Fear Grows with Age

Fear flares in the temp empty house;
keep the lights on, in all room at night;
lock all the doors after twilight
vanish, from the pine tree tops.

Tour the house and find any possible weapon,
that can be used by an intruder; alas, so many!
kitchen knives and hammers and what not.
First temptation: put them all in a box
and store them in my room. that would be 
funny and inconvenient.
so, just lock the room before going to bed.
thought about a pistol self-defense,
in case the nightmare demon turns real.
considering I don't do well with a gun,
pepper spray would be a better choice.

It seems fear grow with age,
for life gets complex and risky
on the wings of time. moonlight crawls
stealthily across the wooden floor. 

a sudden low call, so low as if from dream.
it's from behind the door. what can it be?
I peep in the hole. nothing's in the hall.
the sounds again. it's from behind the curtain.
outside, lilac shrub branch waves. sigh. 
return to the bed and read; ignore the
mystery call of a thing.
it could be anything; hidden fly, and the like.
think I'll get a little poodle; and
grab the string of sleep. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Little Things
Marion Strobel (1895--1967)

Little things I'll give to you--
Till your fingers learn to press
Gently
On a loveliness;

Little things and new--
Till your fingers learn to hold
Love that's fragile,
Love that's old.

(She was a poet and critic and editor. Her collections
of poetry includes Once in a Blue Moon and Lost City. )

forsythia gives
way to iris and lilac bloom
artic ice sweats rain

even earth worm
crawls out to greet the sun
what leech in swamp feel?

naive doves coo
as crows caws at the cloud
invisible cloud of CO2

imagine the bouquet
of lilac and inhale the perfume
wish summer is forever

welcome the gray light
of morning, let it touch you
let it be a healing hand

©Byung A. Fallgren

Night of the failed Northern light

They said it would show up over the hill
of the trash dumpster; the night-alone, with
the elf's plan to visit her, saying smugly, don't panic,
when see me, in the dark room. Only to help.
Don't, she said. Police often patrol in this neighborhood. 

Twilight lingers over the hill,
then the vail of night falls;
she waits for the sun's display
of his famed artwork. But no sign of it. 
just the reflection of white light from
the dwellings below the slope. 
an hour, two, and three fly away.
no fault of the sun, just the place
where the sun's display couldn't reach. 

as if to console, a long serpent of fog
lay pulsating along the dark river. 
a sudden bright light bounces and slides 
down the hill as though a little ball thrown 
by a child, as you guessed, a car traveling 
down the road. 

Now, bedtime, hour of the elf.
Keep all the lights on in every room is
one of the defense tactics, demanding,
more coins on his game. 

In the morning, no big memory
of the night; no elf; just taste of sour fruit
and smell of fungi bread. 

©Byung A. Fallgren  

Invisible thorn-bird

Are they even real?
some say yes,
some remain hush in fear;
or, say,
they are beach-collectors;
steal
gem stones from the waves.

Bull snake

Love
fear
intelligent
mouse catcher;
hide in the gutter when hot and sings.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Poets in their bassinet
Lucille Clifton

Poets in their bassinets 
dream a splendid woman holding over their eyes
a globe, shining with
possibility. Someone,
she smiles, has to see this
and report it, and they 
in their innocence 
believing that all will be 
as beautiful as she is,
whimper use me, use me
and oh how terrifying 
that she does. 

Lucill Clifton was a poet and the author of numerous collections,
she won the National Book Award, chancellor of the Academy
of American Poets. She died on February 13, 2010.    

My four poems are published in this issue. 
Thank you, editors, for taking the pieces. --Byung A.