Sunbeams ride on
the river, bouncing off
the ripples of heaving water
in anticipation to see
unknown downstream,
twinkling and winking at the
fisherman lost in the moment.
One worry vanishes with
one line tossed, two worries
vanish with the second line,
and so forth, drift with the river,
he cares no more if he
goes home with empty net,
he returns again and again
to the river with sparkling sun,
where ancients found wisdom,
where he and the river merge
in one spirit in the afternoon.

By Byung A. Fallgren

He spoke gibberish,
‘Bad thing happens
if you don’t…mumble, mumble.’
Humoring missionary, I presume.
Told him I go to temple and
closed the door. Hearsay: the sharp
older man used to live two blocks
from mine before committing suicide.
Sometimes I wonder what it was he
tried to tell me. It pricks me to think
he tried to walk even on gossamer
if he could only avoid ‘Bad thing happens.’
I would’ve been friendly, only if
he spoke clearly. Only if…
I say, exhausted soul, save a space for
me in the heaven. We’ll continue the
conversation then. Sometimes, even
crossing the stormy ocean and
climbing arduous mountain
cannot undo what’s been done–
unintentional apathy.

by Byung A. Fallgren

God created another star
for unique purpose
long ago on this day.
I used to wonder
what he was.
Worry is old woman’s
banal habit.
Even robins sing his
birthday song in glee.
He’s both chemical engineer and
scientist–great achievement,
parents’ pride.
As he takes big strides forward
early firework for July 4th
brightens the night.
Happy Birthday and
always, Son!

©by Byung A. Fallgren

“Intense wave of dark feeling,
too powerful to resist, waits for
the egoistic idiocy to
prevail with your mind,

letting you forget
the moral obligation to
the loved ones and yourself,
to turn away from the
devil within,
keep walking forward,

flings you to
no return zone,
no amount of regret
can undo fallen,
Be mindful of the enemy
within–run, grab ahold
of healing hand.”

By Byung A. Fallgren

While the little son
climbs up the ladder
in sheer joy of act,
Father envisions
Son’s glory on the horizon.
Son’s foot slips,
Father closes his eyes,
fighting not to think of
Son’s misfortune.
Son tumbles down,
Father’s heart skips
a beat or two. He mutters,
My son, you can be
whatever
makes your life easier.

©by Byung A. Fallgren

Flow of the melting snow,
the broken water of
Nature’s womb,
before the arrival of spring,
one of her many memories.

Stream knows the footprints within,
the winter hunters’ scent on the
rock, his cigaret butt wedged
between the stones, she mimics
the hunters’ voices.

Doe he’d let go rests by the shrub,
expects to give birth soon, The
stream knows the footprints
within, the reticent keeper of
the story they left behind.

©by Byung A. Fallgren