Best Skied Poems
The Colours of Happy
I am the painter of happy
Traveling along life's dark streets
listening for the beat
Feeling hidden colors with my feet
I see the beauty
beyond the dark
I'm floating within this concrete park
leaving my mark
Playing tag with a can of paint
My art is vibrant
I won't settle for faint
What you see as ugly
it truly aint
I'm not afraid of dingy places
I let colours flow outside the lines
My choices are different kinds
Injecting a symphony between life's spaces
Color removing tear drop traces
Grey shades this paint erases
I see possibilities in others faces
Finger painting
or with a brush
I make the concrete blush
Beauty awakened with my touch
I love the power of yellow
If you are down
or feeling mellow
I just might be the right kinda fellow
My flavors are sweet like jello
Within these hands
I wield a rainbow
My tools, stardust and ultra glow
From my bowl
I pour happy on your soul
Until your own light begins to show
Watch me move quick
when others are slow
Wrapping amazing
with a platinum bow
Let me paint you
a different kinda blue
bright skied Technicolor
the perfect one for you
A bubblegum happy kinda chew
Grab life and dance
do what you want to do
Choices many
don't settle for so few
I can paint you
A penny for your thoughts
help you realize just what you've got
Be the dreamer
it will help a lot
Choose exciting
a life that's red hot
Forget Generic
there is more to be got
Let others choose boring
what I offer
can't be store bought
I'll hand you a brush
we can cover more ground
flower squirting
big footed clowns
Spreading happy around
that joyful sound
Multi colored
me and you
Unconventional freedom bound
our happy can astound!
What was lost
its been refound
Time to open these eyes
happy colors surround
You too can see
just have to look around!
I’ve watched him whither. He came to me a decade ago, stooped in pain. The fine-boned features of his face and the clarity of his Irish skin still holding on to a genetic predisposition to beauty. He was a small man, but in height only, the oceans filled his heart. For a decade, I held him upright. With the help of God, his shoulders, upon which Atlas stood, released their burden, pulled back from their curl about his core. Touch was a healing balm from the helter-skelter of his life. As my fingertips and palms, the heel of my hand explored his dis-ease; he thawed, not like a snowflake but a glacier. Decades of stuffed down regret, and remorse cajoled to release with no expected outcome but rest.
the clutter
of his life surrounds –
snow falls
Parts once strong: pride that flew, legs that skied, eyes that could take the measure of a man; now, rest every afternoon. There is no need now to mark the time. Still, he wears a watch, a Christmas gift from his love. The office lays footsteps from his backdoor. He feels they still need him.
his sailboat
sits wrapped in canvass –
winter wind’s blow
Liquid Imagination August 2014
A Hard Beginning
The cough continues.
My head... aches,
but there are needles in my eyes,
that will not stop poking my lids.
Everything hurts today,
that did not hurt yesterday.
Today all things that hurt
yesterday, have found new
purpose in their vendetta
against me.
It is hard to be sick,
especially when there are things to do.
I want to go and dance and play.
I want to sing, where no one can hear me,
so I can be loud and strong,
about my emotions.
That, without hurting the feelings of others,
I could belt out my favorite tune.
Yet, here I am coughing into my elbow,
wishing that my rib cage would quit,
rattling.
It is just a cold, but it has traveled badly,
down into my chest, far and deep.
I wish that I had listened,
about wearing my coat,
to the New Years Ice Skating Contest,
at the North Pole.
The place was so pretty,
and the magic all real,
that I could not face the idea,
of covering up,
instead...
I swam with the penguins,
visiting from the south.
I talked to the mammoth bear,
from Alaska, and arm wrestled for an hour.
I swam in the punch,
lifted the whole reindeer gang,
up on the end of a candy cane,
spinning in the storm,
of snowflakes...
started by the windmill,
made from holly and grape vines of candy.
I will never forget
and neither will they.
We flew two states over in a jet,
skied from Mt Hood past the fence,
where they keep the ashes.
Gray still from a long time ago.
My cough did not gain
a grip on me, until the helicopter landed.
Then it was too late,
to put on my coat,
do the right thing
and go home early.
The best New Year,
sometimes starts with a rough patch,
but the rest is all garden parties and
politics from here.
Prayers
for
your
day,
the first day,
of the new year,
the last chance to say goodbye,
and try to be okay with tomorrow.
Yours, the pale-shelled cameo, dear
Moon-skied, Night-worn.
Hung from its pure starred necklace.
Pearls of the high-born!
Of you what's mythic featured
Afar, as dream-lit
Alike within clasping's reach.
Alike to claim it.
Oh c !
What am I doing here?
I can't see the bottom!
I'm not ready!
It didn't look this bad from the bottom!
The moguls are as tall as me!
Black diamonds are some kind of watermelon...
Al's run...Taos, NM
Did he die here?
Am I going to die here?
At the bottom smiling...
Let's go again!!!!!!!
©Donna Jones
* you can Google Al's run in NM, it is listed as one of the scariest ski runs in the world...
* for anyone who hasn't snow skied before..black diamond runs are the difficult straight down ones...and
yes a type of watermelon haha
Of nothingness
Summer fire bird
Wind with wings yarned
Mountains and hills over skied
With sky blue in the eyes
Wellspring where Rainbow
Sadness in Fortune turns
Nest of dreams curves
Gardens of fantasies made
And joy through ample flew
set sails to the Universe.
My past sits on a shelf, in pictures, books and letters
Occasionally I take it down, to make the present better
Those youthful days back at home, when life was in full bloom
Taken for granted they slipped away, while I chinned myself on the moon
Nameless faces and faceless names, colors fade to black and white
Evolving with perpetual change, like days that hide in the nights
The 50's were a shooting star, for me they passed in stealth
In brotherly love on gravel roads, our dreams were untapped wealth
On a transistor radio the 60's played as social consciousness awakened
In hallucinations of free love and civil rights, faith in tradition was shaken
My long hair 70's were loud, the nation showed both sides of it's face
Personal independence led to parenthood , I failed miserably in disgrace
Finding out the hard way love isn't free, independence has a price
Again the music changed with the decade, and in life I went back for another slice
In the 80's I skied in the powder, the first half is still a blur
As I slalomed down the hill I found true love and surrendered my vices for her
The 90's were a time of gains and losses, old family died as new emerged
Struggling to climb to the top, in my family my worth was submerged
Shunning old friends and old habits, I began turning into my dad
Trying to lead a good example, so my children would make better choices than I had
The dawn of a new millennium, technology spread like a disease
My children were affected early, then poor health knocked me to my knees
My life has seen many changes, just like the times that have passed
But now broken down and depressed, I've taken my foot off the gas
For now, I put memories back on the shelf, like an old dog, I'll gnaw on the bone
But I still hold my head up high, cause I did it all on my own
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Unfair Calories
Chocolate cake,
can be eaten fast or slow.
Depends on who,
is at the end of the fork.
But I tell you true,
there is a thing that happens,
to... a... few.
They are taken to better places,
where cake rules, and mountains of icing...
are skied upon while laughing to music,
yet written down.
They are shown that sweetness,
like love must be enjoyed,
relished like flowers in spring,
strawberries in summer,
or ice-cream in fall.
The only defense to the delightful dangers,
a friend that is willing to walk,
and diet with you.
Not a short path,
but a long and enduring adventure.
At the end of which there is always to be,
a celebration of winning;
taste without temptation,
tempted, but not lost,
saved, by a loved one,
from the personal cost.
You are worth everything,
your value unmatched,
unmeasured,
but true.
Wally Weasel Goes Skiing
Wally still loves painting, but he’s now discovered sports.
He made his reservations at a faraway resort.
He’s never skied but has a book with lessons showing how.
After reading it two times plus one, he thinks he’s ready now.
With wooly scarf around his neck and hat upon his head,
he picks up shiny skis and poles that lay upon the bed.
Heading out to hit the slopes, he stops - ‘cause he’s decided
to wear his wooly socks so that his toes won’t get frost-bited.
He puts his ski poles in the snow and gives a great big push,
but all his effort got him was a wet, snow-covered tush.
Brushing off to go again, he says he will not quit.
This time he flies right down the slope – yes! All two feet of it.
He did it! He’s a skier now, and feeling very proud,
but that’s before he hears the laughter coming from the crowd.
It takes a lot of practice, as our little Wally knows,
and he’ll keep right on trying ‘til his weasel nose is froze.
With bended knees, he leans a little. This time he will do it.
When he starts to fly downhill, he says, “There’s nothing to it.”
He turns this way, then turns that way, he’s graceful as a breeze.
He’s being very careful to not run into the trees.
With all the other things he’s learned, he now feels life’s complete.
He’s shown the world that weasels, too, can be good athletes.
We’ll visit him another time and hear his tales of glory.
For now, we’ll have to wait. Another time, another story.
In Winter snow I fell and broke my nose
Skied down a mountain trail and hit a tree
Comatose holidays: this really blows!
I'll hibernate until I have to pee
Snow melted. Flowers bloomed. Robins sang
I missed all of Spring while lying in bed
My mind trapped in a world of ying and yang
Feeling like a mummy, gauze 'round my head
I slept through one season. It's time to wake
Summer is a great time to have some fun
I'd been dreaming of skiing on the lake,
where I won't crash into trees on my run
Near Summer's end I was up for leisure
'Til I saw the medical bills Seizure!
August 3, 2017
A Funny Sonnet How Your Winter Turned Into Summer
Poetry Contest Sponsored by Brenda Chiri
My Pen
© Ben Burton 1-08-2015
She was young and beautiful
I was hung and comical
Hung with humor found a way to beauty's heart
Though I was never lyrical
That undisputed miracle
Inspired my pen to challenge Shelley's art
Life with her was glorious
Straight out of a storybook
Where forever would not be half long enough
Rode the waves at Malibu
Skied the slopes of Crested Butte
Stayed at home for days on end just making love
For six years I have known such pain and sorrow
Since the final, sad "Goodbye" I gave my wife
Now these tears you see me shedding are all borrowed
From the deep well where my heart was drowned that night
Though I'm still a youthful man
I will never love again
The only poems left in my pen
Are filled with anger, grief and spite
He helped himself up to the wind's foremost blow
On a hillock where the moon searched his impecunious pockets,
Waking a flood in his eyes like swelled teats.
He opened wide to receive the Lady, this Endymion cheats,
No worm-wood virus but sweet philtre phials.
Finishing, he is a lover...
He sought the bosom of Erebus in her wildest glow.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
A scavenger cat clawing a bushman's billy-can
Some hard laid by in his work, purred with surveillance
In disgust over him turning tins over in the bin.
Together he cast the lid by to biltong and raisin:
The cat devours, he abandons the prandial dance.
Pausing, he is a server...
He ate them all like yams those starved seamen.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Over the mellowy orchard, for a while he blotted,
Down the glen he skied on the mossy rock
And rubbed clean in the steamy fume of the fall.
Clambering on the paddock, the love-grass over him gall
His rag-patches, bee-combed, mock.
Swearing, he is a dreamer...
He tore tearfully through the palliasse of touch-me-not.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
Now upon the road of life, he chanced
And espied himself the mutest spectre dust,
Cruising his hour in the propelled sleep of night.
He saw himself waft from this mount to that bight
And saw it was not wont or just.
Laughing, he is a god...
But this infidel purpose of man be countenanced.
He moved and with him, his bed
And time moved.
(c) T. Wignesan - 1948 in Tracks of a Tramp. Singapore-Kuala Lumpur: Rayirath Publications, 1961.
Let’s go skiing ! Said my wife
It gives you such a thrill
So off we flew to Canada
To face the bitter chill
We took a bus from Calgary
To Banff’s National park
Found our hotel, went to bed
To get up with the lark
I brought a bright red jacket
My mate Stuart let me borrow
I thought at least I’ll look the part
When I hit the slopes tomorrow….
In the bright blue morning
I went to hire some skis
And boots that felt like concrete
I could hardly bend my knees
The minibus dropped us off
By a mud stained snowy drift
My wife said “ I’ll get the passes”
Just go meet me by the lift “
A group of red faced skiers
Were gathering in a throng
To sit on a revolving seat
That didn’t stop to let you on.
“I cannot get on that” I said
As I stared in disbelief
With slats of wood upon my feet
I knew I’d come to grief
“Come on Mike” my dear wife said,
You’ll be fine once you get on
So I stood as was directed
Then “whoosh” and I was gone
Hands gripped round the safety bar
As we rocked on metal ropes
Thinking “how will I get off this thing
When we reach the nursery slopes ? “
The chair in front began to slow
I heard their bar go “clunk”
They deftly skied away with ease
While I prepared to flunk
I ejected from my seat
To a ramp of icy snow
I soon was sliding on my back
With both legs akimbo.
Sailing down the green runs
My instructor in a strop
Kept telling me to slow down
But I didn’t know how to stop
I saw some awesome sights
I learnt the “pizza” wedge
I heard a muffled scream
When a friend slid of the edge
I lasted just three days
Till we skied toward lake Louise
I handed in my ski poles
When I couldn’t feel my knees
Time to sample “Apres Ski”
In my warm, hotel retreat
Dipping bread in fondue
Was much more up my street
While My wife “carved the powder”
Meandering with such skill,
I rubbed ointment on my kneecaps
And took a pain reducing pill.
I would not trade these memories
I will treasure them for life
I am not built to be a skier
But thank you my dear wife !
Spring Love
The majesty of pine trees heavy laden with snow
Sparkle in dawn's dappled light with a glistening glow.
Monumental mountaintops survey valleys down below.
Dwelling in the snow's melt enchanted rippling rivers flow.
Spring's early footsteps lead to where gracious gardens grow.
Soon daffodils and tulips will display a springtime show.
He loved the majesty of pine trees showered in snow.
We watched dawn's dappled light with a glistening glow,
And skied from mountaintop to the valley down below.
We marveled as snow melted into rippling river's flow,
And walked amidst the garden as spring coaxed it to grow.
We married while bright tulips put on a springtime show!
1-16-18
A STRAND (1069)~First Place~
Contest Judged: 2/9/2022 7:55:00 AM
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Spring Fling Zing Thing King (or Queen) Premiere Contest~Second Place~
Contest Judged: 6/24/2018 5:54:00 AM
Sponsored by: Michael Vacek
I have seen men carved from stone
rising above the Black Hills,
I’ve seen ancient trees born back when
Ceaser still worked his will,
felt a thundering water pound down,
and from four Great Lakes drain,
I have known the prairie silence
that can mess up the brain,
I have seen a bright desert sun
that’s murder on the eyes,
I’ve seen so much in this great land,
but am not satisfied.
I have lain with Asian beauty,
traced touch along her curves,
and I have brawled with drunken foes
over something absurd,
I have toted nephews around
perched high upon my head,
with good friends I have painted towns,
they look better in red,
I’ve worked with people whom make sales
seem effortless, sublime,
learned much from all these folks I know,
yet I’m still not satisfied.
I’ve bashed-up on the broomball court
’till I can run on ice,
skied mountains faster than my car,
arced passage on the white,
ridden horses ten times my weight
and let them know who’s boss,
hiked along a thin cliff-edge path,
somehow made it across,
it seems that almost everything
I am willing to try,
but victory fades oh-so-quick
and I’m not satisfied.
I have read classics quiet profound,
Montaigne and Adam Smith,
earned myself an advanced degree
despite profs quite leftist,
in dorms I’ve stayed up half the night,
argued philosophy,
I’ve called out politicians’ crap
pretty much constantly,
critiqued the deep corrosiveness
of media and their lies,
I’ve read more books than I can count,
I’m still not satisfied.
Though more and more I realize
this might be a good thing,
if people ever were content
then they would stop pushing,
satisfied with just what they have,
their tech, their jobs, their mind,
they’d never trek that extra mile,
to discover and find,
that would just be a slow decay
until the day I died,
the truth of it, I’m glad to say:
I’ll never be satisfied.
We’re not meant to be satisfied.
…we’d just get bored of it anyway.