Best Rinks Poems
*
On
This
A blessed
Winter Day
Dressed for the
Holidays. A pure blanched
Vision awaits me so I reflect out loud.
Satin white angel hair snow, sleeps light on our street,
enriches the raw pines in a virginal base coat of flurries.
Families dressed for the holidays, lovely, quite the treat.
There are voices singing, travel soft on a passing breeze.
My senses are ablaze on this blessed winter day.
Children's faces bright red from play rekindle memories.
Remembering crafting sculptures, the element, like clay.
Snow fights, where we'd take refuge behind shrubberies
Lights energized, dance with the dark as their partner.
Colors, tints the nights complexion in a luminesce glow.
Smoke from pillow covered roofs make my heart flutter.
My days of improvised ice rinks, skating with the flow.
A holiday surrounded night ignites passions deep.
Making snow angels, pulled on a toboggan down my avenue,
Picking a frosted pine then wrapped and thrown into our Jeep.
Heading home with that years tree to dress and decorate anew.
But it is now and time to play in this our new frosting of snow.
With my two baby girls we use it to bake as if it were dough.
Life is different now, as an adult with my children, I go slow.
Savor every moment, their youth a gift, repeats like an echo.
03~12~2014
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
Contest Name: Winter Poems #1
*SNOW WHITE*
ANOTHER
BURRRR! BLIZZARD
COMING
DECEMBER
ESKIMO
FREEZING FORECAST
GHOST-GROUNDS'
HEAVY
ICICLES
JITTERS
KIMONO
LOW-HEAT
MAKING-COCA
NAPPING
OASIS
POWDERY
QUILTS
RESTING
SHIVERING
TURNING TO LOVER
UNDER-COVER
VIXEN-HEAT
WINTER-WINDOWS
XOXOXO's
YAWNING
ZZzzzzz!
*COLD AS ICE*
Zambonice-ing Your X-winter Whiting-rinks, Visible & Unusual Tough Snow-flurry, Racing Quietly Precipitation, Overflows, Nightfall, Mocking Like-little Keys Jiggling, Inside Hailstorm, Getting Frigid, Every-second, Drifting Clouds, Building ANGER!
by;PD
for: ABC contest
When snow starts falling in Canada
We know winter games shall begin.
Do we just sit around fireplaces?
No, that would be a sin.
Snowball fights daily in our schoolyards,
Till the bell calls them in.
Rosie red cheeks on children,
Mittens with scarf’s and hats,
Snowmen in every front yard,
Put away are the bats.
Indoors a haven for cats.
Ski’s out and waxed,
Skates sharp as knives,
Skating rinks are full
Of children, husband, wives.
Tobogganing so exiting,
Curling extremely fun,
Hockey, number one.
Cold feet,
Hot chocolate.
Winter.
10.14.2014
Andrea Dietrich’s Contest
I do not Know
7th
To the most ardent fans, this year has been hell.
There are plenty of idle hockey rinks throughout the NHL.
With season ticket holders, this has not been nice.
They want to see their favorite players roughhousing on the ice.
The team owners have been staging a lockout.
Will there be hockey games this year? There is increasing doubt.
In the National Hockey League, nothing is coming up roses.
No players have been losing teeth or getting broken noses.
Nobody is slap shooting that hard rubber hockey puck.
We want to see the games played, but we are out of luck.
We are stuck with watching basketball games around here.
Perhaps both sides will come to terms and play hockey next year.
Snowfall so heavy in 'eighty-two
reproduced a Christmas card view.
A biting wind swirled in one foot drifts
over hanging in bridges..makeshift.
The fields flooded into skating rinks
into which each footstep sinks,
cracking under body weight so
not the best place to skate.
Thawing February brings twitching noses
in tussocks of awakened primroses.
Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals
poke from the holes.
Leafless hedgerows where buds now form
a carpet of white corm,
Badgers forage for food near their sett
renewing their bracken scented couchette.
Sparrow and robin pair off in twos
as lengthening days come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below yellow catkins with tails fine spun.
Osier shoots in green corn camomile
as early Spring mornings begin to smile.
Did you ever try growing minks?
Or writing poems with kinks?
With dark or colored inks?
And soft and lightened pinks?
Write messages that links,
With the Mysterious Sphinx?
Get on a boat that sinks?
Use metals made of zinc's?
Go skating at the rinks?
"AW," you say, "That stinks!"
For that, my eye now winks!
And I'll just put a jinx,
On anyone that blinks!!!
Hooray!
Wet grassy feet fill my soccer cleats.
Hot sweaty teens run fast track meets.
She skis down sugary mountain tops.
He begs his coach to play shortstop.
Footballs, field goals, fumbles.
Touchdowns, tackles, tumbles.
My mother keeps warm with hot brown drinks,
as I learn to skate on chilly rinks.
A sadly splintered hockey stick, from a two-quick hat trick.
A winning catch is cradled in a well-loved mitt.
Tiger wins with a hole in one.
Miniature golf is much more fun.
Double dribble the whistle blows.
Excitement on the court grows!
Busy balls dunked in their hoops.
"Hooray" the three cheers for the ALLEY -OOP!
Time clock,
Baby
Stuck on the inside
out on the black bench,
Baby.
Never going back like the good old days
like the jinxed rinks, cut out
like watersheds.
It’s so obvious,
Baby.
That you want the top shelf
honey, lookin’ like a million bucks.
Those rose pedals for the first time
love, in the attic up top,
Baby.
For the first time, overlook the city
with a new clock.
For hours we sat unlocked,
waiting for the Sun to show up.
The world is snowy white on a Sunday,
You can see the church steeples,
Parents and children are off to church on Sunday,
You can see prints in the snow,
Reindeer wander freely and are being fed,
Skiers ski the mountains and trails,
The ponds are frozen and make good skating rinks,
There is something special about a winter Sunday,
The snowman winks at you when you walk past,
The great ice skaters bless us with their friendship,
A walk on a winter's day,
The beauty of winter is everywhere,
The freshly fallen snow touches the rooftops of the houses,
Snow weighs heavily on the branches of the blue spruce,
God's Christmas winter postcard..
Author:Gwen von Erlach Schutz
The Arctic Fire Bugs
Ice nights are the playpen
For the kids born to this land
Skating rinks and bowling shoes
Never touched a hand
Or foot that kicked at blocks of ice
As thick as you are tall
They scoff at jackets toss their hats
While through the drifts they crawl
Gather wood and getting high by tearing limbs from trees
Boozing up to get a buzz in temperatures that freeze
Building up a bonfire that will signal all their friends
Friday night is party night till sirens scream the end
Now it comes the fun part when they run from chasing cops
Scatter all directions and ignoring calls for “stop”--
Game they play that irritates and costs the city bucks--
What else is there to do unless they steal the fire trucks?
Note: In Alaska outback, bonfire is the key meeting place for teens--this poem is based on my teen son and his mode of fun in Valdez, Alaska--350+ miles from the next city--a town at the end of a long road (the Richardson Highway) with only one town tat the edge of the Bering Sea (often called North Sea).
Fire and Ice Contest
November 27, 2012
Victoria Anderson-Throop
W I N T E R
B R E A K S
N A T U R E
A W A K E S
G A R D E N
A S L E E P
&
an oldie reposted
Fields flooded into skating rinks
into which each footstep sinks,
cracking under body weight so
not the best place to skate.
Thawing February of twitching noses
in tussocks of woken primroses.
Rummaging on hazel boles,hibernating mammals
poke from the holes.
Leafless hedgerows , buds now form
a carpet of white corm,
Badgers forage food near their sett
renewing the bracken scented couchette.
Nature pair off in twos
lengthening days come into view.
aconite open in rays of sun
below, yellow catkins tails fine spun.
Osier shoots in green corn camomile
early Spring mornings begin to smile.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Preface: Written for my wife our 1st Christmas without Ryan.
Still Listening
Ryan heard me whisper,
Merry Christmas to his mother.
He hears Rob and Ronnie laughing,
at funny stories of their brother.
He hears the prayers,
he hears the praise,
family and friends have given.
Ryan still hears everything,
while he waits for us in heaven.
The screams of fans in hockey rinks,
every time he scored a goal.
His fingers tap-tapping on the lid
of a brand new can of skoal.
The cymbals of his drumset,
Santa brought when he was seven.
Ryan can hear everything,
while he waits for us in heaven.
He heard our wails of anguish,
the warm night of August seven,
Ryan has heard everything,
patiently preparing for us in heaven.
So sit back, my love,
and watch the boys unwrap,
as the Christmas tree's still glistening.
Close your eyes and whisper,
"Merry Christmas, Ryan",
because I'm certain he's still listening.
c Copyright 2004
Spinning icy rinks or cropless circles Does nature's beauty need an answer Ballerinas express as brooks burble Ancient songs to these eloquent dancers spiraling essence of the nonverbal’s Parasols parade question’s reversal
I would fly down the cement sidewalk, wearing my silver skates upon my shoes. I was off for everyone to see, as I flew by with my hair in the wind. I dreamed of ice, ice I could skate upon. I watched the Olympic ice skaters, jump~twirl and then spin around. We had no ice rinks, it was way too hot here. My ice had to be, hard hot gray cement. A young girl can dream, dream ice was beneath her silver skates.
Date Written: 12/27/20202
2 Place
Poetry In Motion Contest
Sponsored by: Matt Caliri
The ocean churns, deep in the bowels of its great stomach
A scurvy, a barnacle, a flag flung high amast
From deep, deep down inside, below pressure boiling
Bones exploding, windpipes constricting
Where no human soul should inhabit
Down, down, down, where illuminates
All manner of unseen creatures
With crooked jaws
Electric lights of blaring neon green and soft sparkling
Pinks
And the color of glow sticks, that children wore ‘round their necks at skating rinks
Where no child goes now, the pull and the noiselessness of the silty bottom, where hagfish twist themselves over
carcasses like women scouring the streets for loose change
I imagine my body down there
Blue veins and stuff new
Resting in the Mariana Trench
Supine, arms floating upward towards light
sans soleil
A water dream, I am awake, fluttering eyelids!
All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel the…. I don’t remember the rest
Tears and sweat like the ocean
My heart is like the ocean
Yet I have columns of flame around me
And I pull on my t-shirt over my pale body
And drive myself to the ocean, letting cars pass
Wondering why
And when my bare feet hit the sand
My hazel eyes (or were they half blue and half brown? Nobody could ever decide!) are drawn to the expanse of water
Limitless possibilities, as the sun crowns the horizon
I reach out my hand to grab something
Across the eternal shocking blue
And what I grab is another hand
And it is my own