Faces of Autumn We reflect myriad of colors of faces we have perceived in the passing season, like a broken mirror does in each pieces as our leaves turn many hues of red, gold... with full of emotion; disturbed by the voices of stones that ignore very essence of law of Nature, being, living, which echoes in our red leaves. She rides in the September sunbeams, in the smile of brave ones. We cheer the broken hearts, despaired, which mirrors in the scent of Mother, in our golden leaves, fallen, gather beneath it the ambitious ones, enrich the ancient beds, as the young forest creatures grow and fatten for the coming winter, as the trees recite the story of the autumn night. This was published in The Avocet Fall 2020 issue. Also, this appeared here in the past. ©Byung A. Fallgren
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The Weekly Avocet
Wail
Wail
Johnson Cheu
for the young who ask, "How did you learn
to like yourself?"
There are glaciers, imposing , yet shrinking.
There is the iris, violet sky cradling shares of sun.
The white Bengal tiger, snow and black inky.
Infinite reasons I could give for gladness,
though some may salve the wound from which
your question arises, how to be glad to be alive?
Stitch your hearts fissure: recall family, friends,
a slap, cigarette burn, the rod something searched
down, or welled up in your darkened pupil.
Turn outward: two A. M. streets, creeps in cars,
the chaos of human folly delivered by calm,
coiffed news anchors. The wound is within you
and not. The answer within you and not.
Want, comfort, desire, love ought not be wounds.
We pine for them from our first wail,
what you must give and take, till no voice is left.
Johnson Cheu is a poet and assistant professor in the
department of writing, rhetoric, and American culture
at Michigan State University.
Sharing
Sharing sharing is beautiful thing do not confuse it with robbing lazy bum's poor excuse --Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
Breath for Metal
Breath for Metal
Ching-In Cheng
This is a story
I've kept in soft
orange inside
my steel body. I've wanted
to wait until I've
cooled to hum, until
my touch wouldn't burn.
I've practiced to gentle
not to be odd. To remember
me a calm line transmitting not artificial
sugar smile melts a rainy spring I don't want
to feel a tug you wait again for what's
dissolved into scent for this week.
Ching-In Cheng is a trans/gender queer and
fewer Chines American poet. They are the authors of
recombinant (Kelsey Street Press, 2017), winner of
the 2018 Lamba Literary Award for Transgender Poetry,
an assistant professor at the University of Washington
Bothell, Chen lives in Lake Forest Park , Washington on
Snokomish lands.
Waiting
Waiting Waiting for The Weekly Avocet; It usually arrives in time. What's happened? * After a long pause, I began to write again for The Avocet, and my poem "Autumn" has been accepted for The Avocet, Fall Issue, 2023. Thank you, Charles and Vivian.
Moth-like
They argue like they breath. Just because the light is there doesn't mean the door to her room is open. shock from the hot bulb that knocks him down to the hard wood. Slowly recover senses. In evenings, it happens again; her patience, limited. Burn-wound; regret; exhaustion; no word heals it. a drop of morning dew; her tear before she left; encouragement; he rises; but for how long? ©Byung A. Fallgren
Taking back the abandoned
Taking back the Abandoned Grabbing the empty shopping cart, I heard the voice behind me: take this, still warm. I turned to see the man whom I unfriended on Facebook grinning. Oh, sure. I took the cart and the heart softened, followed him to the register. Would you like a free copy of my new book? He just smiled and said, someone is following you. My husband greeted him and, together, they started chatting like old pals. Hard words can dissolve over time; garden of life can bloom more often depends on the green thumb of art of life. ©Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 