Drifting
Olivia Ward Bush-Bank

And now sun is tinted splendor sank,
   The west was all aglow with crimson light;
The bay seemed like a sheet of burnished gold,
   Its waters glistened with such radiant bright.

At anchor lay the yachts with snow white sails,
   Outlined against the glowing, rose-hued sky,
No ripple stirred the winter's calm repose
   Save when a tiny craft sped lightly by,

Our boat was drifting slowly, gently round,
   To rest secure till evening shadows fell;
No sound disturbed the stillness of the air,
   Saved the soft chiming of the vesper bell.

Yes, drifting, drifting; and I thought that life,
   When nearing death, is like the sunset sky;
And death is but the slow, sure drifting in
   To rest far more securely, by and by.

Then let me drift along the bay of time,
   Till my last sun shall set in glowing light;
Let me cast anchor where no shadow fall,
   Forever moored within heaven's harbor bright.

Olivia Ward Bush-Bank was born on 2-27-1869,
in Sang Harbor New York. A poet, short story writer, 
journalist, she was the author of Original Poems
(Louis A. Basinet, 1899), and more. She died on 
4-8-1944.       




 

My three Haiku are published in this week's Weekly Avocet. Thank you, Charles, Vivian, and Valerie for
taking the pieces. --Byung A.  

Trees at Night
 Helen Johnson

Slim Sentinels
Stretching lacy arms
About a slumbrous moon;
Black quivering
Silhouettes,
Tremulous,
Stenciled on the petal
Of blue bell;
Ink sputtered
On a robin's breast;
The jagged rent
Of mountains
Reflected in a 
Stilly sleeping lake;
Fragile pinnacles
Of fairy castles;
Torn webs of shadows;
And
Printed 'gainst the sky--
The trembling beauty
Of an urgent pine.

Helen Johnson was a poet of the Harlem Renaissance movement. 

Two Countries
Naomi Shihab Nye--1952--

Skin remembers how long the years grow
when skin is not touched, a gray tunnel
of singleness, feather lost from the tail
of a swirling onto a step,
swept away by someone who never saw
it was a feather. Skin ate, walked, 
slept by itself, knew how to raise a
see-you-later hand. But skin felt
it was never seen, never known as a 
land or the map, nose like a city,
hip like a city, glaring down of the mosque
and the hundred corridors of cinnamon and rope.

Skin had a hope, that is what skin does.
Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.
Love means you breathe in two countries.
And skin remembers--silk, spiny grass,
deep in the pocket that is skin's secret own.
Even now, when skin is not alone,
it remembers being alone and thinks something larger 
that there are travelers, that people go places
larger than themselves. 


Naomie Shihab Nye gives voice to her experience as an 
Arab-American through poem about her heritage and place
that overflow with a humanitarian sprit. 

Reminder

Three autumns ago, he passed;
why did she keep it from me for so long?
Even her pet's death was moaned louder;
why the question hides in my throat;
a cautious balloon of fit pops,
finding answers in the lovely picture-words
of encouragement she'd send in evenings,
lest I'd fall ill, with lingering claws.

I'd seen and felt of bleakness in his empty room
when I thought of him;
like a worn feather on the snowy sand beach;
her relief, after years of caring for him who would
pay her by drinking and weeping.

Words swirl in the smoke from the chimney,
silent yet loud, brother; after that, peace;
like the gossamer of light 
in the room. all things understood. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

Hope within the Emptiness

the abandoned house
by the mote
with wooden fence
collapsed
daydreams

a budding tulip
eaten by
senseless animal
waits for
another spring 


©Byung A. Fallgren