Gone

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Smoldering
mist of memory
creeps in
the wintry land
for the lost soul
hidden beneath
the silent earth,
digging until
the knuckles bleed
and the crystals of
grief suspended in
the halting
sunlight
*

This is written in remembrance of a missing woman in our community.  Her children and many friends loved her.  She was a respected businesswoman also.  It’s been over a year since her disappearance.  The winter weather has hampered the search effort.  Spring is here.  Wish them the best for their search effort.

(by Byung A. Fallgren.  Byung A. Fallgren.wordpress.com.)

In the Corner

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In the quiet corner
every sound seem amplified,
the whispers of the juniper branches,
cries of the peacocks beyond the pasture,
see more than a normal eye can see,
among the alfalfa lies an injured doe, frightened
Owl perceives, crystallizes the insight into a wisdom,

amused when a couple of robins dared to build their nest
at his heel, horrified when a female owl flew over one night,
checked him out, noticed his falseness and
gobbled up the poor hatchlings instead

He shudders, knowing he would be like her, had he been
able to breath–a vice of life–although a part of him wishes
to be her mate, perfection isn’t meant to be

Owl woodpecker-watcher and the beholder merge in
one spirit for the stilly moment in the absence of pain,
anxiety, desire but peaceful presence, find
the momentary nirvana-like

(by Byung A. Fallgren.  Byung A. Fallgren.wordpress.com.)

Demonic Emotion

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(Muse of the day)

Of all the emotions, anger is the most

destructive one we know, yet we ignore it

or assume we can manage it

Looking back, I realize how the things would have turned

out better had it not been for the anger

Regret, another villain that follows it, destroying the mind

Now that I’m older, I pause to think:

Like the poppy drops in the tea, a heat of anger

intoxicate us, making us blind and presumptuous,

quick to blame, even become violent, withering self-esteem

as the budding leaves in April snow storm

The damage done is often difficult to be reversed, if not at all

To subdue the rage, imitate a turtle’s cool disposition,

and we grow somehow wiser and

more lighthearted

*

To my friend Alison, I know you don’t need it but I share my thought with you anyway.
Have a great day!

(by Byung A. Fallgren.  Byungafallgren.wordpress.com.)

Blue Messenger

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Have you seen a blue jay cry of a messenger?
The stroller has, when a child is bullied
on his way home walk from school,
when a man is browbeaten by an authority

They call her a mindless bird, the stroller
calls her a blue messenger of the day

She performs her best repertoire
ever so softly as echoes of a Buddhist monk’s
moctack in early morning meditation
Her song soothes the bruised heart
while the hand reaches for the child
Her song a healing astringent
A smile on the sullen face rivived

Her cry awakes the lazy afternoon with a doubt,
what’s in our official repertory?

*Moctack is a Korean name for the small, wooden ball a Buddhist monk strokes while chanting mantra in early morning meditation.

(by Byung A. Fallgren. Byungafallgren.wordpress.com.)

Prejudice/Wayward Child

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We build a house to dwell in,
unconcerned in the silent whispers
of it as to what we are, reveals
our economic status, as our bodies
are home for our soul, our conduct
reflects our dispositions and intellect
A house even emanates moods, cheery,
gloomy, lovely, regal, humble and so on
We don’t judge a person by the house
as we don’t by a person’s appearance, for
in the shack could live a great resident
as inside an ugly person thrives a decency,
redolent as the lilac perfume in June, yet
we are troubled by the prejudice,
the wayward child within,
sneaky and ubiquitous

(by Byung A. Fallgren. Byungafallgren.wordpress.com.)

Flow (trimeric)

When you get to the Eternal Home
take a left to find the little bridge
down the piece of Creek Lane
where the house stands, tall and dark

Take a left to find the little bridge
under which the creek water cackles
at the frolicking little turtles,

down the piece of Creek Lane
along which the anemones dream
in the lustrous moonlight

where the house stands, tall and dark
at the end of the lane, like the shadow
of the man on the balcony weeps,
waiting for you

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(by Byung A. Fallgren.  Byungafallgren.wordpress.com.)