Roundness

is not selfish
not self-centered,

not intrusive,
nor manipulative,

is an endeavor to connect
the broken words,

to get the two ends bloom.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Woodpecker

The lonely and mad wife
wants to drill
in his head,
to see what dwells
in it;
dru-r-r-r.
She cackles,
peeping in the hole
in the roof
of the playhouse–
a dead wood pecker;
she sees another
in her heart.

©Byung A. Fallgren

At the Point of Conclusion

we dream
sweat
bloom
leave fruits behind
or nothing at all
then exhale a big sigh
amazed by our bareness
within
appearance
abundance or what is
a matter of past
passing wind tolerable
evening pensive
morning sun seem
more profound

©Byung A. Fallgren

Near the end of April
William Stanley Braithwaite

Near the end of April
     On the verge of May–
and O my heart, the word were dusk 
     At the close of day.
Half a word was spoken
     Out of half a dream,
And God looked in my soul and saw
     A dawn rise and gleam.
Near the end of April
     Twenty Mays have met,
And half a word and half a dream
     Remember and forget. 

Near the end of April appeared in Lyrics of Life 
and Love, H.B. Turner & Co, 1904. William Stanley
Braithwaite was born December 6, 1878, was a poet,
Editor. His books include Selected Poems, The House
of Falling Leaves with Other Poems. He died in 
Harlem, New York on January 8, 1962. 

Photo by Charmel Herinckx–charmel44@hotmail.com

the sunlit icicle
brightens up for a few moment
ice-dancing of fairy

©Byung A. Fallgren

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 the end of this spring;

At least for now, sounds
Of new born of the earth;
Drip, drip, coo-coo-r-coo-, Ah-h–

©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.

Four hundred years old Angel Oak in Charleston Carolina. 
Photo by Nick Della Volpe–ndellavolpe@bellsouth.net

Even the Old Oak
her desire 
to be the vein
of the sky
just 
a dream

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Thought
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.

Juniper

the juniper
buried in the snow
shakes it off
to see the sun
applauding wind

©Byung A. Fallgren

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.