Photo by Patricia Hope, Oak Ridge, TN–thetwohopes@aol.com

Naked Pink Lady

in the rush
to show off
lovely blossoms
just forgot
the leaves

Byung A Fallgren

How I didn’t fall a Victim of the Man, (his memory)

I stand still, bewildered,
as my mom hugs me. The same hug she gave me
a long ago seem weird, like a bad witch’s grin.
I let my eyes follow her to her car and vanishes.
In my room, I stare blankly at the computer, pondering
about our a month-long part. Free, at last, from her
yelling; do your work, study, clean your mess.
I run my hand over the arm with ever existing black&blue;
they’ll disappear with her absence, only to return with her back.
Hey, join me, my crony, the missing boy, coxes.
Where are you?
you know the basement, the dark one, the kind man’s.
I dig in my memory of the chat.
My smile mingles with the smoke from my mouth; two elves in the dark outland.

Later, while packing, I saw her at my room door,
startling me. I knew it. she shakes her head. Son, don’t.
Her eyes like those of
a girl’s whose beloved pet is dying.
I left my backpack in the closet, muttering in my mind,
Until someday.

Since when, I don’t know, I hadn’t seen the bruise on my arm;
her voice, rustling bamboos.
That someday came only in my bad dream.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Phyllis Castelli–phylliscastelli@gmail.com

sing for the weekend
expecting something exciting thing
just another Friday ritual

Byung A. Fallgren

Promise 
by Georgia Duglas Johnson

Through the moil and gloom they have issued

To the steps of the up winding hill,
Where the sweet, dulcet pips of tomorrow
In their preluding rhapsodies trill.

With a thud comes a stir in the bosom,
As these stick on the sight from afar,
Through a break of cloud’s coiling shadow
The gleam of a bright morning star!

Promise appeared in Bronze: A Book of Verses (BJ Brimmer
Company, 1922). Ms. Johnson was born in Atlanta , Georgia, in the late
19th Century. Her poetry collections include Bronze: A Book of Verses,
The Heart of a Woman, and others. She died in 1966.

September Pumpkin Flower

pumpkin flower on the fence worries
lest it might produce a raw progeny
for October festival–Trick-or-Treat    

 

No Reason to Hurry Home?

Life flow as little creek slow for
the semi-retiree; on the way home, stop by
the water, to see how the beavers’ doing,
no mud, no beaver, just a memory of
the hot summer evening, swim with
the children, and the stranger,

his bald head above the water,
like a hollow, pale pumpkin float
in the twilight…
stop at the bridge,
see the swallows’ nests, as usual all empty,
worry, lest they’ll be endangered species.
Head home, no reason to hurry, yet

feel like something waiting,
like a bruised desire or the one of a child.
Home, in the old box,
the ol’ unfinished project frowns;
mother in the grave. Urges, now’s the time
to blow the life in it. Or else. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Decoding the Fall Colors will be published 
in The Avocet, Fall printed issue. Thank you editors 
at the journal for accepting this piece.

The Weekly Avocet #456 is here for your reading enjoyment. 
Please, click the link below to download. 
The Weekly Avocet – #456[1662]

Busy tongue

If I speak as fast as my brain does,
i would be too chatty,

like the bubbles a child blows out from the straw,
pop and disappear in the thin air; or like a bubble

or two snagged in the witch’s wand,
turn to snake around the neck of innocent one.

©Byung A. Fallgren

In the Smell of August Pasture

Fresh mowed hay lay in rows and rows,
listening to the stars reciting the poems,

reminding the journey still ahead;
help scent the world-pain-ridden air.

The perfume; the old cowboy’s first love;
his bone, skin, and soul.

In the smell, he finds her image, breath, and smile.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Life of a Writer
by Jalynn Harris

The life of a writer is desire
i hammer into the page
i make up my mind: the street light

is not the moon, but anything can be
made beautiful under the ease
of my hammer

with you could see that i write in blue ink
the color of oceans & early mornings
& everything is clear like

tears rushing toward the dim
of my desire. i pen what i am meant
to pen. how deep in love i am

& how silly of me to spend all morning dreaming
about love & not expect my
desire to set me free

the knives of my fingers tap
out the notion that if I turn the key
it will unlock.

admittedly, I am foolish
about love–a simple yes exites me–
’cause i know that all that i require will be met

like water meets the tongue. it’s scary
desire, a small fan of my window in the summer,
a booklight lighting the page of my life.

Jalynn Harrison is the founder of Softsavage Press. She is
a poet, educator, and book designer from Baltimore,
Maryland.