30 Days 30 Stories: Haiku

By Julie Daines

This year, I'm sharing some awesome Haiku. Most of these were written by my friends for a competition, and I'm posting them without permission, so oops.

Anyway, here are some great Haiku poems about books:

Swan Song (Haiku by T.J. Reed) 

Young girl, heart of gold

Devil roaming happily

Will the world end?


Keturah and Lord Death (Haiku by Michelle Ratto)

death permeates all

life and love in the village

and forces a choice


The Hunger Games (Haiku by Christine Tyler)

Thanks for the burnt bread

If you kiss me you get soup

I'd like to frost you


To Kill A Mockingbird (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)

Fearing boogieman

two finches learn tolerance

among injustice

Pride and Prejudice (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)

Rich men want a wife

It's a universal law

Mother's want the match

The Hobbit (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)

He's number thirteen

with some dwarves and a wizard

What's in his pocket?

Where the Wild Things Are (Haiku by Rachel Taylor)

They held Max up high

"And now let the wild rumpus begin"

They all roared out loud.

The Body Finder (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)

I hear the echoes

From the missing and the dead

And the one who killed

Have you got a book Haiku you'd like to share? Leave it in the comments.

30 Days: Pioneer Chrismas

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Ma, where will we be for Christmas this year?

In the Salt Lake Valley.

Will we get there before Christmas?

I hope so, little one.

But isn’t it Christmas right now?

No, dear, not yet.

But there is so much snow.

I know. Come along.

My feet hurt.

Let me see. I have a little flour sack. Let me wrap them.

I’m hungry too.

We all are. I have a little leather left. Chew it as we walk.

Will Pa be home for Christmas?

No, love, he can’t be with us anymore.

Where is he?

We had to leave him with the others.

Will the wolves hurt him?

We covered him good with sage brush.

Will we see him again, Ma?

Yes.

Will he miss us?

I think he will be sad to not be with us. Do you know who was born on Christmas?

Jesus?

Yes. And His Mother and Father loved Him very much.

Did He grow big like me?

Yes, He did. And one day Jesus had to leave His family even when He didn’t want to leave.

Just like Pa.

Yes, and Pa is with Jesus in Heaven.

Pa gets to spend Christmas with Jesus?

He does.

He gets to have the best Christmas.

I think you’re right.

I still wish Pa was with us, pulling me in the handcart.

Do you want to get in the handcart now?

May I? The rocks are hurting my feet.

Let me put you in with sister.

Sister is so cold, Ma.

Wrap your arms around her and hold her close.

Will she spend Christmas with Jesus, too?

I would miss her terribly if she did, dear.

Can you hear the singing?

It must be the other Saints singing.

I can’t see no other handcarts. Didn’t angels sing when Jesus was born?

Yes.

I think the angels are singing for us tonight so we are not alone.

I believe you are right, little one.

30 Days: Poetry by Brooke Wilson

Sometimes I Run

Sometimes I run

not to get in shape

but to get away from all the shapes

in my life.

Sometimes I run

and I race my shadow

but I always let it win

because if I came face to face with my shadow

after all these years of chasing

what would I say to it?

Sometimes I run

until time slows down

stops

goes backward.

And I don’t want to stop running

until time has gone back far enough

to where hugs enveloped you

and cares were lighter than a robin’s egg

and death

was just a rumor

vacationing in a far-off land.

Sometimes I run

to wrap myself in the cool green mist

and soak up as much fresh life as I can,

to store for later.

Sometimes I run

until I feel the blood pound in my head

and my muscles scream

and my lungs burst

and it feels so good

to know for certain

that I am

painfully

wonderfully

beautifully

alive.

It Began with Ivy

It began with the ivy

curling up the side of a church

in a small abandoned parking lot.

It began with the rain

landing softly on the two faces,

cleansing the ivy.

It began with two hands.

Ten interlocked fingers

growing together gently.

It began with the dance,

more beautiful than music,

quieter than the rain.

It began with hope.

Braided fingers twirling in slow circles,

fresh water kissing their faces.

It began with whispers

from an inclination, feeling, need,

conviction.

Eventually, the entwined fingers

and cooled wet faces

danced on from the parking lot.

But the church,

and the ivy,

and the hope

Are there yet.

Brooke Wilson - liningthecloudswithsilver.blogspot.com