Shades of the Night

Her brother slipped away from

the days of dreams and pains,

unbeknown to her; while reading 

or thinking of the book "Story of

Buddha" he gave her long ago.

Every evening, her sister would
send her the lovely pictures;
her tears would drown in the sea of
the encouraging lines, from abroad;
but it could not stop her worry
for her daughter moans of her life.
she'd walk in the dream, listening to
the beggar or robber; he'd kill if
he doesn't get the money. The dirge
from the radio woke her. Wind howls
at the crescent moon; melting ice jeers;
drink the tea of moon drop.

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Winter Berries, the Crow

Red clusters of the seeds of dream;
silent screams of time
gone too soon, hanging from
the bear branches; soft snow's 
empathy; lone crow ponders,

if this beauty is what death looks like.
He listens to the spirits of the season gone,
in the nature, in the human voices that
always gives him shiver,
in the drifting snow from the pine trees,
too profound to chew and swallow.
He pecks the little berry; surprised 
by the firm grip on the community of its world;
tilt his head, gaze more,

feels the knot in his heart,
with sudden yearning, he takes off. 


©Byung A. Fallgren

My three poems, Depletion of Ozone Layer, Global Warming, Protecting Water source are published in this issue. 
Thank you, Charles, Vivian, and Valeri for taking my poems.  

 Byung A. 

Night Haiku

in the wee hours
two owls hoot to each other
wise winter night

it happens at midnight
a screech owl flies by my house
shrills the climate change

moon hides in the tree
as rabbit skids on the ice
spring won't be here soon


©Byung A. Fallgren

Winter Haiku

no birds are flying
but the drifting snow everywhere 
deep winter is here

green juniper's branch
sticks out through the snow on it
what is going on

the town under the snow
so quiet, it is picturesque
lone rabbit hops round 

under the deep snow 
nothing seems moving, even trees
why the wind howls so

clouds seem to tell us 
looking at the deep snow here
put it to good use


©Byung A. Fallgren

January, Mother's temper

Twenty-five below zero has brought

six-inch snow;

was only days ago, days later,

it rains;

thirty-seven degrees, warm breath of

impatient spring. 

Who says only human can display uneven temper;
Mother startles us with hers. We only pray
she plays benign. Or should we say we 
check on our habit provoking her; we've done enough.

Listen to the cracking, artic ice in the January rain;

sea of the jagged pieces ice; bleeding polar bear.

The red setting sun shudders; echoes in our heart.
We whisper to the sun: we try hard.
January rain sobs, silent cry;
we listen, listen more.

Mother begs: dig out the muscle in the cove
of your heart.

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Four Haiku

in the mirror
I see an old monkey
time is wicked

daydream all day
writing in the evening
tonight, lost sleep

feeling guilt
writhing on the couch all day
old habit no more

clouds talk to each other
see the snow down there on earth
job done for today


©Byung A. Fallgren

Fate of the Daogi, and others

In my childhood, I used to hear at night 
the bird call: daok, daok. Low, intense cry.
I slipped out of the bed to the hall, stared
toward the dark wood. No bird call,
but a light swam in the black lake 
of the night forest.

Trees vanished into the new houses.
I heard Daogi no more.

Light swam in the dark lake of the night. 


©Byung A. Fallgren

from The Death of the Old Year, the poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

"Old year you must not go;
  So long you have been with us,
  Such joy as you have seen with us,
  Old year you shall not go."

As I was reading The Death of the Old Year, by Tennyson, 
I was attracted especially by the above stanza of the poem. 
With what has been happening in the world, I'd feel quite 
the opposite; I am glad to say goodby to the old year.
Maybe, I'm not alone. However, I was stricken by the tenderness
and warmth of the old poet's view. And I thought: why not? 

  (Alfred Tennyson was born on August 6, 1809, in England, died
on October 6, 1892. Many of his poems are among the best known
in the English language.)
  

The Strange Woman
   How I learned for the first time of the  
   impureness of the world. (From the memory 
   of my childhood.)


My early child home, the thatched, rural house
at the foothill, sometimes attracts wayfarer for 
the overnight sojourn. So, when a middle-aged woman,
heavy set, sat on the edge of the entrance hall
with my mother, I thought, another one.
This one didn't go to the guest room near the gate,
gabbing low, stealing my mother's sewing hour.

Part of her story I heard was:
some say the bell is made of animal hide.
no one knows where it is, but it sounds 
deep and sonorous. It only tolls at midnight.
Although it is somewhere in the city where 
I live, you can hear it here if you listen hard. 

My mother nodded; didn't seem to believe the woman.
At the age seven, I was doubtful. 

I must go home to the city now, the woman said,
peeking in her bag. I have no money to ride a bus.
If you spare me some...

My mother gave her bus fee.
This is not enough, the woman demanded.
I don't have money, my mother told her.
The woman paused. What about the hidden one?

Furrowing her brows, my mother said, what money?
The one in the drawer, the woman said, her voice rising.
Tell that girl to bring it here, all of it. I'll take the half.

At the sudden turn of the woman's behavior, 
my mother and I, alone in the house, were shaken.
What's hidden in her bag? How does she know 
the money in the drawer, our life for the month?
Mother told me to bring the money.

All of it, the woman chimed. 

I hurried to the drawer in the room, took one half of the money
to my mother, which she gave the other half of it to the woman.

I know this is not all, the woman said to me. Go get all of it.

That is all we have, I lied.
Don't lie. the woman said.
I don't. I was angry at the rudeness of the woman. 
Did you get all the money? my mother asked me under her breath.

Yes. 
She's lying, the woman said.
That is all we have, I lied again.

The woman took the money and left. 

I feared, my mother said. the woman might harm us.
Blame the remote house. Naked and vulnerable.

Or the strange woman, I thought. She taught me the world
is not as pink and safe as I think; and that
I wouldn't become a part of it; angry no more.

Now, I wonder if the child of me had seen the woman
as more than just a robber, for I felt a gossamer of
sympathy for her, amused a bit by her story.
Like this world, good and bad, with many possibilities. 


©Byung A. Fallgren