Story Haibun Poems | Examples
These Story Haibun poems are examples of Haibun poems about Story. These are the best examples of Haibun Story poems written by international poets.
Beneath a Tree Diary Entry Winter Equinox 1670
Diary Entry Winter Equinox 1670
Upon the twelfth hour of Winter's gail, for a moment a glorious splashed painting appear.... as the sullin clouds run...run onward toward the east.. in a misty breath of distant dreams, I remember Basho an old friend of mine. Fugi lying silent....a summit to be reached, a heavey sigh....
A wind blown memory, so long ago atop Fugi (The Winter Snow) Cherry Blossoms of Spring (below) Trees of Autumn (wind blown) days passing by oh so quick....each season now a memorable story of the time we spent upon a summer dream
beneath a tree
for a moment
I hear basho
"My scars tell a story. I love each one. They are reminders of times
when life tried to break me and failed. They are marks etched in stone.
And proof of my character. Strength of my foundation and the fire that
burns within me always."
Quote by _Poet
Etched in Stone
Some things in life are permanent and fixed, they cannot be changed ever or
altered. I have things time carved in my mind, impossible to erase. Written
on tombs. No amendment or alteration or repair will change anything. I have
powerful memories and emotional images, etched like graffiti on my heart.
My spirit and mind are damaged with intricate designs in percise scroll details. Engraved in my mind forever, painted on my soul. I cannot forget. Will not.
And I am stained beautiful by the past, by time, and by years. Weathered is
my existence. Ravaged is my garden. Yet, has made me the me I am now.
among tombs I stroll
reading names etched beautiful
the rose I hold dead
Beneath a Tree - Diary Entry Winter Equinox 1670
upon the twelfth hour of Winter's gail, for a moment a glorious splashed painting appear.... as the sullin clouds run...run onward toward the east.. in a misty breath of distant dreams, I remember Basho an old friend of mine. Fugi lying silent....a summit to be reached
A wind blown memory, so long ago
Atop Fugi (The Winter Snow)Cherry Blossoms of Spring (below) Trees of Autumn (wind blown) days passing by oh so quick....each season now a memorable story of the time we spent..
Beneath a tree
For a moment
I hear basho
‘An urban legend says:
These old woods were preyed on.’
Let me tell you a story of where I grew up.
A tale of the grounds behind my childhood home.
There are screams, there is blood splatter,
there is time lost, and time found. A cabin’s
framework remains to remind us of what could
happen again. Lest we forget the murders that
tainted a town in it’s heyday. The worst crime ever
committed here or so they say, with no motive.
As the years passed the truth was lost to the game
of telephone. All we have is here-say.
But the wind will always simply carry…
‘Continue to walk.’
the trees whisper in your ear;
Let the sunset rest.
The beauty you see in me is a reflection of you ~ Rumi
Pouring forth from the light in her eyes, I see my heart spilling salty tears – they glisten, then subside. Where she’s been, my heart can only imagine. She’s still here, but her heart is fully confounded. Her dreams have become much more than just old baggage. Her light has been stunned by the temptation to just let go of her hope and crawl into some bottle or into some drug. She is wise, though. Wiser than they give her credit for. I can see, in her eyes, the reflection of a story brought to life through hope. Hope for a purpose. Hope for a new dawn. Hope that leaves her victorious, even when all her fight has gone. Pouring forth from the light in her, I see the wonder of a love more alive than I’ve ever known. This is the love only God could have replicated inside of her.
story of a heart
songs twisted into lessons,
breathing spirit beats
Last night, my mind started wandering around the hills and hollers of the olden days again. That is not unusual as the older I get, the more time I seem to spend there. Sometimes I wonder if it’s old age that keeps sending me back to those carefree yesterdays or is it my attempt to escape the craziness that has seemed to take over the world today. But that’s another story for another time. Anyway, the last couple of days my arthritis has been acting up. As I sat there in the rocker, fidgeting from one side of my butt to the other, trying to find that sweet spot that would give me the most comfort. I suddenly had a flash from the past. I remember how Mom used to always say how she could feel a change coming in the weather. She’d say she could feel it in her bones. I used to always laugh at her the same way my grandkids now laugh at me. I guess I can officially say that I have become my mother… and I have to say, there ain’t nothing wrong with that.
When I was a child
didn’t want to be like them—
But yet here I am
I liked this little story more than your expectation. To explain it, we knew that zero means nothing. In fact, in mathematical philosophy, zero has a high important value. For example, without the zero, many of the advanced technology we see and use (PC is a clear example) could not be achieved. Computers do not understand a single letter, but human do. Basically computers recognize a letter as (000001110000) and another one as (10001110) where 0 or 1 here are closed or open of an electric circle. In mathematical economics, in equations, zero means a lot! I will end this comment by writing that zero in term of money is better than negative (debt) digit. In other word, the statement of your account in the bank when it showing zero is better than showing (- 1000).
a zero value
make your mind very wider
new understanding
It’s amazing what can be accomplished if you don’t care who takes the credit. What kind of amazing things do you think could get done if Congress and our President decided that it did not make a difference which party got the credit. Perhaps if they can’t figure it out on their own, they should just post a survey on Facebook. After all, we were pretty good at choosing if we wanted Team Edward or Team Jacob. But then again, past elections tell a different story.
I want it my way
but you must have it your way
why not flip a coin
"Simhaladvipa or simply Simhala is the name of an island (dvipa) according to the Kathasaritsagara, chapter 56. Accordingly, “... there he [Candrasvamin] heard that the merchant Kanakavarman had gone from that island to an island named Karpura. In the same way he visited in turn the islands of Karpura, Suvarna and Simhala with merchants, hut he did not find the merchant whom he was in search of”.
The Kathasaritsagara (‘ocean of streams of story’), mentioning Simhaladvipa, is a famous Sanskrit epic story revolving around prince Naravahanadatta and his quest to become the emperor of the vidyadharas (celestial beings). The work is said to have been an adaptation of Gunadhya’s Brhatkatha consisting of 100,000 verses, which in turn is part of a larger work containing 700,000 verses."
Seren and Deep.
Simhaladvipa
Lamka Sri island so deep
the Seren and dip
the green mountain and,
deep-rooted, Adam and Eve
bright red ruby sparks
The storm stirred…having ingredients our neighbors provided.
Stolen goods, the storm stashed in its wings, and headed East.
The storm boiled in Mississippi - all baby boomers spelled
that state voraciously m-i-ss-i-ss-i-pp-i…the eye of the storm, calm,
while the raptor tore apart lives. The weeping of dark clouds
over smithereens. The storm with a long wooden handle, stirring
hail and adding more broth. No one cared for this stone soup.
neighborly stone soup
NO THANK YOU emphatically
Bless your heart tongue goads
3/26/2023
From wikipedia: Stone Soup is a European folk story in which hungry strangers convince the people of a town to each share a small amount of their food in order to make a meal that everyone enjoys, and exists as a moral regarding the value of sharing.
Prayers for those affected by this terrible storm!
Max came to town the same week my father left. It was a good week for me and a tough one for Mom. Her hair was stringy and her eyes were puffy. You could tell there was a void in her heart that needed filling.
The yard was neglected. There were holes where the septic tank had been repaired. Max bought a bag of stones from Home Depot and drove over. We sat on the stoop of our one story and grabbed a handful each. We sat for hours, throwing rocks at that hole, trying eagerly to fill it.
rocks fall slowly
from nostalgic skies -
first rain of spring
I was once told a story, of the wee folk of Bensham Bog; they live in carved mushroom houses that are shaped like bullfrogs and they ensure the survival of creatures there. They travel in petrified skins of bananas and are rarely ever seen yet, they mix all of the peat moss and propagate trees. Coniferous trees like pine and spruce, larch and fir; trees that produce oxygen; negative ions for the air. Be thankful, these fey exist; if you see one at night; you’ll know because, they glow with blue light.
in the bog
trees thriving-
faeries labor
Wetlands help to keep a balance within our environment; their preservation is vital, this everyone should know. They provide iron deposits, lovely, translucent obsidian stone from which, early man, made himself tools. Flora, like water lily’s grow in bogs and thriving there, leatherback turtles, an endangered species.
a leatherback turtle swims-
crickets chirping
On July 2, 2022, Connie posted her poem “The Blessings of Prayer” dedicated to her "loving poetry friends" who were so encouraging to her during her hospital stay when her heart had almost given out. To date, her poem has received 3 pages of comments! Her replies to those comments are incredibly precious, as they reveal her beautiful qualities. Her life story bespeaks loving-kindness. Our fond memories remain to remind us.
strength of character
ready supporter, true friend ...
always a lady
my neighbor Vi is a personable woman with determination in every action. The day I met her she came over, introduced herself, and told me that where I know live is land that was called "Indian Village" fifty years ago. The Wyandotte came down here in the summers, and all you could see was Indian tents, she informed me. She proceeded to point out a variety of plants, naming them one by one. One day, she said "I turned and my blood ran cold". I jumped when she said this. "What was it?" I asked, barely breathing. "An iris," she told me. "I knew it was from a bulb salvaged by an Indian maiden." I never fully understood her story, but I have never forgotten the fear that I felt as she told it.
renegade plants
iris planted by natives
my blood turns cold
Her story is one that needs to be told. Born in a poor family she was sent to work at a very young age. "Have you got any experience? asked Madame Jeanne she nodded then lied through her teeth," yes, of course, Qui " fifteen years of age and smart as a whip. She won 1st prize for an essay she wrote in school. Hiding her tears from her mom and dad, she soberly dropped out of school.
the poet's hands were tied
but her mind was not
she was determined
Late at night after a shower, lint free and bone tired she'd start working
on her novel. Here in this magical place of wander she was never scoffed nor told to put away her silly dreams.
an entity of hope
is a thing that floats
like a paper boat
One day she braved it and sent in her manuscript. The Editor knowing a
good thing when she saw it, gave Gloria her first chance. When she
received her very first check, she cried tears of joy.
all of this
because she believed ,
and never gave up
June 3, 2021
Sponsor Name: Kai Michael Neumann
Contest Name: The Poets Hands Are Tied