In the Grieving More
Handsome, lost his wife at 69, began
his days sitting in his chair,
staring at the pair
of his slippers,
as if they were her on the first day he met,
dazed by her beauty. Dark spots appeared
on his face, mushrooms of sorrow,
that would last unknown tomorrow;
deep wrinkles guided the invisible
tears toward the corners of the mouth. When
the nephew called him, he'd lift his head, eyes
gazing blankly toward him. Nephew offered,
"Let's go for a stroll." But he preferred
dropping his head in silence. "Go fishing then."
His head remained as Thinking Man.
He was glued to the chair most of the days.
One day he freed himself from the chair
and asked, "Is my woman still at Computer Repair?"
Nephew sighed. "No. She's visiting her mom and dad."
"When she's coming home?"
"She's taking it forever, uncle."
"Tell her to hurry.
"don't scurry."
Every day the same conversation he would repeat,
eat, and sleep as he used to,
until one day: he lay on the dandelions in his lawn,
watched the clouds; he appeared to have no more pain.
The couple's urns have lain
side by side above the mantle, like they used to sit
on the deck, side by side.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Uncategorized
The Weekly Avocet
Fall Song
Fall Song
boxelder bugs gathered
in the warmth of the tin roof
a treat for the birds
wild grape vine
burning red on the fence
birds are heading south
late fall orchard
sings no more but meditates
pumpkin vines still bloom
© Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
Q & A on the New Gutter
Q & A on the New Gutter
Q: Isn't the old gutter's silent collection of rain nice, esp. at night?
A: In the wee hours of the night, I am awake, might as well listen to the rain drums in the gutter to my running thoughts.
Q: What about the thoughts?
A: Lots of things, like my elderly friend in the war-torn country suffering cold and hunger in the old age; my near-miss joy in the past, etc.
Q: Aren't all the failure your fault?
A: Yes and no.
Q: What's that?
A: Yes, because accepting it as my fault make me calm; no, because it didn't make sense how I did screw up the project that smoothly climbed the hill overlooking glorious waves.
Q: Again, who is the culprit?
A: Demon, coaxing me into finishing in a hurry before someone does it. Life is a song bird in the air, with a variety of repertoire; before it flies away you've got to capture the note just right for you; however, you must not do it in a hurry.
Q: not fast enough is your fault. Successful people don't idle.
A: The rain stopped. Had we not argued, I could have captured useful ideas. My song bird is about to fly away.
Q: Cheer up. Golden songbird is the best one. It will surprise you.
A: Moan old pain for sure.
Q: It depends on your ears.
A: My ears are trying to tune in; with some luck, I might get something.
--Byung
The Weekly Avocet
A Haiku written by me is published in this issue. Thank you, Charles, for taking the piece. –Byung A. Fallgren
Presumption
Presumption
We, oldies, look out the window quite often;
sometimes, our neighbors catch ourselves, and
we wave to each other.
We heard the other couple arguing:
"So, you like the flatbellied old bee?"
"Like her flat belly is all."
"Let us divorce,
so you can marry the
flat-bellied woman."
The next day the arguing continued, and
the couple left home in seperate cars.
Are they going to get a divorce?
After a while, he returnedalone and
sat hunched on the porch. We thought
she wouldn't be back soon--maybe, never.
"He needs some company,"
He was about to visit the man
when his wife returned.
Later that day, the couple showed up
at our door, all smily. In her arms are
a couple of white puppies.
"Would you like one?"
We both grabbed one of the puppies.
"Oh, isn't he cute?"
© Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
My work appears in this issue. Thank you, Charles, for taking the piece.
The Midnight Horseback Rider
The midnight Horseback Rider
The moonlight was sneaking in
through the gap in the curtains and sat silently
on my bed when a sudden tippy-top, tipity-top
of the horse's hoofs hummed on the road outside
my window. My impulse was to see who it is
but remained in my bed, charmed by the
unusual equestrian rhythm, and lest
it might stop if I moved. Smooth and steady
cadence, alternating walk and trot; someone
must be practicing equestrian gate;
passionate performance, driven by a skillful
conductor. The sound faded away
as the rider and horse moved down the road.
Only then did I catapult to the window.
The moon was on the treetop, shinning on the
empty street; im my head, the horse's gate still echoed;
the rhythmes from the past dream.
Even in my old age, the rhythms from
the past dreams are still drumming
in the deep of night, like the
midnight horseback ride on a moonlit street.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 