The Ski Slope
  By Ken (Hawzipta) Taylor

Here I doth lie,
Smitten by this white ski slope,
Not once but thrice,
Feeling like a dope.

Once I stood so proud,
Winging through the air,
Oh, happy was I,
I didn’t have a care.

Suddenly I find myself flat on the ground,
Snow pressing against my face.
Gravity hath dashed me down,
My body and soul in disgrace.

Wait, let’s re-examine the situation.
One ski pole still in hand,
Almost perpendicular,
Guarding me, it doth stand.

The other pole, oh poor thing,
Lies there near my feet.
Like a dead soldier, stiff and still.
Eyes closed, I will not admit defeat.

Nay, I say to this white mountain ghost,
It knows not with whom it’s dealing.
Many battles have been fought,
And fought with such meaning.

My father’s father and father’s father’s fathers,
All have fought the white one.

This, fore say, will be another battle.
It will be no different, maybe fun.

Out the corner of my eye,
What is that I see,
Midgets, dwarfs,
Flying by on skis.

No, they are children,
Skiing down the hill,
Doing it with such ease,
Seeming unable to take a spill.

Passing me by in my defeated place,
I imagine them laughing at me.
If I only had a gun,
Shooting them would give me such glee.

Wait, I must descend this hill,
Discard these two pieces of wood,
Walk down and arrive in one piece
If only I could.

Nay, I must not give into this thought,
A sniveling coward I would be,
The theme, No guts, No glory,
Must stand before me.

Listen to me, my body,
We can beat this monster white,
Move legs, move arms,
Move so deliberately.
Yes, now I am squatting,
Yes, now I am standing up straight,
Now, I feel wind in my face,
Now I feel in control of my fate.

At the slope’s bottom,
I look upward and say, feeling free,
“Oh, miserable white slope,
I have conquered thee.”