Best Skiers Poems
The sun on snow looks like glossy paper
Rolled out in endless sheets
With my skis I sketch and write in zigzag letters
Long and flowing are my verses
The wind in hot pursuit, forging my lines
Intricate patterns I draw on snow
I discern a hidden meaning in all of my musings
The cold burning my words into flowing sheets
Holding a promise for the future that seems
like a tiny tip writing effortlessly with swaying motion
In the distant horizon I see two fellow skiers
Writing stories in different languages
Drawing parallels in shades of constant flow
I follow the light shining deep in my core.
23.4.2021
Gone, now just a memory the warmth of summer,
winter's icy fingers now take a harsh grip turning
land to frozen waste. Blanketing it in snow as the
nights draw in, reflecting the bright moon.
Children having fun sledges rushing down the hill
and snowmen appear standing as sentinels to winter.
The whisk of skiers as they fly past speeding downwards
their colourful ski suits adding splashes of vivid colour.
Jack Frost hard at work decorating trees with icicles
some short and others long sparkling, reflecting light
appearing like gems amidst the sprinkled snow covered
branches. Once more winter reigns supreme.
Icy winds howl across the valleys causing drifts
of snow some eight foot deep, chilling bones
making us huddle down in fleece lined coats
Rosy cheeks blaze out from under hoods,
And fingers freezing cold from handling snow.
contentment in every face as people head home.
To cups of hot chocolate and toasty warm fires
shutting out for now winter's icy blast.
The temperature dropped by six degrees,
snow now carpets the ground and tall fir trees.
I adore wintry days such as these,
and dash to the shed with my bunch of keys
then ferret around and find my old skis.
I hurry inside out of the chill breeze
then dress in my waterproof dungarees -
if I fall over they may save my knees!
My friends live nearby, they're from overseas
they’re superb skiers I’ve seen their expertise.
They have a sweet dog he’s a Pekingese –
he can’t come here as he’s covered in fleas,
and my allergy to dogs makes me sneeze!
We meet at the ski slope, I feel at ease;
on climbing to the top I start to wheeze -
my friends laugh at me, they are such a tease!
Monorhyme Contest
Sponsored by Shadow Hamilton
02~12~17
I am water, precious water, the most important source
of life on earth. Master of all shape shifters, I am ever
moving and changing my appearance. When temperatures
dip low enough, I show my freezing solid state of ice
in crystallization and softly enchant you with my beauty
in the form of snowflakes; each tiny flake uniquely different.
Skaters skate on my glassy ice lake and skiers fly down
from mountain top runs. My snowy sleigh rides romance.
I am a requisite for every thirsty plant or tree as they display
their dance with me in transpiration and in evaporation.
My magical cloak covers almost three quarters of the earth.
As the seasons change I cordially oblige offering sleet or hail,
then without a backward glance, I waltz with spring in showers.
With my precipitation lovely blooming trees accept hydration.
Children with impermeable galoshes splash delightfully in
shallow puddles I have created. Lilac blossoms drift into placid
lakes where tourists flock, come summer, to swim and play.
I meander through tall pines in mysterious misty fog in fall, then
invigorate the earth each morning with diamond dew drops.
I invite all to travel on my salty seas as my foamy waves splash
upon the shore. I leave you awestruck with towering waterfalls
and swift flowing rivers for white water rafting or fishing in
quiet solitude. My waters provide food and drink for a hungry
thirsty world. Look to my lofty clouds to know there is a heaven!
4-9-16
Contest Elements Part 3: Water
Sponsor Brian Davey
1) HYDRATION
(2) REQUISITE
(3) PRECIPITATION
(4) IMPERMEABLE
(5) INVIGORATE
(6) CRYSTALLIZATION.
August Sunshine
August sunshine feels different
Than sharp newborn rays
Of afternoons in June…
Round,
August sunshine tells
Of ripening
And growing large –
Laying still
Watching the breeze tickle
Mature birch leaves
Until they quiver
In delight
And dance.
August sunshine is about napping
And waking
Waking and pausing,
Seeing the depth of blueness in the sky
All over again
As if for the first time
Mouth open in wonder;
Letting warmth
Slowly seep
Into cold bones and weary souls –
Being still
While butterflies
Float
Past summer visions.
August sunshine is about
Looking
For the moonrise in paleness
To light up the way
For summer shooting stars;
The feel of hats –
The smell of suntan cream
Winding down,
Gathering,
Resting
In the sound of children
In the backyard
Ice in glasses,
The smell of newly cut grass.
August sunshine is about
Seeing the action of life
Write itself
Into
The afternoon
Then watch
Parades
Of boats
Stroll by on lakes –
Or buzz the shore
Pulling water skiers -
Tiny dots like aquatic ants
Surfing
On summer waves.
It is about being enveloped –
Watering – weeding - getting ready
And the whoosh
Of rainbirds
Sprinklers
Fire hydrants
Making puddles –
Water trickling down
Furrows
Of the skin and soil;
Opening windows - closing shutters
Ice cream vendors and thunderstorms
Announcing their arrival
In tinkling bells and booming laughter.
August sunshine feels different.
A mountain of some measure aligned slopes,
Silversword's statuesque uncommonness,
bikers and skiers, youth urban slang, 'dopes,'
pics of height's flowering tower upness.
Centuries of swordplay, The Word, acclaimed,
plowshares and the sorts treats its new version.
Purplish flowers are structurally framed,
like a cross handle, silver hairs orphan.
Majestic still today, handle to point,
Jehovah's watchtower, grand edifice
leans to age and weather. Volcano joint
Maui's 'House of the Sun' sole home exists.
Another species bides the intellects,
nature goes on living with the ... neglects.
In the bitterest of the cold polar north shadows of illusions dwell,
Reflections of light on ice, maybe so or is there more to these
Optical delusions, the natives say creatures hide amongst these
Rocky snow covered hills, and they call forth the power of the
Alpine peaks for protection!
These mountainous summits of elevation known as the
Thundering mountains, many men have gone missing here,
Without explanation or reason, without any evidences trace
Ever being found, as if just vaporizing within the alpine mists?
But legends say by the tribal chieftains, they were taken by the
Snow beasts the Yeti’s, the abominable demons for
Trespassing on their sacred icy lands!
These outlander's whom should have known better,
Warned were they not, to climb at this inaccessible remote
Elevations for this is the forbidden territory belonging to
The creatures of the rocks!
Many men go there and are swallowed whole by the mighty
Avalanches, called forth by the screaming howling of the
Mountain guardians, weaving through these ice and spray
Waves as if they were made of winter wisps’ of air, the creatures
Take these hikers, or skiers unware, than devour
Them later at their leisure’s pleasure afterwards!
These avalanche waves have another name given to
Them eons ago, the claws of the tiger, sweeping
Within their mighty claws, everything living or none,
Beneath their talons of devastation!
But what if there were more to this myths story,
What if these two legends were working together?
In a tandems precisions epic motion, beast and
Mountains, both struggling to survive, against
The onslaught of humanities approach!
Endurances basic instinct of survival, natural law
Prevails, that only the strongest of the species is allowed
To continue, but what if these two natural raw forces
Combine, to do whatever it takes to achieve
This final climatic extraction, brawn concurring
Intelligence, or maybe it’s the other way
Around!
In this wilderness only the whispering winds
Knows the answers to these questions of inquiry,
And there left unheard by the deafening ears of
Progress and mankind until it is too late!
But the native people know, and warn them
To stay away for this land belongs to the Yeti’s
And the mountain protect them beneath the
Claws of the white tiger, the mighty avalanche!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
They were named the Dolomites,
the Pale Mountains of Belluno,
for their limestone, jagged peaks
and shaped splintered spires;
and they're more breathtaking even without snow!
In this region, spring is so colorful and lovely
with its lilium parvum and misurina wildflowers
waving in those grassy meadows
so frequented by busy butterflies.
In the winter season, skiers,
bundle up in their warm sport's attire,
challenging their strength and curiosity;
while below, in wooden brown huts,
coffee is sipped in hot cups,
and steaming polenta is eaten with delight.
Alaska has bears and penguins;
in this region of Belluno,
the paradise of the Alps,
only cows are seen grazing,
and unbridled horses galloping
through grasslands looked above
by sleek Churches' steeples.
Climbers and trekkers follow their trials
and indulge in peace and solitude,
hoping to reach their highest peak and contemplate altitude;
that's plenty of endurance and patience to see their ego glow!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Everyday when his dad came home he was waiting there
This was the special time that his dad always had to share
He taught him to throw and to catch how to swing his bat
Every game he played front row is where his dad was at
Started off with tee ball and even then he was a superstar
Not one of the older kids could hit the ball near as far
Then he moved up to softball and what was clear to see
The boy had a natural gift as natural as a gift could be
When he made it to hardball believe these words are true
Matt was one of the best pitchers the world ever knew
Through school and into Collage there never was any doubt
Their best player step up to the plate, Matt would fan them out
Sometimes in life just when we start thinking everything is great
Whether or not we deserve what happens we meet a divesting fate
Matt was out on a Friday night after pitching a picture perfect game
With the stands full of pro scouts promising him a career and life of fame
His fastball clocked at 98 and his control was pinpoint on the spot
After every game he would hug his dad and tell him “Dad thanks a lot”
A drunk driver ran a red light and ended Matt’s career that night
Being left a Paraplegic as it turns out would be Matt’s final plight
A lesser man would have been angry he would wallow in his hate
But that path was not for Matt he just stepped right up to the plate
Became one of the worlds greatest sit down skiers, the first to do a flip
Matt didn’t just come back swinging he was swinging from the hips
You see Matt’s dad didn’t just play with him he taught him the game
He taught him how to fully believe in himself, the W by his name
What Matt learned from Baseball he taught to you know who
Long as you believe in and assert yourself, nothing you can’t do
Written in honor of Matt Oberholtz
who I was fortunate enough to meet
because my friend Nick Jenkins was
his roommate. Want to talk about a
cool guy ice cycles shot out the back
of his water ski. Oddly enough I wrote
Matt's poem for Matt's contest.
Winter arrives on a cold, blustery breeze,
sashaying forth on a carpet of white.
And donning a crystalline gown,
She freezes all with a frosty breath
that transforms Autumn's tattered dress
into a shroud of crumpled colors.
The Queen of icicles
and mistress of the North,
She rules with a frigid heart.
And as flurries of snowflakes confetti the wind,
She weaves them into an icy white duvet.
Though a sterile maiden with ice in Her veins,
children, skaters, and skiers still love Winter.
Winter is not as nurturing as Spring,
and yet, where Nature's hibernating animals sleep,
She tucks them in with a blanket of snow.
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 !
Know How to Adjust to Traffic Flow
After through whole meal completed each course
Should all of his disturbing thoughts we endorse?
Who we know now is becoming world renown
Person who many times over has been a clown.
His wife soon will be on another TV show
Her face wore a frown and did not glow
Instead of laughing and always smiling
Numbers in her big brain was compiling.
Still Bernie's taxes have not been filed
What it looks like must really be wild
Deducted for maple syrup with no preservation
Turned to alcohol and donated to a reservation.
Another was for Vermont and their being
Place for handicapped to do downhill skiing
In direction again more than likely did shift
And now skiers ride both ways on the lift.
Direction Bernie goes in is complete opposite
Which is something that he will have to admit
Should be like Hillary who is always in the know
Everyone knows how to keep her ducks in a row.
(Oh, and how to adjust to traffic flow.)
James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
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
Across the Swiss and Austrian Alps
brutal gusts steadly blow,
calling for heavy snowflakes
dancing as lost butterflies...
falling as summer's lonely stars.
Ginger bread smells good,
honey in tea is superb;
I inhale the steamy swirls that
jackrabbits love to smell.
Kaffe Klatsch is strong
lurching through their nostrils,
making them too hyper.
Northern Italy's wooden shacks
over the wide, frigid vallies...
point to a warmer South
quiet only at evening or night.
Roam as deer on snowy slopes,
stunning is the alpine scenery:
trees as tall as redwoods
ululate louder than hungry wolves...
vulnerable to snowdrifts' attacks.
Watch the skiers having fun,
xelophones making music,
yummy polenta being eaten...
zealous alpinists singing.
a mountain
covered in snow - -
skiers fall
Jack Horne for PD’s Mountain haiku contest