The spring shall make this a wildflowered covered landscape
they made soda outta alpine needles
and mixed it with vodka and gin
a slash of lemon and lime
and some carbonated water mixed in
they ooh'd and ah'd at the deliciousness
and marvel at the taste
a smile broke the ice
with a comment on the taste.
I wanted ya'll to love this thang
I really really did.
Sip and and delight in
the refreshing citrusy taste.
the mountains of Milan a skiers paradise
what a wonderful way to spend
an evening. Risotto alla Milanese
and Ossobuco with wine and sweet desserts
were the stars of the evening
but the night belonged to the alpine needles and the citrus drink.
I learned that taint whyle was the word used to describe
Written by Sisg the Gypsy
and Halo-Halo the Soda Maker.
Done-Rite Publishing soda.
recipes used with permission by
Yeah Gal- and Who-chi Main
Main course with Whipp Appeal
Desserts By Griffa and Them.
the stacking of the Gypsum bricks. we poured a bit to the ground
in honor of Kulla the God of Brick Making.
blue pines sparkle
under snowy gray sky
on top of voluptuous hills
the evergreen in Winter -
their slant suggests skiers,
and worshippers
around a bonfire - the red house.
the main house in uplift
on the port hill
with conifer’s oceanic tint
xanthous-blue streaks
calming round moon
forest points to the stars
and the fluffy, wet snow, gently falling
Hail needles the skin.
Wind cracks the spine.
The mountain holds,
breath seizes on the tongue.
Snow knives the summits.
Cracked hands fumble dry stone,
paper-thin air slices,
bald eagles tilt in the blast.
Alpine skiers parched,
no more Earth Day banners.
Cherry Creek scrapes its bed.
Feces in the bedpan,
chapped gloss smeared,
cocoa hair salted and smoked.
The Zephyr rattles east,
carrying the mountains backward—
Grand Central dissolves
New Chance with Pleiades for the New Year - Revised Description Poetry Contest
Andrea Dietrich
Six inches fell that night
Snow-cover made for skiers
Silvery white snowflakes
Swirling in slow cadence
Several kids woke up
Saw the glistening hills
Snow chasers left the house
mountains fresh snow slopes
awaiting skiers from far
to break open paths
The sun beats brighter than it did last month,
with mercury up in the low forties,
my time is running out for winter fun,
March is such a bittersweet time to ski.
Brown stains in the snow still left by the base,
bare spots and granite poke out here and there,
the white ribbons that once streamed with cool grace
have now taken on a more mottled air.
Wet snow is heavy, clumps of soft cement,
pushing it ’round brings fire to my legs,
time for the sort powder had came and went,
and all that’s left is the half-melted dregs.
For us skiers it’s just a sad decay,
then nine months of warmth until we can play...
The sky becomes a deepened blue,
like army coats of yore,
clings to the trees atop the hills,
settles on valley floor.
The sun is gone but dim lingers
upon the rolling fields,
they seem endless done up in dark,
with secrets unrevealed.
The snow glows, just three inches deep,
reflects the rising moon,
some bits of grass still reach above,
but they’ll be buried soon.
The corn stubble is taller yet,
gives all a mottled look,
brown on white, in the morning times
it’s overrun with rooks.
A deep is picking though it now,
a yearling, and a doe,
I see its silent stride and I
wonder where it will go?
Probably to the hill just west,
beyond which is the town,
it’s rocky there, with thick forest,
a good place to bed down.
My foot crunches on crusted snow,
the winds have made their mark,
they’re predicting a storm next week,
so this is just the start.
Head home, passing the darkened barn,
with animals sleep,
I will be out in morning’s chill,
giving them hay to eat.
It’s not the nicest time to farm,
nut this job never stops,
at least the skiers will be glad
the temperature has dropped.
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.
skiers on the snow slopes
avalanche torrents downwards
winters rage unleashed
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.
TYROL TRIP
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the 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 th cable car,
Just in time for sckolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving 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 forling fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2007
Settled toward skiing championship gain
Keeps him prevailing over practice pain
Insistent to ski well during snowy week
Inspiring fellow skiers who are weak
Nourished as sporty skier midst faith* nurture
Goal is gold in Paralympics’ venture.
*Mark 11:22 And Jesus answering saith unto them, Have faith in God.
January 23, 2023
Forty Christians from Southcourt Baptists,
Skiers,good,novice & the inactive;
On the flight from London-Heathrow,
Trusting Italy was full of snow.
Huddled in a coach past Trento,
Disembark in MSV's mountain shadow;
Crammed & crushed into the cable car,
Just in time for schocolade in the the bar.
Up early to claim skis & boots,
Dressed in salapettes & chic ski suits;
Wait in line for the revolving 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 forking fondue,
Joining the folk-dance,without a clue;
Saying danke to Karl the owner,
Back on the bus to airport,Verona.
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.
The skier glides
A judge decides
A lower score
His body is sore
The athlete falls
But doesn't bawl
The skater spins
A card gamer wins
The skiers costly error
Disappointment is the wearer
Moving on to the next event
Down the slopes The skier went
The triumph of winning
The athlete's mind is spinning
The joy achieved
The goal believed
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