October Haiku
pale yellow leaves
paint the alleys and streets
mound of art show
pink cotton clouds
doze in the early morning sky
sparrows sing wild
bare tree limbs conduct
the Song of Northern Wind
first snowflakes dance
the first snow blankets
the porch and driveway
a stranger's footprints
the gust wind knocked
down the Halloween Ghost
missing Halloween idol
they give flue and
Covid shot at the same time
prefer one at a time.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Singing Roadside House
Off the Old Highway,
On the sagebrush track,
Lone rundown house sat singing;
Singing about the people
Who used to live there:
A girl, two boys, and a mother and father.
Father was a broke-back handyman;
Mother was a broke-hand house cleaner.
The children delivered the
Newspaper in the nearby town,
To help their parents.
The girl grew up to be a teacher,
One boy is a doctor,
And the other one is a fruitful writer.
The old house sings when they
drive by waving.
The house sings in the rain and snow.
Off the Old Highway,
On the sagebrush track,
The lone old house sat singing;
Telling the story of the children
To the new residents:
Mice, tumbleweeds, and the leaves.
--Byung A. Fallgren
Matins
Jeanne D'Orge
The crust of sleep is broken
Abruptly--
I look drowsily
Through the wide crack.
I do not know whether I see
The minds, bird shaped,
Flacking upon the bough of morning;
Or three delicately tinted souls
Butterflying in the sun;
Or three brown-fleshed, husky children
Sprawling hilarious
Over my bed
And me.
Jean D'Orge, born on November 22, 1877 in England
was an American writer and painter. She died on May 2, 1964.
I apologize for being late. Lately I have been on some medication that makes me very tired and forgetful.
In this Weekly Avocet, my two haiku are published. Thank you, editors, for taking the haiku.
Raven, the memory
In my ill bed, I heard the cry
of the raven.
I flung open my eyes;
Mom used to say "when a raven cries someone dies."
Still feverish, I stared out the window.
So, I'm going to die? the thought frightened me;
a wink of death.
"Mom," I called. no response. unusual.
I kicked the blanket, got out of the room,
and searched through the house, in vain.
Mom used to chat with a village mom;
toward her house I ran;
the afternoon sun followed me.
Arriving at the house, I fell into
Mom's arm, in the yard.
"Let's go home," I said.
"You should be in bed."
"I'm scared."
"What happened?"
Embarrassed, I said no word.
That evening, Dad said
"The oldest village man passed today.
Ninety-eight. Good age to leave."
Mom nodded.
Her hand on my forehead, Mom smiled.
"The fever is gone!"
I sighed.
What did it mean; crying at my window?
©Byung A. Fallgren
What the Raven tells you
Of all the symbols of raven,
death and mystery are
I tend to go with the
view of human; but
when I caw at your window
doesn't always mean a death;
but more of mystery;
or just clearing my throat
or I'm in a teasing mood
as you know I'm intelligent;
I'm also playful as any creature.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 