Long Skiing Poems
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Part 1: The Event
Back in younger age days,
Going to grad school in Boulder, Colo, was no fun,
Lots of course work, research work, little time to socialize,
Professor had to meet his grants timeline,
One nice Saturday morning, a few grad schoolgirls,
Called and invited me to go to Copper mountain ski resort,
How can I resist such a social invitation,
I was ready in the morning dressed up in my winter gears,
We hit the road, within couple of hours, we were at the ski resort,
Went down to rental shop, got fitted with skis and matching boots,
I had not confessed yet to the girls that I was still learning how to ski,
We went up the chairlift, I was helped at the top by attendants to get on my feet,
The girls were good, they took off on their skis down the slope,
I started down slowly on the slopes, till I reached a junction of treks,
I started one way, changed my mind to take another trek,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall, no one dared to lift him up,
I was buried in the snow with face down, till an older gentleman came by,
Turned me around, took my skis off, called the ski patrol,
By the late afternoon, girls came to the clinic looking for me,
Advised me, I should have stayed down, and practiced on beginner’s slopes.
Part 2: The Hindsight and lessons learned
I was on crutches for a month,
The diagnosis of hyperextended ligaments was not true,
I had knee surgery to get back hopping in a few weeks.
The lesson I learned, is never show off, know your limits,
Fun can await on some other day,
There was human temptation at that age,
To impress the girls, maybe make a girlfriend,
One girl would come once in a while,
Bring food and consolation for my well-being,
She gradually disappeared; I was back to work.
Now in hindsight, it was a great lesson learned,
People like the winners, not the losers,
Exceed in your effort, show your talent where you are good,
Research is hard work, like poets writing poems,
With only a few readers and good comments,
I found solace in my effort and kept myself going in life.
Pretend not to be master of all the knowledge needed,
Talk to the juniors and experts, if help is required,
Assuming that you can do it all on your own,
It is inviting trouble to a bright future.
Oooh now then. Oh just wow. A scarlet salivating sentinel sentiment is wafting air at that door. Blowing. Blowing is not bubbling so do not count powder puffs or smoke globules that radiate sideways. It is wise to brush the hair of radishes if kept as pets as jess the juniper plant will inform crystal curtains if the duty of brush is not attended to. And the duty of brush is a popular sight for passing breezes in microscopic skirts. Pitter patter titter tattle then. Tittering teasing tenacious tingles. Trapping. Tripping. Taking. Then up and away with all the finer scented procrustean produce. In a giant orbital cloud. Decorated in proud prints and self determined make up that costs way over the price of a single bag of flour to dust the cheeks. It is more often that a mock moronic macro macaroni makes an energy beam to an enemy of eggplants. But eggplants can be radically and powerfully transforms and transported into the wide dance halls of many a lunar ocean ballroom. Dance carefully carrying the sand, the ships, and the oven gloves. We wouldn't want spillage would we? So very wasteful. Wasteful waist coated wasters wantonly willing war. And a five centimetre slug jet skiing on the wild tepid waters at ease with all possibilities of a handwritten swirly note with a flowery kiss. Playful and play. Playing and placing. And the sharp wide angle from a spotted viewfinder is never quite enough to seal a deal with a seal, a serpent and a pillar of margarine. Quanta quintet. And a portal of pigs parading in a seventy seven acre of orchard pie. Monkeys dangling from trees throwing dirt at ignorance. And the jester fish trots by on the shire horse on a blue sunny afternoon. Age after age after age after age after age. Clever created canopies cuddle cute clams. Clap then. One two three four clap clap clap. And give a loud cheer like hurrrraaahhhhhhh. Then lie down then stand up. Quickly. Central controlled colonies collect. Drag no tin of ham or peas to the airports. Z quintillion Z quintessential Z at fifty four rotating square pegs with long curvaceous legs ti twelve turkeys tuning tinned terrapin tunes. Bing bang bong bung in a bungalow. Laughing. Like ha ha ha ha ha. And a cute semi polarised cat in a tight fitting bathing hat in a bathroom. Z and that was the latest news. Z
Form:
What’s In The Urn
Strangers offered me to join them in a drink
I met them on a mountain edge while skiing
They seemed like friendly normal people then
So what could happen in a simple cabin?
Finding that which is not there or vanquished
What is there that cannot be perceived?
Placed upon the mantel piece are ashes in the cabin
Brass vase, a receptacle for lost souls sits in repose
A death vase to glare at over cognac
By the sober flames cast by
A fire place glow observed in action
Liquid spirits pour out their poison
In the cozy living room inside the cabin
Drinks alone cannot remove this feeling of distraction
The urn is piercing through my soul
People belong in cemeteries you know
With all due respect for the dead
Scatter them at sea when they‘re deceased
Not paraded around in gloom to cause unease
Or as a center piece for living rooms
I’m not relieved to find it is a lizard on the shelf
To be exact, an exotic iguana family friend entombed
And to assume that fact makes this matter optimal
I beg to differ on that point and voice my opinion later
There must be a plot of ground outside
Or toilet somewhere to flush it down
But better left unsaid, as they are bereaved about the death
And I am their invited guest
Iguana tried consuming the family’s cat
Another favorite pet I guess
It is surmised, that’s how it met its end
Wound up expired inside the urn
The receptacle was there and going nowhere on its own
I swear it follows me from room to room
By embers glow and ash, shadowing my every move
A brass smile casting off the urn, leaving me concerned
I could not take my leave
The container followed me
So I waited, fixated on the thing
Is it coming back to life to eat more bugs or me?
Finding that which is not there
Is easier in the dark
Rising to the occasion of the day that breaks
I must escape the premises to continue skiing
Into the frozen world outside I fly
With no discernible signs or paths to lead or learn
I get away, no time to say good-byes or find my way
Never again will I say; what’s in the urn
You might see me in the back streets
By the light of the full moon
With my look refined and cunning
I will almost make you swoon
Don't treat me as an enemy
Or fear me as a foe
Don't use evil words against me
I'm a well-bred soul, you know
I'm a smooth, suave, refined old chap
A four-legged paradox
Oblige me for a moment, please
- I'm an urbane urban fox
You've seen me on my rounds
But I'm not heading for your bins
No - you're far too quick to judge me
Though, I confess - I have my sins
One must eat to live, of course
I'll not claim to be benign
But I am a gracious, civil guest
Where're I choose to dine
The hen house holds a great appeal
And I know how to pick the locks
I do that with true style though
I'm an urbane urban fox
My poise and affable demeanour
Give me access to any Mayfair club
I'm a cut above the rural fox
Who seems happy with his "pub"
I'm not one to judge, of course
I'm far too cool for that
But jeans and a checked shirt?
No! I choose a jacket and cravat
No pints for me - it's G & T
Or Martini on the rocks
Oh yes, darling, I really am
An urban urbane fox
I can capture your attention
With my wit and sharp brown eyes
I'm keen to make a business deal
Should my nose smell enterprise
My fur is sleek, groomed and neat
My tail swishes to impress
My paw is keen to shake your hand
When I'm ready to invest
I truly never miss a trick
When opportunity knocks
I'm cordially yours
I'm an urbane urban fox
I enjoy reading high-brow lit
Classical music was written for me
Opera sets my spine a-tingle
So does ballet, naturally
I go shootin' with my country pals
As for skiing - I'd rather not
I find dancing is a pleasure though
I love the Charleston and Fox Trot
But don't class me as a Liberal
I am rather orthodox
Let's steer clear of politics
I'm an urbane urban fox
I'm polished. Well-mannered. Chic.
Rich beyond compare
Elegant and gallant
And oh, so debonair
But yes, I walk the city streets
In the hours before the dawn
There's something about the smell, you see
To which I'm somehow, strangely drawn
Don't judge me for that, please I'm just
A four-legged paradox
I thank you for your time
- With love. Your urban urbane fox
Written 10th April 2016
Wow, the weather sure is cold,
Days are short, the wind is bold.
The season isn't a favorite for sure,
Most in the cold, aren't begging for more.
This testament to the winter, is short and is sweet,
Its brutal cold, upon you does beat.
And beg for spring, and longer days,
And new found fun in different ways.
But back to winter, now let's explore,
Its wondrous beauty, many do adore,
The frosty nights, a blanket of snow,
Untouched and virgin, a skiing we can go!
Take the kids to the local park,
Sleigh ride with them, a youthful spark,
May be rekindled, inside your soul,
This surely is fun, never is it droll.
Build a snowman, with coal and pipe,
He may come alive, frosty isn't just hype.
The alive that he comes, is not in the snow,
But in the hearts of the ones that help make him grow.
Spending time with the family, this bonding is good,
Feeling alive and well, with your family you should,
The wondrous winter, has the holiest of days,
A time to be kind, and have gentler ways.
The birth of the savior, the greatest of men,
His spirit reborn, and we all know when,
This holiday comes, its time be kind,
Good deeds and good thoughts, cover your mind.
The new year comes in winter, a time to start new,
Cast aside bad habits, and with them your through.
Good cheer and good times, and drinking some wine,
Kissing and hugging, and playing Auld Lang Syne.
Presidents day is a time to give thanks,
Lincoln and the north, and the fighting yanks,
Put an end to slavery, blacks are free as whites,
Another century passed to gain civil rights.
Praise to Washington, the first to lead,
Our country from Britain, his troops had freed,
The people of the Colonies, America was born,
Plains full of plenty, many acres of corn.
Valentines day, the time for romance,
Put yourself out there, ask a girl to a dance!
The celebration turns history around,
Originally on this day, many bodies were found,
Dead in a garage, in the Chicago town,
The pictures are gruesome, bloodstains on the ground.
These are the times in winters' cold,
That have special meaning, and memories they hold.
Look kindly on winter, its end will bring,
A time of rebirth, more commonly known as spring.
Visit poemsbypaulie.com
I have this strange feelings twirling in my stomach since yesterday and it will not go away, it is not a feeling of pain, it’s not a feeling of shame or guilt, it is the feeling you get when someone has taken your heart away. You know the one that young lovers get when they fall in love for the first time and don’t have a dime? It is not quite like that but almost like that. It feels like something is literally twirling in my stomach, I am not sure if it is butterfly or middle age crisis.
I was supposed to be going places, soaking in hot springs and enjoying fine beaches. I was supposed to be going places, skiing on the slopes, and holding on to the ropes, climbing branded mountains and spending the night in the wooded cabins piled up with snow around me with a little fire place to warm my hands and feet while sipping hot chocolates from my brand name mug.
But here I am in this place stuck for four long years suffocating from the stanch coming from the toilet pit hardheaded children screaming from the top of their voices, stirring my bones and sinews, great god, I have to start my life anew.
I grip firmly to my pride listening to the commotion around me and the cars racing up and down the alley, the music box shouts from across the street while the night fades slowly before me and embracing daylight in front of me. The birds start swirling in the restless sky looking for the early morning goodbye.
I walked along the road and looked at their faces soaked with anxiety and parched variety; the waxing moon hinges its burden to the sky and watches the people as they go by. Plunging into precipice and drowning in waterfalls. I watch the lines moving around the bend; parallel lines, straight line, zigzag lines, curved lines and horizontal lines that one can walk on. I followed the diagonal line to the end looking for a new friend but the butterfly kept twirling in my stomach and I feel like throwing up.
Change the plot or many more will rot, change the plot and get the people out of the rock, change the plot and get me back on track. Change the plot so that I can wear a brand new frock. Change the plot to end the shock. Change the plot and raise your glasses.
The look of pity on the saleswoman's face said it all
my paint spattered clothing, however the jeans fit
just didn't have that panache, chic pizazz, tongue hanging
inspiration for desire a young woman out to have.
The car dealer took one look at me, led me to the far
corner of the lot, showed me the used hot rods
the beater four doors, the budget cutters like I'd rode
but I wanted glossy black, silver hood ornament, brand new.
Paint is supposed to sit on top of your nails, but underneath
is advantageous when compared to oil, to muck, to dirty guts
so I was a step on the ladder of the working man,
I could even afford to buy hose, which I still don't wear.
There's something to be said for the over glasses, safety
glasses look, white paper coat, something comical
one supposes, but the purple overalls worn for skiing
which suddenly I could afford, made me my nephews joke.
At times I waited for a date who preferred the bar
called and said maybe later, because passion rumbled
between us when we kissed but I didn't want a flit,
disease, broken promise, I wanted to be embraced
Cozy now, body motion are promises and content
passion is beyond me, the bar on the patio in back
the hand I always hold a missing app that answers
more lonely than any mistaken wish that he'd be the one.
Stars, too, I climbed to them in my dream, climbed
the Space Needle and found my self with no safety net
I always avoided those climbs the dreams more nightmare
even though I do what I am told, to reach, to soar.
Sometimes now I wear black on gold dresses which fit
to the nth inch, so I can barely sit, hold champagne
to watch golden bubbles float against the elegant
white linen against starry night event, that's rich, success.
Dump it gladly for a romp on the beach, the missing
something like threads through a woven maze,
like an angel's hope. When I dump it all and seek
there's grace lying on the shores between the rocks
a pooled place where deer come to lick minerals,
boulders come unglued and sail down river
and think, maybe I could do that. Maybe I could
unglue all the expectations and rearrange the world.
brothers we be, brother we be free
brothers we be
brother we be free
me and lil bro would have these sword fights
yelling fight to our deaths
yelling to the victor gets Kristina the neighbor's daughter
we were young
about ten
drawing inspiration from each other
and being heroes someday we be
we also put words in Kristina's mouth
she didn't mind, she was like us
this was back in the late 60's
in the land of the midnight sun, Norway
it was also during a time in history
of the viet nam war where these Americans were being protested against
numerous time, i remember,
the house windows being spray painted and broken
brothers we be
brother we be free
we also faced hostility from neighboring kids, much older kids
to the sword fights we go
we fought gallantry
with our little weenie sticks we would fought with so much
gallantry, so gallantry
the kind we would roast weenies and marshmallows on
we were Spartans, fighting passionately
honing our skills for these mean kids
and let me tell you those weenie sticks hurt
it hurt our backside when i sliced off mom's roses
let me tell you
brothers we be
brother we be free
we were also mischief
stealing dads cigs and liquor
sneaking out late at night to our tree forth
one time with Kristina
and let me tell those tree forts hurt our backside
let me tell you, i kid you not
especially when Kristina's dad told ours, ouch
brothers we be
brother we be free
against the neighboring kid we held our own
let me tell, me and lil bro
earning respect on the fjords
fishing, canoeing, swimming
in winter
skiing, especially long jumping and hockey
summer months playing soccer
in time we were ingratiating ourselves with the hood
let me you we did
the best was taking a hike deep into the forest one day
coming upon an inhabited cabin
breaking in, stealing some reindeer horns, girly mags
cookies and sweets
it was passage of life, it forged memories
for two brothers that grew some balls, conviction
experience growing up fast to protect their honor against the hood
but mostly, mostly
brothers we be
brother we be free
connie pachecho
1/21/17
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 !
My eyes have not grown too weak or dim
to ignore what they've long been seeing
pretenders who wear a mask of disguise
like a skier who's not proficient at skiing
Everyone who labels him/herself a 'poet'
thinks he's composed brilliant words, versed
but lacks ability, and some of us know it,
and receives high praise; payback reimbursed
Is it because some seek insincere empty words
to gain a like response as a misbegotten debt?
Could it be they want undeserved admiration
for posting things a serious poet would regret?
And what of time consuming contest entries
that tower in skilled verse above most of the rest,
only to see everyone received a first place finish
when theirs is ignored but clearly one of the best.
IT'S A SLAP IN THE FACE!!!
Let's not overlook when the final results are in
those who give nods to each other as number one
It's obvious they don't always deserve the win.
Doesn't that spoil both the challenge and the fun?
Go ahead and point out that I shouldn't complain
because I stopped entering contests months ago
and seldom post on a site where some would reign.
but I discover things that make me say, "WHOA!"
Not so many fake names appear by a cheating judge
and I thank all of those who plowed that farrow
There are times when we all need a bit of a nudge
to make sure the path we walk is straight and narrow
Now I've learned that the advertisement displays
are prohibiting Connie Wong from enjoying her part
in reading and commenting in her loveliest of ways.
Connie is a talented poet, with a pure, loving heart.
My premium membership is up at the end of May
by now you've gathered that I'll not be renewing
but I'll still occasionally post on any given day.
Thank you for reading what has long been brewing
Comments are welcome if you would like to share
your thoughts, agreeable and even if they're not
We all have opinions; a community should care
about problems...unless you just don't give a squat
and if that's the case, I totally understand that, too