Best Slalom Poems
He was clay potato
in raspberry field
exposed, clumsy
between delicate gossip
He turned his back
fingers in fissures
abyss separating life
from living
Hand with deep furrows
built huge walls
rough rock
like he was
Alone in one dream
slalom, downhill
white blindness
stone
held high above his head
as a white feather
against evening sky
a bird from his hands
light brightness
A wish, unfulfilled
***
September 21, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Heart throbbing, euphoric,
like a giant slalom skier
the river gushes down
winding its reckless way
round obstacles and blind corners
unawed by imposing mountains
till it finally comes to the end
of its dizzy, breathless run
where the shimmering ocean waits
with eager yet patient anticipation.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Contest: Standard No 100
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Placed 1st
© 23rd May 2018
Drip
Drop
Water drop cascades under sapphire afterglow
Undoing 4 month deprivations
Muffled moans surround crimson fireplace
Crackling of fire
Thrusts of skin
Retinal vibrations shutter her pilot light deep within
She ascended to blue moon heights
As embers of his inferno
Bow in collective unison
Maddening grips
His fingertips draw triangular markings
Hugging curvature’s hip
Gentle bites on lower lip
He tackles her wanton hands against waterbed foundations
Her strengthened pupils reach out for 3rd eye clarity.
She asks for his dance under aggressive whisper
As he dips
Inside
Slow motion Salsa bends of her will
She crosses legs marking “X” against his spot
His relinquished hands
Slalom her vocal chords toward accentuated heavens
He exorcised her trembling inner thighs
From collapsing octaves
With eloquent, muted exhales
His hand reaches her cheek
His mouth descending towards her breast
“My lady, put that lighter down,
Let me be your cigarette.”
Drip
Drop
©11/19/2013
A Scorcher for Charlotte's contest. (Update: Tied for 2nd place. Nice!)
With faith and hope I tackle the tricky course of my life.
-----------------------
9th December, 2015
Contest: One Liner 4
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 2nd
I notice the single placemat within the circle of noise,
Placing my phone on the cluttered side plate,
I can feel the Christmas spirit resonating through,
The crowd of extended families unwrapping each other’s joy,
A tear drops onto my unused napkin,
My mind races with memories of family togetherness,
The phone reminds me of the unsent WhatsApp messages,
I spot the waiting team slalom through the chairs,
Out of the corner of my eye I notice a waiter offering me the red, white, or rose wine,
I must have blanked out for a quick second or two,
As for some reason I chose the red wine,
I’m not a big fan of red wine,
I notice something unexpected,
A noise behind my ear struck me subtly,
Hesitantly I turn towards the surprising situation,
“Would you like to join us?” A lady to my left asks alongside her children,
Tears flood my unconscious shirt,
“No-one should be on their own” another added “Join us!”
I graciously accept after they make the decision for me,
They share that they are from Lincoln,
As they collectively lift the small square towards their table,
I can’t believe the surge of care that I’m being shown by strangers,
Stories were poured as the red wine wrote the words to a great Christmas Lunch,
I laughed to many a tale about their previous Christmas trips,
Smiles simmer in this cauldron of enjoyment,
The red wine even produced miracles,
Overcooked beef became irrelevant in the cape of chuckles,
To be included in such a positive way, real and not in a forced manner,
Opening the door to showcase the missing piece on the mantle of Christmas,
I’m glad I chose to go down the stairs,
I felt a little overwhelmed by all the morning family togetherness being showcased,
But my faith in humanity has been restored,
As long as the flickering light within the hand of Christmas remains,
I will try my best to rise to most challenges,
As today a small gesture had a hugely heartwarming effect,
A large impact that will not fade in time.
Inspired by “Poems and Poets” by Anne Winter
“For once in my life,
I want to be a poem” — Anne Winter
If I were a poem
could my poem be a poet?
If such could be done
who besides me would know it?
If my poem—as a poet—wrote something new
could I as a poem be the other poem too?
Or would I simply exist on a document list
along with other poems that coexist?
(As a poem I would be …)
Living on the edge of poetry forms’ parameters
Running ever changing rapids of trochees and iambs
Line dancing varied rhythms of iambic pentameters
da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM ad infinitum
Dancing two-step footles with the poem of my dreams
Braving slalom ski runs of Klein’s Vase Verse
Climbing lofty peaks of Heroic Crown of Crowns
Then doing it all over again in reverse
(I do have a poetic license you know …)
I think of such thoughts from time to time
when my muse is confused and obtuse
Especially when finding it hard to rhyme
my head flooded with thoughts most abstruse
What would it take for me to be a poem
vice versa my poem to be poet?
The very next time my muse starts to roam
I’ll try to find out—don’t you know it!
The icy snow sparkles in the midday sun
as we glide down on cardboard toboggans.
Scarves wrapped thrice around our necks,
overcoats buttoned to the top.
We feel no pain as we tumble off,
just laugh, and run for another go.
In the distance other children are skiing,
planks tied to their feet, sticks in hands.
Younger children have built a snowman,
coal taken from parents' bunkers for eyes.
A by-pass now runs through our playground,
this vast green used for childhood games.
Traffic cones line our slalom run.
Cars skid where we used to slide.
Lorries drive between our goalposts.
where a fantastic goal was scored.
And where a superb six was hit,
road markings show us the boundary.
Progress has left us with childhood memories
the new generation will never see.
I’m a little firework
Halfway towards the sky
That’s burnt out to dust
Into nothingness
And now I have to die.
I was a crow, flying through a tree
Tried to slalom through the branches.
The thorns clipped my wings
Here the handcuffs cling
Because of my murderous advances.
I’m a crooked atheist
I don’t believe in hell
Or in a Summa Bonum
Or in heaven, like some.
Once the needle goes in, I’ll tell.
“I am not afraid of death,
I’m glad you didn’t postpone a day
To cause my body to wilt
To remove me of guilt
and to let me get away.”
Seahorses on see-saws prance, sashay and dance
gliding majestically under the sea.
No clip nor clop for this aquatic steed
for no legs adorn its knight-in-armour body.
Instead its fins keep these hippocampus poised
as they gambol gently and frolic about.
But of course it's a horse
with its tell-tale head and mane.
Ignore the odd prehensile tail
that some over-zealous strapper coiled.
It's a special horse for an undersea course
swirling and whirling silently
through seaweed strap slalom gates.
With no trot, nor canter, nor gallop, nor panting,
but with a leisurely pace in ambling gait,
like the painted horses on a merry-go-round,
the seahorse is forever poised,
in true dressage collection.
The Seasons
The changing seasons
—winter, spring, summer, and fall—
I love them all.
Variety is said to be the spice of life,
And I enjoy their arrivals and departures,
Each season unique with its own set of characteristics.
Winter presents a choice between cross-country skiing, slalom,
Or tobogganing down a hill; or snowshoeing in the woods;
Or staying warm inside while reading a good book;
Or going for a leisurely drive around town to see the Christmas lights
And enjoy the festive Yuletide merriment.
Spring brings the warm rains that freshen the Earth
When imaginations are set free after the winter pall,
And to lace up the sneakers after a winter spent in the gym
And go jogging outside to feel the wind in your face.
Come spring, love is in the air, and new life is born.
Sunny summer, breezy and warm, fills the days,
Lending decision-making as to whether to go biking or swimming,
Or to laze on the beach relaxing and suntanning,
Or to go boating or canoeing to fish and explore.
Summer is the season to visit kin and rest from work.
Fall is the harvest, whose abundance I’m thankful for,
When leaves change colour and scatter in the wind,
And walks in the forests are a common thing.
The days grow colder and the nights longer
As winter approaches and autumn ends.
The criss cross tracks with water filled
Speak slender wheels on forest path
In slalom travel through the trees
In search of beach and ocean waves
He pants, his hands around the rims
Are dirty, mossy, blistered, red
His head is filled with panicked thoughts
For woods are dark, for trees are high
They whisper, whistle, secretive
Plant thoughts that turn to
nightmares wild
But round the next bend woods subside
They shrink to bushes, undergrowth
Behind a small dune sea sounds roar
His teary breath sobs silently
In him composure slowly grows
For with the lifting of the veil
The starry night smiles calm with love
Behind the window of his room
Where fear for forest has no place
Where horror dims and disappears
***
Iambic tetrameter
May 18, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Slither, slither, show the way, water moving faster still
Never ever going backwards, only flowing down the hill
Water flowing down a river passing over rocks and earth
Slowly gliding to the ocean from the reservoir of birth
Water’s Birth is at the peak and Water’s death is at the bottom
Moving in and out of trouble, downhill pattern of a slalom
Outside forces, changing states, Constant friction, changing forms
Calling to a higher purpose, raining down above from storms
Feed the planet, work as one, move together, just survive
Advancement is the common goal that keeps the hopes and dreams alive
Slither, slither, show the way, water moving faster still
Never ever going backwards, only flowing down the hill
Reach the peak, you never can, the peak is far away from man
Birth, so warm, Death so cold, running from that icy hold
Feel the tide and current strongly, never flowing off the path
Mother Nature’s happiest when water executes her wrath
Rivers, lakes, and streams all uniting and connected
Looking from the outside everything that’s done is just reflected
Pure and clear, until it’s tainted, untouched canvas, never painted
Heading to an end, depending on direction, ending up united, one collaborative collection
Slither, slither, show the way, water moving faster still
Never ever going backwards, only flowing down the hill
Forks and splits that force decisions sooner than they wish to choose
Splitting up the current from who will win and who will lose
The ending is the same, but the journey is what matters
Filling up the empty space is where the water gathers
Ever inching towards the finish to be united once again
Circulating through a void that always comes back to the end
The end is never permanent, there always is a second chance
To make it’s way unto the earth and show the world it’s timeless dance
Slither, slither, show the way, water moving faster still
Never ever going backwards, only flowing down the hill
A wear down-
singular slalom in the emotional vortex-
the realism of a realm that doesn't adhere to your biology and doesn't accept the facts at hand,
one does not alter it,
unless screaming for more sanity to arrive-
though we are not sane beings at core,
we had to dig until we all died.
A wear-down,
just something I had to add,
...a little bit of sweat, blood and tears,
alimony,
grapes-
food art and a bridge,
nothing from the start,
no calamity or even Go-kart,
though it's fun to part,
sanctify some of the little divide,
deepening volumes that outlast our lives,
showing the sun we don't come to die.
Look at this leaf.
Where did it come from?
Stuck in a mud, like a
discarded grief from a weeping willow.
I like its shape.
Follows my hand. Pair it
in two and you can make a glove
or a puppet doll that says “I love you!”
It’s full of wavy hurdles,
a caterpillar’s slalom track.
Can be frozen, curled or wet,
wears all season’s colors like a traffic light.
Enjoys to float, especially in waters of Hoogvliet
rushes to meet other leaves,
while gives a ride to marsh fleas.
Once it went disguised,
I couldn't recognize it.
Dressed in the lost feathers of
floating white hearts and undived “quack, quack”
pretends to be a Sioux Holy Man.
It may come in different sounds too.
Like a bandmaster, it orchestrates winter winds in dramatic
symphonies.
Or, when a thickening fog occupies city parks
still dark and tainted from night,
you hear a crunchy, cranky sound as it get’s
crushed under lover’s heels or
sporadic brave joggers,
in short sleeves.
Dissipated in the air
it’ll wait for its turn,
to blossom proudly again and stare
how spring Sun in the west burns.
Hey little leaf
you would like to crawl into my pocket
like a sneaky thief?
I’m lonely too,
keep me company
in my autumn view.
Destiny’s Choices
Do we choose our destiny
or is fate a foregone conclusion,
an ever growing snow ball
an unstoppable collection
of snow flake moments
gaining momentum
conspiring to bury us?
Can we accept destiny’s fate
without acquiescing to it?
Rewrite upcoming scenes
with actions taken,
slalom at the edge
of fates fury, deny
destiny its choice.
If asked to choose our destiny
what would it be, how
would it unfold, where
would it take us, why
would we make those
destined choices?
4/17/2016
submitted to – Destiny or Choices – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Nayda Ivette Negron