In the game of wolf and lamb

The phone message
claims importance of it;
a male agent for the 
traditional publisher would buy
the copyright of my book;
would like to go detail when call.

Which one? the old one?
Ah-- I always thought
they might turn gold.
the brief joy winks to a doubt;
the new one? Oh, my--
I almost slap the message;

how much? suppose, it won't be much;
rather would keep it; a lot can be done.

I deleted the message; what if wrong?
should be so fast. gold coin vanishes 
into the cloud. Shrug, shrug; I did 
what I should do, before falling into a gulf;
the talk would be a lamb vs. a wolf. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Derrick J. Knight

Jewels of the Forest

poor ranger as he was,
lonely and weary;
in evenings, leaning 
against the old trunk, thinking
of his children and wife
                in the village;

the old tree, covered in lichens;
reminds me of my late father;
his arm skin, once, dry and roughen;
with all the shadow of the world.

He gazes at the red berries, like rubies;
how he wished they were real.
Unbeknown to himself, he picks
the red berries, the little rubies;
he would give them to his children,
would make necklaces
              and bracelets;
he smiles;

smiles at the berries;
            they whisper: 
take us as many as you want.  

©Byung A. Fallgren

When walking in front of the Library

While he went inside, I walk,
for the books are still at the beside.

A man in a t-shirt and shorts sits
by the sidewalk, gabs on the phone;
just then a pickup truck pulls in
the parking lot, and two men emerge;
they too are in t-shirts and shorts;
the short man hollers to the man
on the sidewalk; "Hey, what you doin' there?"
They all talk gibberish.

As I pass by, one of them taunts: "Wow, she's...
gibber, gibber...."

Ignoring I get into my car and read the paper,
at the same time wondering what they are;
still working age men; shouldn't they be at work
at the hour? The short man leaves, leaving the two;
his voice sounds familiar but don't know 
where I heard it;

in my nightmares? the one who 
used to threat me to bring him money, or kill.
I shake my head; hope it is overdone joke
even in the nightmare; or in real.

No amount of money justifies to kill a person;
Earth is too beautiful place to sow and dwell

on such an act. They could be or not be. 

When he is back with books, they are gone.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Let No Charitable Hope
Elinor Wylie

Now let no Charitable hope
Confuse my mind with images
Of eagle and of antelope:
I am by nature none of these.

I was being human, born alone;
I am being woman, hard beset;
I live by squeezing a stone
The little nourishment I get.

In mask outrageous and austere
The years go by in single file;
But more has merited my fere,
And more has quite escaped my smile.

Elinore Wyle born on September 7, 1885, in 
Summerville, New Jersey, was poet and 
novelist. She died on December 16, 1928 

Ode to the Exceptional ones
of the near miss Victim's Story

They care and righteous;
they are invisible as air;

no one knows
where they are in this dry world;

some believes from heaven;
some call them angels of the night;

but they are there
when one needs.

when one is threatened by the tacky poison;
run among the harmless and helpless ones;

morning glories that bloom
to observe the world 

first thing in the morning
then close the petals to consider

when to grow mighty winged creatures.
they would be there right before

one gets down
by the sticky poison. 

©Byung A. Fallgren