Ikebana Art

is the art of flower arranging. Through contemplation, creativity and discipline, like Ikebana offers the opportunity for observing deeply connecting with our natural world: cultivating the understanding and appreciation of
the natural growth of the plants and flowers and love of nature in all its phase.
The long history of Ikebana can be traced back to the 6^th century when Buddhism was introduced into Japan from China and Korea. Monks arranged flowers for alters to honor Buddha. Many schools evolved over the centuries. Currently it is taught and practiced in the worldwide community. –Norma Bradley, artist. (normabradley@gmail.com.)

   

**

Arranged Flowers 

We bloom once
bloom again
in silent songs
only you can hear.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

 

When the Quarantine Syndrome Sneaks on You

Your eyes navigate the gray sea of Internet,
Skimming, yet nothing enters in your head,

As your mind drifts back and forth, past and now,
Trivial matters exaggerate, turbid, fester,

Your wife screams, you go berserk.
You are not alone. Take your family for a walk,

Wave to the passersby, smile or say hello.

© Byung A. Fallgren

Photo by Joe Murphy, Linda Holste, (joseph.f.murphy@vanderbilt.edu)
Sandhill Crane.

By now, most of people have adapted to the situations the pandemic
has brought, we like to think so. But truth is there are still many people, especially
younger people, are suffering from so called quarantine-syndrome. I’ve seen
some couples go berserk, talking about divorcing, etc.
Older people seemed to adjust to the time better, despite the vulnerability to
the virus–the benefit of aging. Yet, truth is I begin to feel I’ve had enough of this.
Ugh. Can’t wait…till next year…for the vaccine… But we have to do our best to
stay lucid, defeat the pandemic, and keep our home healthy.

 

My True Home

My pretty ex-wife
wants me back
but my home
is where my kid
lives with his/her loving mom.

*

My thoughts flow, often in fragments,
if I don’t stop it, it goes on nonstop. Above poem
is caught before flitting by. In writing poem you can use
any POV (she, he, it, they, I), disregarding your gender.
I don’t post my best poems. Nor do I post
the worst ones. I do whatever I feel like to.
I limit the time of getting on line so that I can do
other things: gardening, walking, reading, writing,
house chore, etc.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Forest Water Color
by Andrea Ferrari (aferrari@stmariy.edu.ar)

Time-lapsed clouds
roll like pigment on watered paper
blackgreywhite
dampening green, greening light.

Lichen eyes spread
their watch further, turn owls, merge
and defuse.

You tread the dark soil in rain
unafraid of thunder in the distance
going in
going into
a jungle of water
dissolving the edges of leaves
and trees
and you

sudden watercolor of the soul

Returning to the Road Failed Before

Young man’s whim dared to cross the road
with the deep chasm and muddy hill,
his jalopy sputtered, exhausted.
He turned to go back.

Decades later, having reached the top
of the hill of his reluctant choice yet
turned out just right, he looked back at

the rough road he once failed to cross.
The shinny pickup truck veered smoothly
the chasm and climbed the muddy hill, and
out to the open prairie so vast that the horizons
in all direction meet the cerulean blue sky.
He continues on the dirt road that cut through

the sagebrush prairie and snakes to the horizon,
arrives at the junction of two lonely roads
with no sign. He takes the road more traveled.
Miles later, he sees an old ranch house ahead. He
swings round to the other road overlooked earlier
leads to the highway that takes him home.

©Byung A. Fallgren

Lovely Deadly Poppies, by Rita M. Yager
(yagojohn@aol.com)

Poppies

don’t
be afraid of me
just call me
a friend worried
for your imprudence

©Byung A. Fallgren

Mrs. F and the Bird’s Mind

The old lady buys a new bike and keeps it
in the shed. Weeks later, she finds
her red-and-blue darling covered with
bird poop, accusing her, “See what happenes
when you buy the stuff you don’t use?”
Her mouth drawn in thin line
she glares at the noisy bird nest at the edge of
the ceiling above the bike.
The baby wrens now silent, sensed the terror.
In her sizzling mind, her hubby grins.
“Like him, like the little sh*ts!” She grabs
an old fishing pole and, like a mad cat, swings
the stick to pull the straw hanging from the nest,
“Let me see you, little things!”
Mommy wren, with worm in her beak, shrieks,
startling Mrs. F falls
on her butt amid the bird poop.
Clutching her aching back, she struggles on her feet,
fights her temptation to yank the straw,
lest the nest with the baby birds fall.
She pictures the terrified little ones in the nest,
their little hearts pounding in the tiny, fuzzy chest.
She’s never before seen closer baby birds in the nest,
her curiosity, fueled by anger,
she pulls the straw a bit more forward to see them,
but the nest doesn’t budge.
Outside, the mommy wren squawks, shrill.
Mrs. F crawls out of the shed.
A week later, the babies and mommy wren,
in the tree outside her window, chirp in glee,
as if to tell her, “Thank you.”
Mrs. F laughs, her eyes brimming.
The birds fly away, except one.
“Go on,” Mrs. F tells it. “Join your siblings now.”
The chick gives her an enigmatic look and joins them
fly to the day moon winks. Mrs. F stares
at the empty nest in the box in her room, pondering.
She embraces the empty-nest syndrome for a little while.

©Byung A. Fallgren

 

 

white dogwood, by Pat Hope (thetwohope@aol.com)

Dogwood fairies

three fairies
on the branch
dance
for the fallen souls
in the harsh wind

©Byung A. Fallgren