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
The Weekly Avocet
October Haiku
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
The Weekly Avocet
Singing Roadside House
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
The Weekly Avocet
Matins
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.
The Weekly Avocet and more
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
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
Byung A. Fallgren 