstrup is the poet and author of
The Museum of Unnatural Histories.
Awarded the tenth-annual New England
Review Award. She lives in Alaska.
Byung A. Fallgren 