Pumpkin, yet to be carved

~ Byungafallgren ~ 2 Comments

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Pumpkin, yet to be carved

was me when in the first grade, waiting
for the teacher paints my face for the stage,
heart blooming, wondering,
trepidation,

was me at twenty, when on the airplane,
listening to the silent cry from
deep inside me, an exploring soldier,
bright-eyed,

was me at middle-age, fighting the war
of parental affairs, finance, wading
across the leech infested swamp, only to get
to another one, tenacity,

now, all is in the autumn pumpkin: seeds ripen,
crisp flesh, set aside for the next season, respite
in orange glow, wonder how my friends are doing,
occasional flare of reverie yet letting it all free.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

Video glitch, or something else?

~ Byungafallgren ~ 4 Comments

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(Here’s another spooky story.)

Sometime ago, my daughter-in-law sent me some videos
with unusual images caught in the surveillance camera installed
at her house. Some photos show ghostlike images flying round
in the dark rooms—they don’t show in the lighted rooms. She and
her friends think it is Jin or Gene. My husband and I think it could be
a video glitch or electric abnormality.
My husband has a night vision camera. He said, one night
he looked through the lens and saw the same ghostlike images
flying around in and outside
my house. He believes that there are electric magnetic field and electricity
are in the air all around us. Is he right? I believe so. What do you think?
What do you think it is that the ghostlike one flies in the dark rooms?

–Byung A.

Faces of Autumn

~ Byungafallgren ~ 9 Comments

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Faces of Autumn

We reflect myriad colors of faces
we have perceived in the passing season
like a broken mirror does in each
pieces as our leaves turn many hues of
red, gold…
with full of emotion:

disturbed by the voices of stones
those ignore very essence of law of
Nature, being, living, which echoes in

the dew drops of night,
in our red leaves.

She rides in the September sunbeams,
in the smile of brave ones. We cheer the
broken hearts, despaired, which mirrors

in the scent of Mother,
in our golden leaves,

fallen, gather beneath it the ambitious ones,
enrich the ancient beds,
as the young forest-creatures grow and
fatten for the coming winter, as
the trees recite the story of the autumn night.

*
This first appeared in the issue of The Avocet, Fall-2020.

© Byung A. Fallgren

Prose Poetry

~ Byungafallgren ~ 2 Comments

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Believe it or not, prose can be a form of poem, too. It is called
Prose Poetry. Its rule: write like a poem and do not break the line.
Its continuity with no break gives the poem strong feeling.
Prose poem is one of my favorite forms along with Free Verse and
such short poems as Haiku/Senryu, Gogyohka, Severed Seven Lining, etc.
Unlike Prose Poem, Free Verse has line breaks and stanzas.

 *

To the new visitors, and sometimes not so new to my site, who
clicked like or follow: I tried to visit you back but unable to do so.
WP says your site does not exist. I know, most of time,
it is WP’s technical error.

—Byung A.

Lady in the Dark Stairway

~ Byungafallgren ~ 9 Comments

Lady in the Dark Stairway

My law-daughter prays every night
in the room downstairs. She confesses me,
sometimes she sees a lady in a nightgown
in the stairway watches her before vanishing.
To help her not to fear, I tell her true,
‘She’s me. One night, on my way to the bathroom,
I watched you kneeled, bowed, and prayed.’
‘She’s a ghost or Jin, ma,’ she says.
‘There’s no ghost,’ I tell her. ‘Your sixth sense
lets you see me on the step that night.’
‘I don’t believe that, ma.’
‘Okay. She’s your Jin. Don’t fear.’
‘I don’t.’
One night, heading to the bathroom downstairs,
I saw a woman on the step slowly vanishing
into the stream of light. Or, did she? She might be merely
a manifestation of my sleepy psych, like the ghostly woman
on the step was the echo of me?

*
Jin, Gene in English, is a being whom Muslims believe as an invisible form.  I would appreciate your opinion on the poem above.      

©Byung A. Fallgren

Guilt

~ Byungafallgren ~ 5 Comments

Guilt

It creeps up on me as the judge grills.
I search in my heart for the right answer,
for having failed as a good daughter.
Being so far away, seeing her sporadically,
the pink-flowered Hanbok she made
for me for the first day of my kindergarten,
the warmth of her hand that held mine,

in the deep ocean of memory,

I weep, wishing I could go back and

give her a hug.
What was born of the old selfishness?
Nothing, not a thing, except, gaining

some insight to see beyond ordinary.
This dragon fire had not melt even
a little sliver of the ice of the world pain,
merely flying ’round, singing the song
like a bird heard by few.

Let the salt water brim the eyes,
listening to her soothing voice,

and I learn to be reborn.

©Byung A. Fallgren