Distraction

I don't post often on Facebook,
but sometimes, I do several 
in a flash. A girl would point out:
"Distracted again. Stop and focus
on your great dream."

Is she my fan? or, just pissed off
by the didactic line?
I would not ask, for silence is better
than unnecessary scene;
avoid confrontation--
here I go again, being moral;
rather not post this.

Once in a while, I would like to be
free from pen; dance on a blank page 
of poems and stories;
do banter and laugh,
which wakes the creative elf.

yet, the glimpse of light at the edge 
of the word; thanks for the tip. 

©Byung A. Fallgren 

Sport
Langston Hughes 1901--1967

Life for him
Must be
The shivering of
A great drum
Beaten with swift sticks
Then at the closing hour
The lights go out
And there is no music at all
And death becomes 
An empty cabaret
And eternity an unblown saxophone 
And yesterday 
A glass of gin
Drunk long 
Ago

Langston Hughes was born in Missouri, died in New York.
He's a major figure of the Harlem Renaissance, author of 
many books of poetry and plays.  
 

Fly, Reincarnation 

I'm up at 2 a.m.
and hear my late father's 
low grunting voice: "Up so early?"

Surprised, I stare round the room.
See no one. But a big, skinny fly,
flying around the lampshade, buzzing,
that sounds like old man.
That abominable insect. Dare to imitate
my father. I whack it with the book.

It zooms toward my face, nearly touch
my nose and disappears. 

From somewhere a faint buzzing.
But I see not; not good at finding things
as usual I am. Slowly it reappears,
sits on the top of the lampshade, stares at me,
circles around the lamp, buzzes in deep voice
of Buddha, and scolds:

"Do not kill anything alive, even a fly."
Reincarnation. What if it is my father?
I shake my head; absurd as magot.

Of all the good things, why would he reborn
as a dumb fly?

Mad for the lost hour of the morning reading;
I raise the book and aim at the fly. Knock it down. 
With a sigh, wrap the dead one in a paper and
set it on the dashboard. 
Now, you can say I'm a human. 

Still, common sense nags: born, grow old, and
die is beyond mortal's power;
so is reincarnation.

At least, I would bury it properly;

give the dead fly a flower garden burial.
So, I did. The moon nods.
Back in the bed, I hear the buzz. Still to come.
With doubt. Doubt of all things. 

©Byung A. Fallgren

Clarity
Vievee Francis

Sorrow, O Sorrow moves like a loose flock
of blackbirds sweeping over the metal roofs, over the birches,
     and the miles.
One wave after another, then another, then the sudden
      opening

where the feathered swirl, illumined by the dusk, parts to reveal

the weeping heart of all things.

(Vievee Francis is the author of four books of poetry. She teaches
poetry and poetics at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire.)

barmy March drive
a couple of swallow frolic in the air
magically veering collision

near the tilled wheat field
the lone haystack, still robust
Jackalope Hill

a couple of duck argue
in the river with the melting ice
sun-glitter on the ducks

©Byung A. Fallgren

Spring Haiku

Mother's reminder
fast approaching global warming
with balmy March

family reunion
some reptilians plan to gather
shedding the old skin

©Byung A. Fallgren