Global Haiku • Fall 2010
Dr. Randy Brooks

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Laura Scoville

Laura Scoville is a sophomore at Millikin University, class of 2013. She is a human services major, ethics minor, and participates in the Millikin-Decatur Symphony Orchestra. She currently works at Jimmy John’s, spending her weekends making delicious sandwiches and baking bread. She originally signed up to take a seminar on haiku because it seemed like the easiest choice, but has developed quite a fondness of reading and writing the timeless art form. She writes mainly about crazy antics in college with friends, terrible dates, living in Apartment 409, and being alive.

Coffee and Cigarettes
a kasen renga

Rengay on the Mirror
with Beth Ann Melnick


the swing’s only passenger

Laura Scoville

I don’t know how many times I’ve tried to sit down at my computer and write the perfect haiku. I even tried sitting outside on the porch, taking a walk around campus, or turning out the lights and turning up my favorite Ryan Adams album in pursuit of some divine inspiration that will channel through my fingers and compose the most sincere, raw, and emotional haiku the world has ever seen. needless to say, you probably won’t find anything extraordinarily moving or profoundly deep within these pages. They are just my attempts at taking some of the beauty I’ve seen in the world around me and putting it into three lines of words. I’m not perfect, and neither are my haiku. And I’m completely okay with that.

church parking lot
nervously swaying
to the rhythm of your breath

midnight in the park
the dewy jungle gym leaves the scent
of rust on my palms

morning after
her hair still holds
the bonfire’s smoky breath

October afternoon
a stolen kiss
beneath a blanket of leaves

evening sky
the bitter breeze whispers something
I cannot understand

October sky
I claim a star
as ours

autumn rain
I wait for him
to offer his jacket

roommates gone
I drink straight
from the milk jug

broken deck
we use an expired coupon
as the six of hearts

mid August night
weeds curl up around
half empty beer bottle

rusty playground
the chains moan as our swings 
finally synchronize

the moonlight dances
on the forbidden lake

winter park
the swing’s only passenger

pressing pause
the rhythmic waves
become a new song

© 2010, Randy Brooks • Millikin University
All rights returned to authors upon publication.