Ronovan Writes Weekly Haiku Poetry Prompt Challenge #138

Whispers in the dark

Can hold the softest secret

But burn the air black




Parris Island, SC
Jackson, TN

Entry 2/Daily Prompt/Center

<a href=””>Center</a>

Reclining Buddha
Meditation cast in bronze
Nirvana on view?

Center Ice

Zamboni cleaning center ice




A Restless Sunday Night

Running on leaves
In the woods.
Hit my head on a tree.
Is my forehead bleeding?
Woke up at 1:03 a.m.

Labrador Retreivers
Jumping midweek

Spring rain
4 a.m.
The dog pees

This last one, I think I have been reading too much Kerouac.

Shasta and Cleo



A Good Match

Saturdays Are…

Milan, TN 2/25/17
I am training for the Indy Mini, one of the largest half marathon events in the United States.

Saturdays are wake up early, check the weather and only drink half a cup of coffee, so you don’t have to pee days.

Saturdays are don’t overdress and don’t wear the shirt you have worn so much you can’t get the stink out anymore days.

Saturdays are standing around watching the other runners, wondering why you got there so early, and is that woman in my age group, because she looks fast days.

Saturdays are here we go, the sun feels good, my legs are strong and my breathing is just right days. OR…wow, it is windy, my legs feel like lead and crap, how long can 3.1 miles really feel days.

Saturdays are a finish line where strangers tell each “good job” and clap at the awards ceremony, as runners are a supportive group, days.

Saturdays are race days, often a collective of common misery and jubilant triumph and always a fabulous way to spend a morning.

Early Flight

Something comfortable
Old friends in a long marriage

You say
We can do anything

There is nothing
In that anything
I want

Everything turns
To no-thing
When your plane leaves at 6 am

Haiku/Prompt: Slur

Early Spring arrives
Buds on the maple tree swell
A slur to Winter


No Rhythm on Flight 6210

Having “earned” miles, I was upgraded to “comfort class.”


The older man in 6A was lulled to sleep by the engine’s drone.

The infant, in mother’s lap, was not.

The preschooler, as we sped down the runway for take-off, screamed, “I hate this part!”

Me, too.