On the dirt road behind
hidden footprints
of sweaty, bleeding
ghost of yesteryears.
Scars on the knees,
numbed heart,
forgotten at best,
condemned at worst,
should be cherished,
for the twist and turns
of the past road may
lead to a sweet surprise.
Even if there’s no reward,
I still love the road I took,
because it is what made me
a bit wiser and mature,
what I am today–
another wholesome passerby.

©By Byung A. Fallgren

on the wire fence
an innocent vine
crawls by the poison ivy
shouldn’t be mistaken as
the harasser of the ivy’s

It’s both sad and infuriating to watch Ford testifying in the Senate
Judiciary Committee hearing. I believe Kavanaugh is a victim of
Democrat’s political game.

©By Byung A. Fallgren

This field, with a magnetic force,
draws me to the scene over and over.
Many words bounce, but
not a sentens forms to satisfy.
Solemness, uncanny beauty.
Stars will appear soon.
Its back peeled by the stress,
the cactus flowered–
its priority, no matter
the shabbiness, still flower,
prime purpose of being fulfilled,
withstanding the wind.

By Byung A. Fallgren

some memories
glow in the doldrums
unusable jewels

©By Byung A. Fallgren

We know the tricks of wind, yet
remain defenseless against
it’s wielding wand of madness,
meager effort to patch the wounds
each time, with awe and sorrow,
as if it were our fate. No way to curve
it before the damage. Only E.T. can do?
Hopeful it’s not a trite fantasy,
someday we’ll get there.
With unfinished project in the dust,
we welcome new waves,
dabble with odd possibility.
Some scars imbue the light into
our confused souls,
at the edge of the days
we glow with green,
enjoy more of our differences.

©By Byung A. Fallgren

How far must
we go to achieve
the goal? He says you
must do it as if your life
depend on it. That means
sleep only three hours if it’s
necessary. Shaking her head,
she sleeps six hours, working
as best as she can. Years later,
he is in the heaven, watching
his survivors enjoying the
big fortune he left behind,
while she’s with her
children,
relishing
her small fortune.

By Byung A. Fallgren

From the tender green
to the golden stack,
memories of the dreamy calls of
our sprinkler-lady, pivoted,
arms stretched across the pasture,
diligent irrigation, all through
the days of miserable heat,
spirit of a tough matriarch,
redolent alfalfa and grass, quiet
submission to be harvested,
stars count as our stacks grow.
Summed up in one mound, we
dream of our rebirth in the circle
of time, purposeful, reciprocal,
the late-greens for winter
wanderers. Natural order abided.

By Byung A. Fallgren

Rascals are back
to school, memories of
the summer behind,
ghost stories on tent-nights,
trampoline games by day,
cry of the loser sister, still
echoing in the empty backyard.
Next door granny smiles, recalling
the immigrant boy’s fair leadership
for the whole gang, brief visit of
Martin Luther King Jr. boyhood.
Trampolin beckons her in
temptation, she sneaks into it.
Alas, her back screams
at the first leap, the little girl
inside her vanishes
into the ancient time.

By Byung A. Fallgren

Not the spur
cowboy wears
on his boot’s heel,
the bony growth
in front of your
heel bone,
causing pain
or silent.
The new heel bone,
an accumulation of
stresses of
yesteryears.
Your body, a hill.
The new heel bone,
the colluvium
at the foothill.

By Byung A. Fallgren