Haiku 2020

My Haikuff-da for 2020

1. Midsommer Haiku
By Valerie J Laidlaw

For goodness sake,
All winter, we wait for this!
Enjoy the sunshine!

2. Christmas Traditions & Food Haiku
By Valerie J Laidlaw

We always loved
Rommegrot on Christmas Eve!
So buttery sweet!

3. Ole & Lena Haiku

“Fickle Lena”
By Valerie J Laidlaw

She used’ta love Sven.
Before Ole called her “Sweetheart!”
Lena loved Ole, den.

4. Nordics & Social Distancing Haiku
By Valerie J Laidlaw

We miss granny hugs!
Mormor Gena hugged & kissed,
Farmor Thea, not.

7. Edvard Munch Haiku
By Valerie J Laidlaw

We see his vision,
There’s an emoji, even,
Hands on ears, screaming!


By Valerie J Laidlaw

The birds are flutes & piccolos
The plane transmits an overhead,
Far off hum of a woodwind section,
Followed by a smooth trombone.
The scraping of the trainwheels on the tracks,
Grind into a louder, cymbal clash.
The hissing of its engine sounds like a beast,
As the brass section increases,
Its sound and rhythm are loudly released.
As it nears the road crossing to the east.
Then, the train sounds fade out to a hum,
Continuing on its northward track.
A tuba intermittently rumbles and blasts,
And the percussion section crashes its Thunderous sounds,
As the road workers crank up their tractors, Bulldozers, caterpillars & ‘cats
Digging, screeching, grinding,
The whole orchestra competes
To make their sound stand out as king!
A warning back-up whistle blasts out Repeatedly,
Constantly clashing,
A scraping with traction and resistance
Emits a sound,
Much like magnified, amplified chalk
Filing on a chalkboard.
Shattered glass, concrete, rocks, rebar,
Old clay sewer drains are scooped up,
Dumped, and carried away,
Causing a crescendo of percussion drums,
Increasingly rumbling away.
A street washer showers the road
Humming, whistling, swishing,
For further preparation.
A blasting of horns,
Shake the air,
And the land.
Out back the birds are chirping feverously,
Disturbed by the roadwork and clatter.
My puppy’s upset and whining,
With all of this fussing,
And raising of matter,
He retreats cautiously
To the safe haven
Of the bedroom.
As the day lulls on
And the workers
Finally shut down
Their big iron,
The music lulls down
The flute and the piccolo
And a soft, whistling sound,
peacefully, again.
The sun sets.
The stars, and the moon,
Rest in the sky, above.

Life of a Baby Quilt

“Life of a Baby Quilt”
By Valerie J Laidlaw
July 4, 2020

Lovingly-stitched little squares,
In a diagonal pattern, with
Gingham, textured, stripes and dots,
Farm, and circus animals,
Was sent from a friend in California,
To a mid-century, midwest “baby boomer” baby,
Who was Minnesota-born in Fergus Falls.
From there, it was passed
Onto nephews in the ’70’s,
To an Air Force brother in Idaho,
Which he used next, as a back curtain,
In his “hippie van,” until it was retrieved,
For my son in Wisconsin, when Elvis died,
As a beach blanket, on Lake Michigan’s sand.
Re-lined, rejuvenated, and repaired with
“Winnie-the-Pooh Hundred-Acre Woods”
Fabric as backing, cushioned with
A “J.C. Penney’s,” pastel-yellow,
Thermal, baby blanket, bound with
An “80’s” neon, lime-green satin,
In Illinois, then, moving back to Fargo, again,
When son #2, and a daughter were born.
A third son played on it in the 90’s,
Photographed with his 8-year-old,
Big Sis giggling by his side.
Then, a grandaughter arrived,
As the millennium turned,
From there, it is feared,
With all of the moving,
And sorting, in turn,
The baby quilt,
Disappeared, yet,
It’s memory’s
Still “burned.”


By Valerie J. Laidlaw
July 10, 2020

Thinking back on the many conversations with my mom,
I realize where so many of my thoughts, actions, and feelings come from.
A response she had said before Alzheimer’s and Dementia had taken over her subsequent years,
During a visit with my mom, quite a while back in time,
I knew she faced more challenges, yet her abilities for the most part were still fine.
Since my mom had retired, wasn’t as busy, and had much less work, plus, less worries,
I had asked her if she’d like to write down some of her memories and her stories.
She replied that if she did so,
“It would bore me to tears!
I’m not much for writing
In a journal of words,
I’d much rather sit here,
Just watching the birds!”