Long Ski Poems
Long Ski Poems. Below are the most popular long Ski by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Ski poems by poem length and keyword.
The grasshoppers leap up with every step
through the mess of forbs and grass at my feet,
some thornier branches scratch at my boots,
ticks frown when they see my blue, denim pants,
they’ll have to go elsewhere for their dinner.
The mountain-bike trails are not open yet,
wide slopes are silent, save bird-song and bugs,
splashes of color, mostly yellow, abound,
flowers feed bees on their endless patrols,
the deer love new growth, but flee midday sun.
I feel it, on my back, on my neck, close,
the big hat shields the face, but I still sweat,
almost like I’m hiking in the prairie,
but no trees also means such awesome views,
usually I see them frosted in snow.
Above, on the ski lift, the chairs do hang
like metal ghosts, haunted by the spirits
of families that rode them months ago,
their towers silent, steel sentinels; tall…
remember to get clear if there’s lightning.
My thighs don’t hurt, no, it’s all in my calves,
different muscles from a normal trail hike,
I’ve drank too much water, but I make it,
cooler air of altitude braces me,
green New England rolls out before my eyes…
Sitting astride a frozen mountainside,
eighty others waiting their turn to go,
on the slope blue and red gates a path scribe,
a man says, “racer ready;” so they know.
An hour passed, now it’s my turn to ski,
explode out of the gate with a kick-start,
frozen ruts are what I find greeting me,
muscles press down to absorb impacts hard,
frantic minute, a forward-moving fight,
the scrape of ice, gates flying past my face,
come faster still, can barely stay upright,
you win or fall, there is no second place.
Cross the line, frustration at the results,
tenths of a second leaves you in the cold.
Two rust-red tubes running up the hillside,
by the wood's edge, hidden just in the trees,
they have water, and compressed air inside,
pumped up the mountain to hydrants steely.
Hoses conduct it to tall silver tubes,
snow guns that spray the white stuff on the trail,
coating brown grasses, hiding them from view,
building tall piles that some call snow-whales.
The groomers will come and flatten them out,
leave corduroy patterns on the long slope,
the skiers will come and race on a cloud,
they don’t like to wait when winter is slow.
One must be consistent in a business,
take five Mother Nature, we have got this.
The drone of the engine humming,
a bull-wheel around which chairs swing,
skiers all rushing to the line,
beginners are never in time.
A rapid lift up a height,
the bar comes bar to calm the fright,
high view of white trails swooping down,
figures below zipping around.
A few of them fall, full yard-sale,
some smirk when they see others fail,
the teens will laugh, as young men do,
forgetting they were novices too.
The tall tower, the rolling sheaves,
gray cable rolling over it,
low squeaking sound as it goes by,
you're moving slow, but still you fly.
The growing view of mountains close,
tall, frosted pines trees break the snow,
there’s skiers out there, in the glades,
they thirst for woods with powder paved.
A snowgun blasting, hide your face,
pins-and-needles pain as it sprays,
short annoyance, with which we deal,
nature’s stingy with snow that’s real.
The summit station looms ahead,
up goes the bar we are led
to a ramp that slides us down quick,
some first-timers don’t know this trick.
The attendants will help them up,
at first the sport is rather tough,
but once you’ve learned the chairlift seems
a machine that paints winter dreams.
And then comes the fun part…
It took me years of training
to move my legs like this,
gliding over the granular
on long feet with curved width,
to make my legs flail left and right,
my upper half stock-still,
balancing and countering
so I won’t take a spill,
I’m going about forty-five,
but I’ve got no steel cage,
just long blades cutting through the white,
so long as it behaves.
Gravity is now my plaything,
as much as I am hers,
cross a mile in two minutes,
a small grace I have earned,
the blur of speed makes its own wind,
downs out the weaker noise,
just a fast bubble around me,
that calmness I enjoy.
Gray mercury says twenty-three,
but I don’t feel a thing,
you really only note the chill
when you have stopped moving,
my weight becomes a shifting ball,
it flows, then it slams home,
at other times it’s zero-G,
a feeling few have known.
Winter-brown trees are flashing past,
guiding the broad, white trail,
they remain still, branches don’t wave,
this time I am the gale,
it’s rare to find a day like this,
where crowds don’t slow you down,
when you can streak across the snow,
flying just off the ground.
For fifteen years the peak has sat fallow,
abandoned to time as trees and bushes grow,
driving by always evokes a sigh in me,
long ago this hill was where I learned to ski.
But the industry is not what it once was,
snowmaking and insurance drove up the cost,
this place where families once spent the day,
now sits shuttered, slowly rotting away.
The old lodge has lost half its windows,
its siding faded by the sun's harsh glow,
there’s a giant hole up on top of the roof,
and graffiti sprayed by some drunken youth.
Lifts still stand, but all the chairs are down,
stacked in rows, rusting on the ground,
the cables now vanished into the trees,
paint is peeling, the lift shacks all moldy.
Laying nearby, twisted and half-stacked,
as if subjected to medieval torture racks,
sit piles of broken, old snowmaking pipe,
now simply scrap, glinting in noon-day light.
Saddest of all is the half-visible ski trails,
now covered in saplings, young, health, and hale,
where once me and my sibling fiercely raced,
where more than once I fell flat on my face…
The white swath of beauty clad in snow,
that once adorned this peak’s long slopes,
now grows in like pasture gone to seed,
it's become a place where mosquitoes breed.
It may seem bizarre, to some out there,
mourning for the cold and frozen air,
but this place once meant so much to us,
now given over to saplings and rust…
…sigh…
spring was coming early
the call was heard for squeezing in
one extra outdoor outing
so we loaded up our skis, boots and gear
it was minus ten celsius and sunny
swooshing and gliding through the snow
soaking in those awesome sunrays
warm enough to wrap our coats around our waist
when clouds rolled in and it got cooler
we threw back on that extra layer
the scenery was breathtakingly spectacular
suddenly we turned a corner
coming across a bush the size of a wall
it was surreal… filled with plump fluffy birds
rosy breasted feathered balls frozen in their spot
like spectators at a slow motion olympic event
they watched our procession unimpressed
AP: 3rd place 2022, Honorable Mention 2022
Submitted on April 10, 2018 for PREMIERE CONTEST 140 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - RANKED 2ND
Bones creak with winter’s chill,
sledge trails cover the sparkling snow,
rushing like the wind in a barren landscape
towards a bleak lonely village far below
shimmering amongst the dark stately pines.
A teak grey sky domes over petrified trees.
Skiing hard, feeling an exhilarating allure,
hypnotic and unfettered despite the gelidity
as the cold breeze blows and moans into my face.
From afar a church bell tolls the end of day,
grey smoke twirls out of black chimneys.
There, in a homely cottage, you await,
a thick soup spreads its hot fragrances,
and thick slices of hot French bread
awaits my empty stomach. I hunger.
Oh yes, I hunger for tasty soup and more.
I speed up for nothing can stop me now
savouring the thought of you waiting in a snug bed
and dreaming of you and a pair of lips so cherry red.
It comes from the sky, white, powdery gifts,
upsets may, but gets us vibrating,
we call in from work, get cover for shifts,
no way we are not participating.
The lots are plowed roughly, but well enough,
we see the white streak of trails on the hill,
blast through the snow, there is never too much,
use rock skis so the good ones don’t get killed.
A run that’s boring exhausts us today,
sweating in the air that makes water freeze,
the soft, springy stuff on which we now play
lets us bound joyously through silent trees;
when it doesn’t come, the snow we must make,
but that’s hamburger, the real stuff is steak!
Shouting..salient sentient sentiment
Pouting pleasure leisure experiment
No doubting a serious impediment
Flouting the sprouting environment
Touting something really prescient
Worry routing this treasure
Beyond measure to our detriment
Admit..bit of a predicament
But experiment on a mountain outing
Surmounting the shiny crystal quilt
Sorry no guilt...in my element
Wishing I'm sliding..swooshing
Swishing..gliding..curving
Whizzing...riding...whooshing
Fizzing....whirring...swerving
Brutality of wintry tiding shrouds
Blue & white fanned duality
Astonished polarity..polished parity
Planned alternative grand reality
Beautifully bland strands...expands similarity
Understand totality of bright clarity
Wonderland spanned above the clouds
Classes canned..sunglasses on ...getting tanned
Swift lifts shift over drifts like a yo yo tow
Traverse perverse crevasses..skift rifts in a row
Passes scanned..escape the crowds… go tally ho
The lust to move with gusto.. to & fro
Adjust to the smooth groove...boho
Mojo.. august fears thrust..heave ho
Off mighty cliffs go gung ho.
Dafter go for bust or after
Splif*s just riffs of lets go slow
Depravity of a tight cavity
Leap but too steep..too deep
Land in a cheap heap hilarity
There is an olden golden friend
On whom you might rightly depend
Helps you bend..wonderfully sweep
Descend...let rip...zoom..slip...nip to the end
Giddy delight & trip fillip of the legend
That is "Gravity"!