Knowledge
Louise Bogan

Now that I Know
how passion warms little
of flesh in the mold,
and treasure is brittle,

I’ll lie there and learn
how, over there ground,
trees make a long shadow
and a light sound.

Louis Bogan was born in Livermore Falls, Main
in1897. She’s the author of several books of
prose and poetry. The recipient of a 1968
fellowship from the National Endowment for
the arts. She died in 1970. 

Like bird, like human

On the twilight settled fence
the robin calls for her baby, Oriok, oriok,
I mimic her baby, Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi  
She glances at me on the back porch
then bursts in angry tone, Godoriko-goorooki. 
I say again, Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi. 
Like a mad dame, she kicks her feet and
took a flight toward the dark trees, calling, Oriok– 

I laugh then wince; something pricks in my heart;
her memory is still fresh; the owl that took her
first brood. Her angry voice; the mother’s,
whose son hasn’t come home after school till ten;
her head, full of gun-fire and bloody image of him.
She stares out the window at the darkened street,
her head pounds; the big wave crushes
against the wall of the cliff, over and over.

Past ten, her son slips in through the door,
unscathed, but whiff of pot smell;
the mad waves subside in her heart,
still, fire in her eyes.
Just a little joint with my friend is all,
he squeaks.
You are grounded, she yells.
In the dark trees, the robin and her baby squabble;
Oriok, oriok; Chir-r-chi, chir-r-chi.   
I text my son; Goodnight, goodnight, you all.  

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem What about Others like me has been accepted to publish 
in The Avocet, Summer 2021, printed issue. Thank you editors at
the journal for choosing the piece. 

Here is The Weekly Avocet #444. To read it click the link below.

The Weekly Avocet – #444[1141]
This link will hide after a week.

–Byung A.

. 
Photo by Susan K Hagen–shagen@bscedu

What do you want to do with all the collections?

I collect anything ripples my mind;
rocks, to pry the journey;
words, to sail the sea unknown;
money, to breathe.

Some rocks end up being the garden border,
making the steps pause and think;
money, windchimes,
catch the winds blue and pink;
filler of the mud puddle,
the path high and low;
words, the builder of the fantasy, near & far–

moan of the mountain with pain or glee;
whispers of the night fog;
grunts of the earth at dawn;
echoes of the stars’ song.

©Byung A. Fallgren    

Photo by Kaya Kotzen–kkwisdomwoman@gmail.com

Tree

some of us
speak more
after
we
are perished

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Unintentional Enemy

She, the creator of me;
love, the one thing
in her heart
on normal days
of her mind.

Madness, touched by
another she; the stranger
sowed the seeds of the blue
in my skin and bone.

Knowing her true;
that abominable stranger;
had i known her,
long before her departure,
i wouldn’t have to stand
at her tomb,
in the rain, the rain;
the rain in the dream.

©Byung A. Fallgren

My poem Lone Redberry is published in The Weekly Avocet #442.
to read it and other poems click the link below. This will hide 
after a week.
The Weekly Avocet – #442[1123]

After the Winter
Claude Mckay–1889–1948

Someday, when trees have shed their leaves
And against the morning white
The shivering birds beneath eves
Have sheltered for the night,
We’ll turn our faces southward, love,
Toward the summer isle
Where bamboos spire to shafted grove
And wide mouthed orchids smile.

And we’ll seek the quiet hill
Where towers the cotton tree,
And leaps the laughing crystal rill,
And works the droning bee.
And we’ll build the cottage there
Beside an open glade,
With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,
And ferns that never fade.

Claude Mckay, who was born in Jamaica in 1889,
wrote about social and political concerns from
his perspective as a black man in the United States,
as well as a variety of subjects ranging from
his Jamaican homeland to romantic love.

My poem Morning Fog is published in Weekly Avocet, #441.
To read it and other poems, click the link below. 
The Weekly Avocet – #441[1118]