I am Bound, I am Bound, for A Distant Shore
Henry David Thoreau, 1817--1862
I am bound, I am bound, for a distant shore,
By a lonely isle, by a far A zore,
There it is, there it is, the treasure I seek,
On the barren sands of a desolate creek.
Although Henry David Thoreau was a poet, his most
defining work was his book, Walden.
Author: Byungafallgren
Loving the Fresh Air at 3 a.m.
Loving the Fresh air at 3 a.m.
At night, we tend to breathe more,
like a couple of bears in the den; filling,
the room with CO2 oh so quickly.
open the window and fall back to bed.
the cool, fresh air from the treetops rush in,
kisses my face; Mother Nature's breath;
Thank God, we still have some fresh air
despite the pollution we all produce.
Take a deep breath of the dawn.
Let the green angels scent the
ugly air we emit, like the old stars;
I will plant in spring more trees.
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
Winter Song
Winter Song
Wilfred Owen
the browns, the olives, and yellow died,
and were swept up to heaven; where they glowed
Each down and set of sun till Christmas tide,
And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed.
Fell back, and down the snow drifts flowed and flowed.
From off your face, into the wind of winter,
The sun-blown and summer-gold are blowing;
But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter,
When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing,
and through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.
Wilfred Owen, born on March 18, 1893, in England, was a
poet of the First World War. He died November 4, 1918.
The Weekly Avocet
Sloppy Winter Haiku/Senryu
now, even air is still
hillside trees, frozen lake silent
like estranged lovers
no more colorful light
in the neighbor's window
after the holidays
sparrows on the power line
tease the lone magpie on the grass
waiting for spring
New Year's Eve
the couple blast their last fight
new resolution--no fight?
sale after Christmas
bustling crowd in the store
everyone loves low price
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
Injury Room
Injury Room
Katie Ford
Through my
little window, I
see one day
the entire bird,
the next just
a leeward wing,
the next
only a painful
call, which, without
the body, makes
beautiful attachments
by even
attaching at
all.
Katie Ford is a professor of creative writing
at the University of California, Riverside.
The Blue Booth by the Library
The Blue Booth by the Library
The library among the city's ghosts--
the roaming homeless--stands as Minerva,
with open arms whispers:
come in, seek, find.
and yes, the ghosts go inside, not to read but
to do something else and leave. today, I see a woman
in the small, blue booth at the end of a walk way;
slump down on the wooden bench, her head hung;
the dark waves rise high and fall; and repeats;
her gaunt body shudders, like a little leaf in the
cold rain. she remains there a long while;
and brusquely walk away;
where? just like the others before her?
one only wishes them the best;
yet knowing whish alone would be vain; still wish
they would grasp the love the mother giving birth;
open the eyes wide and go, and go well.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 