Sounds of Spring, 2021

Sounds of Spring, 2021

Drip, drip, frozen soul in the melting snow
Descends from the eve,
Coo-coo-r-coo, pigeon cheers the blues,
Singing sparrows in the tree still asleep,
Ah–me, rebound from the ordeal of
the second dose of COVID vaccine,

My heart flies to the lake I used to go;
Envision the boat swoosh by;
Splash and churn; or a fish peeks out of the
Fishing hole in the frozen lake;
Go it, go it, admonition of the unseen bird;
I didn’t go for it, often than not, I know
But don’t know which;
When was the last time
I checked on my old friend?

From the horizon, whispers; ghosts of
Perished ones, dance with the birds,
Vanish into the clouds.
O, I must see them before this spring;

At least for now, sounds
Of new born of the earth.

©Byung A. Fallgren


As I expected at some point, I had a hard time with the second dose
COVID vaccine. Only one day with flue-like symptom, followed by
three days of recuperation. : )
They say that, now, Moderna and Pfizer are testing on the third dose
of the vaccine for mutated viruses.


by Alice Ruth Moor Dunbar-Nelson

A swift, successive chain of things,
That flash, Kaleidoscope-like, now in, now out,

Now straight, now eddying in wild rings,
No order, neither law, compels their moves,
But endless, constant, always swiftly roves.

Alice Ruth Moor Dunbar-Nelson was born July 19, 1875,
New Orleans, Louisiana. Writer, activist for civil rights.
Her works: Violets and Other Tales, and more. She
died in September 18, 1935.

After the Winter Rain

After the Winter Rain
Ina Coolbrith

After the winter rain,
Sing, robin, sing swallow!
Grasses are in the lane,
Buds and flowers will follow.

Woods shall ring, blithe and gay,
With bird trill and twitter,
Though the skies weep to-day,
And the winds are bitter.

Though deep call unto deep
As calls the thunder,
And white the billow leap
The tempest under;

Softly the waves shall come
Up the long, bright beaches,
With dainty, flower of form
And teaderest speeches…

After the wintry rain,
And the long, long sorrow,
Sing heart!–for thee again,
Joy comes with thee morrow.

Ina Coolbrith was born July 10, 1841 in Illinois, served
as the first poet laureate of California from 1915 to
until her death February 29, 1928.

–Byung A.

Saving the Apples of the Ailing Orchard

Saving the Apples of the Ailing Orchard

Many have lost
what they have strived for,
even the ones loved;
they blame the strange wind
from the beyond the sea.

Anger seemed natural,
pointing at the invisible one,
at the humans for being the cause.

Name calling only reveal
the insight blurred
of the first wave.
Quarrel about dis-dual,
east and west,
like children,

denying the mechanism of
the co-dependence, quarreling
at the ailing orchard
save the fruits?

©Byung A. Fallgren

I wrote this piece in December 2020, while the president Trump
was still in the office and blame China for the pandemic and talking
about dis-dual with the country, and so on. China, in return, pointed
to the travelers who spread COVID-19.
There are different opinions on the origin of the virus. Many
believe that it started in a lab or a small village in China. And I have
noticed some leery-eyes thrown in my direction during shopping.
Regardless where it started, treating the whole Chinese or who looks
like them like vermin is ridiculous.
Unsanitary people are not only in China; they are everywhere.
Here in America, for example, I have seen many times that the food service
workers wear the same gloves they used for cleaning when they serve the
customers! More than once, I have asked them to change the gloves
before preparing the food for me. They are busy is to blame. Still,
using the same gloves that are used for counting money or cleaning
the work area when they prepare the food for customers is not sanitary.
So, let’s stop blaming and focus on healing.

March Storm, like fever


Hello friends, it’s good to be back after for days of absence! We had
27 inches of snow that caused a loss of Internet connection. After
that, computer virus, then finally all returned to normal.

March Storm, like fever

March snow storm flares like
the fever of flu, build
celestial art work on earth;
oblivious to the human struggle
to cope; dig tunnels, move the heap
to the barren land…
It creates holes in the Internet,
shatters the lights, let us ponder
in the ancient darkness.
Human blunders; some join the cease
of snow melts, in the breath of the season.
With comer of May,
the behemoth hides in
the cape of mother,
leaving the gifts of moisture.
We spring, bud as
the trees wave to the sun,
dance to the song of May.

©Byung A. Fallgren