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.

In the Beginning
by Danika Kelly

In the beginning, there was your mouth:
soft rose, rose murmur, murmured breath, a woman
cardinal wind that drew my needle north.
Magnetic flux, the press of form to form

In the beginning, there was your mouth–
the frail head, the path lead faintly opened,

the crayon river-carved, farther south,
and ahead: the field, the direction chosen. 

In the beginning there was your mouth,
a sky full of stars, raked or raking, clock–
wise , or west, and in the close or mammoth
matter, my hearts red muscle, knocked and knocked.

In the beginning, there was your mouth,
And nothing since but what the earth bears out.

Danika Kelly is the author of the Renunciations
(Gray wolf Press, 2021). She is assistant professor 
in English Department at the University of Iowa.

.

Little Things that Brew Good morning

He once edited my book; the ruddy, brusque friend of
my hubby and me. His wife’s sudden death brought 
a chasm between us though.
Lest he lonely, I requested him Friend on Facebook.
confirmed he did; the platform of his character show,
with all the pink-green words I ignored;

to my kind hello, he’d return a face of hale cloud;
the overgrown, sting caterpillar in my childhood,
that gave me goosebumps,
resulting the Unfriend him on FB;
I avoided him; guilt sneaking in my back.
One morning, I saw him at the Post Office.
Even before my hello,

he said with a grin, good morning, young lady;
just like the old days.
With a smile, I said, good morning. How are you?
Dandy and peach.
Good. I beamed.
It’s so good to see you, young lady. His smile bounced.
So good to see you. My smile rode the sunbeam,

to plant a kiss on the scruffy cheek. Some sweet brew.

©Byung A. Fallgren