My poem What Raven Tells You and Raven, the memory are published in this issue.
Thank you, Charles, Vivian, and Valeri, for taking the pieces.

–Byung A.

More Haiku

blacktop road
glistens with melting snow
mirrored sky 

some leaves skid
after the street sweeper
always more to do

©Byung A. Fallgren

Two Haiku

the first snow descends
busy cleaning the dust-ridden air
cool election day mood

leaves under the snow
wait for the snow to melt away
falling is not fun

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Winter

is the time not to hibernate
but stay indoors to catch up 
to learn the wise ones in the book,
to grow a less painful garden.

I stand in the window often,
eyes skipping, gliding, as the leaves
on the street frolic or fly, forgetting
everything, like the retirees.
My feet itch to go out,
as the brain flags restraint.

Why not start the ski lesson
given up long ago.
The brain shivers even to consider it;
the neck stiffens at the thought.

Just go for a short walk.
I bundle up with a coat and a scarf;
step into the dozing-deep snow in the sun,
and let the bossy Bailey lead the way. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Purple Winter Walk

The air is crisp; the refined one
of the last October air;
the fallen leaves are pale brown,
the high hopes of gold ad red abandoned,
like the acceptance of the old beauty;
yet not resigned but fitting in the time.

The old home in the woods seem closer than 
the earlier thought; next, it recedes farther;
as if gone to a place unreachable.

The deep snow, not to be blamed;
but the worn eagerness by the torn age.
Don't come, it whispers,
the voice hollow as the old home;
but my footsteps keep on moving as if
it grew its own spirit;
as the sun's finger points to my heart.

Lest I stop, a rabbit hops ahead;
and a hidden bird sings for the winter day.    

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

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

 

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

On the Drive to meet the daughter

Fluffy little dog and lamb play
in the blue field of sky; on the way
to the town where she will stay.

But the cars and trucks on the road 
are racing; competing;

semis sandwiching the little car;
as the gust bellows from the wheat field.

The lone scarecrow waves a Safe Drive song:

Home is near at the end 
of the silver lane,
where the flower boy is waiting for you
at the railroad cross, with a bouquet of
cotton clouds and lambs; in the sky.

So, it seems; hard to see it unfolds
in no known seconds.  

©Byung A. Fallgren  

Avoiding the Villane

Being an insomniac,
do some 3 a.m. hike on the trail of
thoughts, then meet the authors in the pages;
sometimes, they are kind to send me
to the sleepy slope of grab the alternative; any book.
Words are not to be blamed;
need to be lost in the blank world;
not to be bothered
in the known hours of pain.

–Byung A. Fallgren