The Happy Sadness of Golf
It’s not a sport or pastime … and usually not fun.
You’re reduced to a mumbler before you are done.
The book says to hit against your left side.
Seems like hitting the ball is what should be tried.
Then there’s that bit about not moving your head.
That’ll be no problem … as soon as you’re dead.
Down and behind the ball is what they say.
Just more of the same … your game’s going that way.
And what’s the deal about a full shoulder turn?
One try and it’s wheelchair racing to learn.
And be sure your follow-through finishes high.
No matter your shot’s an unplayable lie.
Or maybe your release wasn’t just right.
Keep the faith, hacker, the nineteenth’s in sight.
Then they wreck the course with water and rough.
Just making small holes is rotten enough.
Ah, putting; yes, putting … what a miserable part.
A three-footer with a break can tear out your heart.
The worst things of all are those ugly out-of-bounds
With their penalty strokes and club-throwing sounds.
Lessons, hope and practice … no, they’ll never pay.
Watch golf on tv … you’ll be saner that way!
poem by Gregory Huyette
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Related quotes
Take A Bow!
When you're feeling way above 'par',
And your golf ball is travelling far,
With a 'birdie' to give you a start,
Golfing is an art.
When an 'eagle' soars high in the sky,
As within a deep 'bunker' you try,
To extricate neatly your ball,
Golfing is the call.
When your 'club' just doesn't impel
Your first 'shot' to go very well,
You can't always 'iron' out the fault,
Golfing is difficult.
Now the 'swing' that keeps the ball rolling,
Will need some careful controlling, .
But then down the 'fairway' it flies,
Golfing is exercise.
When you 'angle' your ball at the 'flag',
And you suddenly encounter a snag,
Once the ball goes straight in the 'hole',
Golfing is your goal.
If you're 'putting' well, out on the green,
And your 'stroke' is one worth being seen,
Then go on my friend, take a bow,
Golfing is a WOW!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Game of Golf
Golf is my brothers passion, my sister-in laws as well
From where l'm standing Oh! my word it looks like a game from hell
Legs astride back is bent and the arms down all stretched out
Now it's time to hit the ball and give it one good clout
Then they do the walking and try to find the ball
If it's in the right spot then their walking tall
Will they reach the 18th hole without getting in the rough
Will it pour with rain until, they say we've had enough
Will one beat the other, will it end in tears
But then l guess if it gets that bad, they'll down a good few beers
Is it really worth though bending, stretching, hitting
No l'm sorry not for me, l'd rather just be sitting
I guess they'll go on playing, well the fresh air does them good
l'm not so sure about the rest of it, l do not think l could
Walk around in the rain, hitting putting sighing
Little white balls in the air, god, they go a flying
Through the air down the green and in a tiny hole
Only to take it out again, is this really reaching a goal
You'll find them every weekend playing on the green
Wearing funny clothes and shoes, like you never seen
They'll push on round the golf course, until they reach the end
In and out of all them holes, they're clearly round the bend.
poem by Dianne Anderson
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For A Round Of Golf
For leisure the game that so many do play
For a round of golf 'tis a beautiful day
By the wide slow flowing river that crawls to the sea
Men and women practice their strokes before their evening tea.
As a boy I believed hobby golfers had easy jobs
And that those who enjoyed golf were well to do snobs
But such antiquated thinking not relevant today
As all kinds of classes the game of golf play.
A beautiful day for a beautiful game
For most hobby golfers with no aspirations to fame
After work they go to the golf course in the evening sun
And play the eighteen holes for the sake of fun.
Of the praises of golf everybody doesn't sing
But for the participants a game without physical contact can be such a fun thing
In the golf course by the river that to the sea crawl
The crack of the iron on the stone hard golf ball.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Golf-Slow Torture by Handicap
Golf is such a silly game
The less you play it-The greater the fame
But not alas for your average punter
Who stalks the long grass, more like a hunter.
He really isn't playing at all
Half the time he's looking for his ball.
Head always moving(if not hanging in shame)
The ball stays still, so the players to blame.
As more and more strokes we amass
Mainly playing from the longest grass
Temper flaming and words quite blue!
Are you sure this is the game for you?
The just one shot, that you do not thin
And look! Your nearest the pin
Bringing the fame that you seek
Ensuring your return, and the dream
That you will do better - next week!!!
poem by Keith Oldrey
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031010 Green Moments
i'm almost kneeling to the green
tracing the undulation and grain
i set my ball and look one more
from four sides and with prayer
did a couple of practice swing
got the tempo and putt went in
roll is when you hold your breathe
in silence talking to your ball begging
to break to follow follow path to cup
as tension builds up inside of me
so focus, it's me and my golf ball
nobody else, then yess...growwl(silent)
poem by Manonton Dalan
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Hate 2 Luv U
It was the wrong day
The wrong month
The wrong year
I wasnt ready for all the pain and all the tears
Baby you crushed me
Now I have to deal in the worst fears
You had to go and take it there
Now im all alone
Knew I should have took my ass home
Times when you were putting it on me
You were putting it on me
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
Thought I could change u
And turn u into a good man
Thought my love was bond
And things were going as I planned
But what a fool I was
U was still hitting your ex-girlfriend
I had to be out you understand
Now im all alone
Knew I should have took my ass home
Times when you were putting it on me
You were putting it on me
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
Wish that (wish that things were different)
Wish that things were different
(that you would love me the way that I love you) the way that I love you
(cant believe you hurt me babe) cant believe
(and do me this way)
(I hate to love you cant let go)
Now im all alone
Knew I should have took my ass home
Times when you were putting it on me
You were putting it on me
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
fall in luv
do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
I just hate u for it
Hate u for making me fall in luv
And theres nothing I can do about it
So blue about
Dont wanna be in luv
song performed by by 3LW
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For me, the worst part of playing golf, by far, has always been hitting the ball.
quote by Dave Barry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Art of Deception
It’s not a game
like any other game
where a golf ball travels the distance
and being putted into a hole
it is only a small white ball
being lured into a hole
dark and full of deception
have you ever wondered
why the ball is never black?
the hands that hold the putter
take a firm grip in a certain art form
there is positional assurance
before teeing
and these very hands
network with the mind
in continuance they play
vicariously with the heart
and when the world
is minding its own course
and waiting for another PGA tournament,
the greenery is overshadowed
like a transgressor
the golfer becomes an infidel
drunk like a kite in the wind
moaning in apology
with numbness on his lips
making a hiatus
wider than the golf course
how to fine tune this art
with family blunted by fame?
and fortune?
and deception?
poem by Leonard Dabydeen
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Fishing or Golf, Take your Pick
Do you golf? I've been asked this question a great deal
But I answer with a smile, "Hey, a golf ball won't make a meal."
If you use your driver or iron, whatever your whim
I reply, "I would rather try to teach a worm to swim."
Some argue, you get exercise by walking from hole to hole
You can't do that sitting in a boat holding a pole.
No matter if you golf or fish, both cost a lot of dough
And both result in making your wife a fishing or golf widow.
One can't be sure which sport is really the best
Until you have tried both, passed the inevitable test.
So, if you can worm your way through all this confusion
You might fish around and land a sound conclusion.
This won't decrease your drive nor will you be less on the ball
By weighing the pros and cons for each sport overall.
Golfing has some prestige whereas fishing does not
So pick your choice, determine your own lot.
You can't make a mistake whichever one you choose
Cause after all, what have you got to lose
So my friends, if we don't always agree
Fish around for your solution, it may fit you to a tee.
poem by Jr. William B. Booth
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An Awkward Lie
The course looks soft and silky
Perfectly manicured lying in wait
Fresh ball active on the tee
Every man anticipating ones fate
The sound was deafening from the crack of the drive
Bouncing down the fairway eyes following as if alive
Coming to a rest in the deep rough
Dropping his head now self conscious
Calmly he removes a card from the side poach
Caddy nervously contemplating the approach
Wrongly estimating his clubs heft
Looks of despair as it hocks to the left
Disappearing the crowd let out a sigh
Judge gazing at the awful tricky lie
Man against nature at its best
Now’s the moment to show the rest
This requires an extraordinarily high shot
The golfer knew he had to hit the sweet spot
Hacking down with all his might
The ball dug deeper out of sight
Thinking to himself golf makes man humble
Wishing to search ‘ Awkward Lie ‘ in Google
Takes a breath knowing this ball is going on the green
Skimming off two trees rolls in the cup thats eighteen
poem by David Darbyshire
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I don’t know if God plays ball
I don’t know if God plays ball
soccer or foosball or bacci ball.
Well, I’m a Frenchman and
boules is the name of my game.
Being on the ball is like playing
with Gigi little girls. When God
created Eve I wonder did He
have in mind dirty old men
and did He mean putting man
behind the eight ball
and did He know that eons later
round the corner of the square ball
someone hooks up with
a hooded guy who sells 3.5 grams
of meth and coke and damn,
that 8 ball is already gone!
I wish I had another!
I start singin’ a tune, I don't drink
brass monkey, like to be funky
and my name ain’t Eazy-E
your 8 ball junkie.
We did an eight ball of blow and
danced until next morning.
I ain’t never goin’ out
With an eight-ball Chiquita
Cuz I got balls and I ain’t
givin’ her mine and
she ain’t playin’ with mine.
I wish God had more balls
and my brain marinate
in mothballs.
~~~
Alex Nodopaka Aug©2010
AD Something
poem by Alex Nodopaka
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Samsara
Oh! I watch this wonderful game in a lonely park.
A millionaire strikes a small ball with his iron club
And it flies to infinity,
He goes behind that happily.
The poor sinner caddy too crawls towards him
with a heavy bag that full of debts on his oblique shoulder.
*[ The endless journey, what 'Buddha' explains; cycle of unlimited births & deaths.]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Definitions As An Intention To Describe
Definitions as an intention to describe,
Can be so confining to the mind.
Case in point...
Having to 'some' a meaning.
But...
To those probing their observations,
Making little sense to make sensible...
A reason to find a rhyme.
I remember when I heard the term,
'Baseball' used.
And when I went to my first game,
I was not overwhelmed with excitement.
I couldn't get the 'bat' out of my head.
'Why isn't this game called 'Batball'...
Instead of baseball? '
I kept thinking of that.
Without the bat,
There wouldn't be any baseball played.
Unlike basket...ball.
I can understand that.
Foot...ball,
Okay...
I'm sold.
Base...ball?
And all that the bases do,
Is just lay there?
Home...plate?
That's not a home...base?
And the hitting of a 'homerun'...
That's out of the field of play?
Whoever created this game,
Is a genius.
The terms used as they are applied,
Makes absolutely no sense.
I can understand,
Why it's one of the most favorite sports.
Like golf!
When a player hits that ball,
That might endanger onlookers...
A shouting of 'fore' is heard.
Fore...what?
If one is hit...
Be-fore the word is heard,
That's it.
And even after 'fore'...
What difference does it make?
The other day...
I watched a player of 'baseball' lose his bat.
It went flying into the stadium...
To hit someone in the head.
No one warned the 'victim' at all.
No one shouted...
'Watch 'that'.
It's a flying bat.'
Hmmm...
Flying bats?
At a baseball game?
Where the selling of hot...dogs,
And pea...nuts with beer...
Is a tradition.
And someone wishes to keep the writing of poetry,
To restrictions?
By whose definition?
And when does prose not become poetry?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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What About Tomorrow
Is it my time already?
Am I going to sleep only to never wake up?
Are my dreams never coming true? What about tomorrow
And all of what I expected is it just going to fade away?
What if the world stopped turning
Would you still care about what those around you say
I'm tired of sleeping in my head I'm searching for sympathy
I can't let it go without putting up a fight
But it's hard to get by when there's nothing in sight
Nothing to look forward to
But what about... the things you said
Here today alone again
Only the sound of the iron bell can still call me to my knees
For this is the day that I die
Do you know why you stand?
What if the world stopped turning
Would you still care about what the broken hearted said
I'm tired of sleeping in my head
I wish it had been a better song
I can't let go without putting up a fight
But it's hard to get by when there's nothing in sight
Nothing to look forward to
But what about... the things we did
I can't let go without putting up a fight
But it's hard to get by when there's nothing in sight
Nothing to look forward to
But what about... me and you
I can't let go without putting up a fight
But it's hard to get by when there's nothing in sight
Nothing to look forward to
But what about...
song performed by by Near Miss from The Gentle Art Of Making Enemies
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lets Have A Ball
(bunn)
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I may never get a break like this in life no more
Well, I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I may never get a break like this in life no more
Got money in my pocket
I aint begging for bread
Cadillac el dorado
Well, its gone to my head
I got a short time living and a long greasy time to pay (play) dead
Aint doing no favours, aint asking for none
Honey, I got money, I can pay for my fun
Thats the way I want it, thats the way it must be done
[because]
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
I may never get a break like this in life no more
A certain little mama [you ? ? ? ? for me]
Gonna jump and shout [oh, yeah]
When the el dorado rolls up [ ah]
And Ill come walking out [? ? ? ]
Gonna tell ya pretty baby [say you like nothing]
You dont know what its all about
(Ive got) no special woman [no special woman]
Want no special friend [no special friend]
Want a good time today [good time today]
Tomorrow may be down again [may be down again]
Dont dial my number [oh, lord]
Ill tell you when [Ill tell you when]
I wanna ball like I never did ball before [before, before, before]
Really wanna...never did ball before [before, before, before]
I may never get a break like this in life no more
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Fast Break
In Memory of Dennis Turner, 1946-1984
A hook shot kisses the rim and
hangs there, helplessly, but doesn't drop,
and for once our gangly starting center
boxes out his man and times his jump
perfectly, gathering the orange leather
from the air like a cherished possession
and spinning around to throw a strike
to the outlet who is already shoveling
an underhand pass toward the other guard
scissoring past a flat-footed defender
who looks stunned and nailed to the floor
in the wrong direction, trying to catch sight
of a high, gliding dribble and a man
letting the play develop in front of him
in slow motion, almost exactly
like a coach's drawing on the blackboard,
both forwards racing down the court
the way that forwards should, fanning out
and filling the lanes in tandem, moving
together as brothers passing the ball
between them without a dribble, without
a single bounce hitting the hardwood
until the guard finally lunges out
and commits to the wrong man
while the power-forward explodes past them
in a fury, taking the ball into the air
by himself now and laying it gently
against the glass for a lay-up,
but losing his balance in the process,
inexplicably falling, hitting the floor
with a wild, headlong motion
for the game he loved like a country
and swiveling back to see an orange blur
floating perfectly though the net.
poem by Edward Hirsch
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King Of Baseball
As one of the best players ever lived
He is still one of the best icons standing
To him a bat was like a matchstick
Fusing the ball up in the sky burning
Back down like a burning asteroid
6'2" giant waiting to hit the ball
Before the crowd could blink he
Was already putting foot on the
Fourth base he played every game like
A training session but won every one of his games
With full passion living the other teams in concussion noting their heads like bubble heads
while he enjoyed and waved freely like a
Loose thread
Talking behind base ball truth all about Babe Ruth
poem by Atlay Mwenifumbo
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The Golf Ball and the Loan
[After Longfellow.]
I drove a golf-ball into the air;
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow it in its flight.
I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?
Long, long afterward, in a whin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings are missing still!
They haven't turned up, and I doubt if they will.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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041811N next time
i feel bad hitting branch
with my errant golf ball
it broke it off and fall
i pick up, large as thumb
there's lot of power behind
that flying ball, i imagine
it could be weight of cones
that contributes to breaking
then i thought; gardener who
died who got hit by errant ball
i have lethal weapon at hand
i must be, must be very careful
poem by Manonton Dalan
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An Autumn Crown
Watch the leaves turn
yellow, red and brown
Changing the sky too
And putting on autumn's crown
And letting in the joy
And happiness of sunshine
And filling the world with
The light and warmth of wine
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And reflecting serenity and peace
And putting on autumn's crown
And spreading joy and passion
And enthusiasm and hope
And clearing away the dust
And all pain and mope
watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
And creating a new life
And putting on autumn's crown
And showing you how to reach
The bright horizon afar
And nature glowing with colors
A twinkling like a star
Watch the leaves turn
Yellow, red and brown
Reflecting God's blessings
And putting on autumn's crown.
poem by Seema Chowdhury
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