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

Vanishing Song

Chirping of baby robin,
vanishing song of late summer;
hops after its mother, then
fly away together,
leaving the yard empty.

At the Empty pool

a little yellow swimsuit
and a pink sandal,
scattered round the pool;
on the still water,
ponders the golden setting sun.


©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Garden Lullaby
(for the grand child)

Two bumble bees play
with the flowers
saddened by the rain.

Two bumble bees fall
in the puddle;
sink and sink.
Sun saves the bumble bees;
drink and drink.

©Byung A. Fallgren

In Something Seems Great

When an idea seems great but not on second thought,
rescue it; dress it round on the second visit.

Living oversea, away from my siblings,
my brother used to chauffer for me when I visit.

Aged and worn, the brother no more my rescuer.
Sis says he cannot greet you at the airport; when you visit.

Texting and Facetime are the only they can do for me;
they can still shop together, but for me no more visit.

Don't punish a person for being a venturous; you cannot stop.
Someday one will show up at your door; no surprise; one's visit.

I am not a ghost, your little old sis, with a new driver;
from the travel agency for my old days' visit.

©Byung A. Fallgren

The Argument

Four-thirty in the morning, the next door woman yells,
Her children blubber; blubbering and yelling.

The cry echoes in the neighborhood. What's going on?
Getting ready for the camping trip. Dark valley ghosts yelling.

My parents used to argue often; I thought they'd divorce,
which didn't happen, but they continued on yelling.

My daughter and her hubby repeat the family tradition. 
Suddenly for days they stop yelling.

Red rose plants appear in the little garden at the front door.
I never know why. I only pray the roses flourish; no yelling.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Above poem is another GHAZAL I am practicing. Ghazal is Arabic 
poetic form, like sonnet, ghazal has strict rule requirement.