No title
The night thoughts flee.
Too quick to take notes, but
one thing, a fine line on the
word rolling in the mist.
Would you allow the
bullying thrust?
Is it the insinuating heat wave
of the rock behind the boulder?
You would not dwell on it.
Each moment is gold,
now, the fragile hour.
©Byung A. Fallgren
October
Mountain waves at me
dressed in a gold-studded cloak,
as the sun dances
on the lake.
What does it greet me for
in such a beautiful attire and passion?
©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
Singing Roadside House
Off the Old Highway,
On the sagebrush track,
Lone rundown house sat singing;
Singing about the people
Who used to live there:
A girl, two boys, and a mother and father.
Father was a broke-back handyman;
Mother was a broke-hand house cleaner.
The children delivered the
Newspaper in the nearby town,
To help their parents.
The girl grew up to be a teacher,
One boy is a doctor,
And the other one is a fruitful writer.
The old house sings when they
drive by waving.
The house sings in the rain and snow.
Off the Old Highway,
On the sagebrush track,
The lone old house sat singing;
Telling the story of the children
To the new residents:
Mice, tumbleweeds, and the leaves.
--Byung A. Fallgren
Matins
Jeanne D'Orge
The crust of sleep is broken
Abruptly--
I look drowsily
Through the wide crack.
I do not know whether I see
The minds, bird shaped,
Flacking upon the bough of morning;
Or three delicately tinted souls
Butterflying in the sun;
Or three brown-fleshed, husky children
Sprawling hilarious
Over my bed
And me.
Jean D'Orge, born on November 22, 1877 in England
was an American writer and painter. She died on May 2, 1964.
Byung A. Fallgren 