Long Skiers Poems
Long Skiers Poems. Below are the most popular long Skiers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Skiers poems by poem length and keyword.
You see them parked by the base lodge,
often still in the bright of day,
big, tracked machines that will ensure
the snow is nice when you come to play.
A wide-arced plow across the front,
and broad tank-treads on either side,
large windows mounted high above
in the cabin where people drive.
A roto-tiller on the back,
or a long and carpet-like sweep,
with weight to crush through any crust,
to find the ice, then slay and reap.
Most skiers just call them groomers,
though that word has…connotations,
and every day (save powder days)
we show our appreciation.
Turning a lumpy, windblow mess
into the smoothest corduroy,
grinding blue ice to granular
so it no longer can annoy,
and crushing through the skiers bane,
the woe we call ‘breakable crust.’
These vertical Zambonis do
make it quite nice for all of us.
They started as such little things,
truck-sized with triangle tracks,
they lacked the weight and lacked the tech
to mount that much of an attack.
But they grew into behemoths
that still can turn fast, on a dime,
only once have I ridden one,
shocked by the smoothness of the ride.
Though they sometimes smell of diesel,
and come as shocks to novices,
most skiers soon are thankful for
all of the service that they give.
Be it carving out halfpipe walls,
pushing big snow piles around,
lugging skiers to back-country,
or smoothing the bunny slope down;
it’s all thanks to this big machine
bringing all the white stuff to heal,
and yes, I’ve asked, their insurance
won’t let customers take the wheel…
Funny how winter turned into summer
Funny how winter turned into summer, not really, but it left a chill behind
So fifties in July feels like it never left, as we bundle up and we do find
A touch of winter lingering around with its long fingers in the cold air
Winter didn’t turn into summer, just sort of stayed a bit longer this year
I suppose it’s not so funny, while also this rhyme may not quite fit
With the theme it is supposed to be, hopefully not enforced with any writ
Anyway, we’ve been waiting for the rain to stop for more than a day or two
We’ve been hoping not to have to start up the woodstove for a few
Never have I seen a season like this, especially after all the snow piled high
When we eagerly waited for spring, then with what arrived, we did sigh
August may turn out to be a true summer time, we can continue to hope
Before we know it, the skiers will be back for skiing on the mountain slopes
So we are still waiting for winter in summer to actually decide to let go
Then enjoy some summer days, before it returns with all the inches of snow
Heidi Sands
*Placed 5th in contest: Funny how winter turned into summer.
7/29/17
TYROL TRIP
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists
skiers good,novice & the inactive
on a flight from London-Heathrow
trusting Italy was full of snow
Huddled in a coach past Trento
disembark in MSV's mountain shadow
crammed & cushed into the cable car
just in time for hot scholate in the the bar
Up early to claim skis & boots
dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits
wait in line for the mountain chairlift
at the top jumping off pretty swift
Down & up the beginners' slope
in a whiteout with a prayer& hope
Pasta for lunch again & again
but good to miss out of the English rain
Learning the knack of evening fondue
joining the folk-dance without a clue
saying danke to Karl the owner
back on the bus to airport Verona
Year Posted 2007
Shepherds to valley
songbirds south
skiers to mountains
students to
books and mouse
seeds in earth
mother bear in rocks
life protected
from slashing wind
and ice
in belly of earth
resting to give birth
to spring songs
and fruits
perpetuating
cycle.
Starless sky
opaque
in shawl of white
wrapping
roofs and roads
in silence of the night
snow stars falling
on bells and forest pines
glittering coats
and scarfs
hurrying to the Light
Jesus' flame of love
melting hearts of ice
blooming spring
in winter
in all receptive hearts
silence of Sabbath
finetuning hearts
pruning sin and sickness
for marvel of rebirth.
God is to heart
as sun to the earth
from cold of winter
death God will resurrect
First Place Winner: Brian Strand-All Yours-6/25/21
People and Nature need sunshine,
it's a free gift God intended for all;
flowers turn to the sun to grow,
while humans seek it to feel fine.
Spring is meant for strolls to admire eloquent beauty,
Summer is the best season for many a beach-goer,
Fall is for the admirers of auburn trees delightful to the eye,
but Winter is for skiers who fear no sun rays on face and hair.
Never seen a woman or girl standing up blowing a kiss in radiant air?
Is it for her sweetheart, or for someone dearly missed as her mother?
She gets carried away thinking that clouds will deliver it to him or her...
either way, it's a gesture of thoughtfulness that shows profound care.
A guy doesn't think as a gal, he differs in thought and action...
he likes to give real kisses, not dream about them so vainly,
and being impatient and unromantic, he misses out on fantasy;
he rarely looks for any sunshine, only for lips that hold attraction.
Expert skiers ought to know
That skiing ever faster
And off the beaten track just might
Precipitate disaster.
The specialists who gauge the snow
For slickness, depth and such
Put warnings out so all who ski
Stay out of danger’s clutch.
Yet more and more, those athletes
Who love risks and taking chances
Ignore all the advice and yield
To daring circumstances.
And so an avalanche occurs,
Which causes pain or death.
I wonder if regret’s expressed
In someone’s dying breath.
For admonitions only work
If they are sternly heeded.
A dab of caution is the dose
Of medicine that’s needed.
I sympathize with those who’ve lost
A loved one to the slopes;
But those who died so recklessly
Were those who knew the ropes.
When I was a small child
I would always be outside,
Must have blazed a hundred paths
Just to see what I could find.
Then they put me in a suit,
And I cried out “I won’t go!”
Left my home for wandering
To see where I might roam.
I trekked out through the prairie,
But the farmer made me stop,
Said to get on out of here,
And stop damaging his crops.
Then a rancher scowled at me,
And no pasture would he loan,
There’s no place on the prairie
For men who want to roam.
I walked up to the North Woods,
The backcountry of Maine,
Two days in a forest ranger
Said I could not remain.
He said it was timber land,
No squatters would they know,
Guess there’s no room in these trees
For a man who wants to roam.
So then I found the Rockies,
Such a vast and empty space,
Figured I could disappear
Deep within that rugged place.
But skiers came upon me,
Said that I messed up their snow,
Even in the high country
There’s just no space to roam.
The cedar swaps, big bayous,
And deserts so vast and dry,
Rain forests of Cascadia,
All these places did I try.
They’ve no love for wanderers,
And they always told me so,
What happens to men like me
When there’s no place left to roam?
One day I was in Florida,
And I bought a rocket ship,
They sent me to the heavens,
I broke past Earth’s orbit.
Facing that great, big darkness,
With the vacuum and the cold,
I saw what I dreamed about,
Such endless space to roam…
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.
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.
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.