49 Syllable Haiku

This winter we will capture

only perfect snow flakes.

Using great care,

we will write the Lord’s Prayer

on each one.

We will bottle the snow

in flasks marked GINSENG

and then sell them

as holy water.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

Life on Moonstone Beach

is more precious at midnight-

mysterious mist.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

Snow is a coffin

of flowing Angel hair in

the dead of winter.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

Child Of My Dreams

For my son, Tyler

You are the child of my dreams

whispering to me softly

from the quiet darkness

behind your eyes.

You came into the world shimmering.

Rigged for silent running.

Braced hard against the helm.

Standing tall before the wind.

Physics will determine the course

of life’s many rain drops

crashing in clever cat paw patterns.

Leaving traces of accelerated particles

in your wake.

There is no science

no logical conclusion

no antibiotic for the infections

that wander after you and me.

Feel your sails rush

full bloom into the night?

Those maudlin clouds

no longer cling

to your precious feet.

Brave child of my dreams

take no prisoners in life’s grand game.

Quietly inscribe your enchanted heart

like a simple tattoo

on the shoulder of God.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

This Storm Was Written In Darkness

This storm was written in darkness

due to a power failure.

No one seems to know why power surges

or why lights dim and flicker out.

Electricity loses the will to live

in winter time.

Outside the storm moves

like a musician chasing notes

down the mountains with his silver flute.

Stars attempt meteor showers

against cloud cover.

Through my window

the wind bruises tree faces.

Throwing combinations heavyweight style

before the leaves have all fallen.

I believed I was safe

here inside the darkness.

Until I find the firelight

leaping in cadence

to the marching clouds.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

Melting Snow

Melting snow lies hollow-eyed

and ill tempered.

Staring up at the sun.

How foolish was the snow?

To have wasted its precious life

waiting for winter.

Copyright © by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

The Rainbow Repairman

For Mrs Alphabet

Who’s up early each and every morning

patching up holes

and fixing up old

used rainbows?

Buckets of paint filled with someday morning.

It’s hard to explain

but wishing for rain

brings rainbows.

The rainbow repairman

weaving the sky in his loom.

The rainbow repairman

chasing the blues

and turning the greens into dreams.

On a ladder long as time he’s working

painting the sky

with colors to dye

the rainbows.

Sitting on clouds and thinking out loud

each evening.

Colors were made

never to fade

on rainbows.

Copyright © 1979 by Roger Ewing and Larry Carlton, all rights reserved.

THE LAST SQUARE DANCE

The square dance at Shamrock was an affair of the heart.

Doomed to desertion.

Now creaking doors and blowing sand

sing country western at the Shamrock Club.

One last square dance for Carl.

When I first met Carl he was a different breed

a quarter-man

where a thoroughbred had been.

He said he punched a few cows as a boy

on a painted pony in Wyoming.

About fifty years as the crow flies

from the Shamrock Club.

But Carl died a western hero

among the towns square dance people.

One last square dance for Carl.

The Shamrock died when you did Carl

and the music you played

and the square dance.

It was just a country music affair.

Doomed to desertion.

Now weeping eyes and breaking hearts

sing the blues at the Shamrock Club.

“Carl Cody Held Over Due To Popular Demand”

The marquis is solid, etched in stone

with Carl’s name beneath the lights

and Carl’s golden voice and singing guitar

beneath the square dance.

One last square dance for Carl.

Copyright © 1980 by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.

Migrations

In the meadows above timberline

little rivers flow

from melting snow on granite,

looking not unlike

the lights of town.

Only jets fly here

and trains of Canada geese

going home.

Silver wings turned gold

from the days setting sun.

Firing homeward through low pressure zones,

dancing

with each sweep of wings.

Slipstreaming

in perfect northern flight.

How the nights must linger on

for sleepy honkers and creaking jet liners.

Copyright © 1975 by Roger Patrick Ewing, all rights reserved.