In the Backyard
The grass is sunbasking;
As a bunny hops across the lawn;
The dragonfly, in the air, gloriously circling.
A sudden elegy of a cricket, singing
For the requem for the dead robin
In the flower bed, in the evening.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Going to the Snowy Range in July
Going to the Snowy Range in July
On a day in late July, we are going to
the Snowy Range in Laramie Wyoming,
driving through the dirt road; O, the cloud
of dust, the fog of our youthful dreams, swirling
and chocking us, but no one complins:
the motorcyclists, the couple in an open jeep,
or, closed SUV, all smily and yelping.
The snow-capped mountain peak ahead drums
to welcome the enthusiasts.
The reservior amid the forest of sweet pines
and green leaves; the sunlights are swiming
as the fowls glide by. Dad and the son throw
the line just to tease the fish. The forest floor,
purple and white is a platform for the dancing
bees and butterflies; the singers
in the distant, angelic.
Who would not love the world like that?
The argument we had before lost the voice.
Passing breeze sighs at the beautiful work of
Mother Nature. So do the clouds and we.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Ode for the Time being
Three Haiku
Three Haiku
spraying pestcide
killing danelions and crikets
the beauties & singers
the neighbor's dog
kills wild bunnies for sport
coping humans
lawn grass
no need to be perfect green
love Mother's way
© Byung A. Fallgren
Taking Levothyroxine
Taking Levothyroxine at 3 a.m.
It's supposed to be taken
when the stomach is deserted,
an hour before it is refreshing to start the day.
But I modified the doc's suggestion:
Taking it at 3 in the morning, which is
my usual waking time, even when retired
late. I keep it religiously,
to get the thyroid on track, to keep breathing
as long as I can, to see how the grandkids
doing with their lives, to see where my penning days
end; will it be the purple-silk hill overlooking the sea,
or the familiar dune? O, I would not care, either way,
as long as my heart occasionally sings.
© Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
A Time to Talk
A Time to Talk
Robert Frost 1874--1963
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end-up and five foot tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
for a friendly visit.
Two Haiku
Two Haiku
gone are the songs of
crickets and frogs in the night
storm clouds thunder
silent evening pond
bull frogs wail no more
moon hides in the cloud
© Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet
The Doe
The Doe
On a warm evening, walking the dog
near the pasture, I saw an unusual event
unfold in the distance:
a doe and fawn, chased by a coyote;
to keep up
with its moghter running for her life,
the fawn fell.
The coyote approached the injoured fawn;
my dog, free from my grip, dashed to the
predator, howling; the coyote fled.
To examine the injoured one, I got closer,
and it limped away to its mom
watching us from afar.
When the young buck with the limp leg,
excluded by his group,
the doe joined him walking in the night,
foraged together in the pasture or my yard.
The doe and the buck with crippled back leg
and lovely antlers; the nightly visitors,
now, enjoy a midnight snack on
the leaves of my apple tree. The buck,
his antlers reaching for the moon, his mouth
to the apple in the tree; an art of nature.
As I watch them in the moonlight, in awe,
for her motherly love, tears well in my eyes.
How long? She doesn't care; she just lives in the
momentary joy. But she knows instictively
that her care for her son in the season will pay off;
her son is well nourished and fat for the winter.
The night stealthily moves on, and they trot off
into the light of dawn.
This piece is published in the Avocet, a journal of Nature Poetry,
Summer printed issue, 2022.
© Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 