Strength in the Wind

Pieces of ourselves left behind
evoke a hidden beauty,
sadness of loss, yet
to see the stars
in the dark waves.
Past,
present,
faulty gems.
Tears disguised in the rain,
we fly against the wind,
and our wings
grow stronger.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Winter book in the Sky
By Andrea Ferrari– Buenos Aires–aferrari@stmary.edu

unworded  but voiced
in clouced-lines
on horizontal pale paper sky
white translucent 
           seagulls
write in black
drifting eastward,
the page is in a language 
unknown
rounded circling  
grasped bird-work
cry out in tales
in echoes
of forever returning home

Winter Solstice, guilt

Being born on this cold night
alone sob of guilt, worse
is the war-torn days.
Roars of metallic dragons
dance in the sea of fire,
trampling on the ashes,
above the shabby shelter,
hungry new born whimpers
as the buzz of bumble bee,
or howl like an abandoned coyote pup?
How did she do it? How did they manage
to hide from the reds?
Miracle, to have survived, with five kids,
yet to have infection in his mind,
occasional alcohol wouldn’t wash the wound.
Every solstice night, I fall deep, lost word,
amide the thoughts of the days of horror,
ache to comfort you.
Only if you were here.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Food court in the mall
empty, this year with COVID-19
New year will bring joy

*
The Weekly Avocet #419 is here.  Free to download,
click the link below. 

The Weekly Avocet – #419

Of All the Voices…

Voice springs in the brook,
cool and soothing,

Voice grows in the flower garden,
rides on the butterfly wings and breeze,
sweeter than his mint breath.

Voice jumps out of the computer,
startling a skunk out of you,
alarm beeps loud as a dog:
your computer is locked  to block
malicious activity. Do not shut the computer,
it’ll lose…just call us.

You pull the plug, calm as old you,
recognize it as the same hacker’s voice
on the phone.
She choose it to be her voice.
Only if she knew how it sounds.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Treasure in the Sewing Chair

In the old box chair,
a pink vase sleeps
between the little pillows,
embroidery, colorful dream.
The gifts of the law-ma, long gone,
the rose-pink vase,
the florets of her needle work,
the surprise;
the moon in the rain,
her last poetry;
the magic words
lull the purple old grains
of feelings, tend to stir the past.
Her face on the vase smiles,
and so do I.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Love Songs
by Mina Loy

We might have coupled
in the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment
Or broken flesh with one another
At the profane communion table
where wine is spilled on promiscuous lips

We might have given to a butterfly
with the dirty  news
printed in blood on its wings.

Mina Loy was born in London December 27, 1882.
She is the author of Lunar Baedeker, artist and writer,
she died in Colorado in 1996.

Conundrum on the Dream

My dreams used to be the echoes of the days’ play
of my own, real and pure.
As the years grew the dream lost all its true source,
tainted by strange force.

The voices of faceless one from outland,
somber stories, a soulless actor, me in fantasy land,
jumbled. Immoral flash fiction. Horror stories
of the twisted past and now;

unknown skeleton under the bed,
the heart-twisting emotion and feelings,
so real. I wake in the wee-hour, yet anger free,
sense the eyes in the moon in the tree.

In my closed eyes the wave rushes over,
slowly drag me back to the red sea.
I thrash the hacker off,
delete the images with a huff,

wonder if it would be like the effort
of changing the constellation of stars.
Or, invite the one rude
into my virtual sitting room, might be crude?

*
If you believe your dream is the reflection of your
thoughts and feelings of your daily life, think again. There
are people who manipulate your dream. I have read the articles
about people who learn to read mind go farther and insert
images into mind while you sleep, to make you see it as if your
dream. It is a way of communication, they say. Who are they?
The technic is designed to help secret service workers, like FBI
agents and the likes of them, to solve the crime. But nowadays,
criminals use it to steal information from people.
Weird? Yes, but it is true.

(C) Byung A. Fallgren

Marshlands
by Emily Pauline Johnson

A thin wet sky, that yellows at the rim,
And meets with sun-lost lip the marsh’s brim,

The pools low lying, dark with moss and mold,
Glint through their mildews like large cups of gold,

Among the wild rice in the still lagoon,
In monotone the lizard shrills his tune.

The wild goose homing, seeks a sheltering,
Where rushes grow, and cvoozing lichens cling.

Late cranes with heavy wing, and lazy flight,
Sail up the silence with the heaving night.

And like a spirit, swathed in some soft veil,
Steals twilight and its shadows O’er the swale.

Hushed lie the sedges, and the vapers creep
thick, gray and humid, while the marshes sleep. 

* Emily Pauline Johnson was born on March 10, 1861,
Canada West. She is the author of three collections of 
poetry. She died on March 9, 1913.