Triumph
Why am I full of joy although
It drizzles on the links?
Why am I buying Veuve Cliquot,
And setting up the drinks?
Why stand I like a prince amid
My pals and envy none?
Ye gods of golf! Today I did
A Hole in One.
I drove my ball to heaven high,
It over-topped the hill;
I tried to guess how it would lie,
If on the fairway still.
I climbed the rise, so sure I'd hit
It straight towards the green:
I looked and looked,--no trace of it
Was to be seen.
My partner putted to the pin,
Then hoarse I heard him call;
And lo! So snug the hole within
Gleamed up my ball.
Yea, it was mine. Oh what a thrill!
What dandy drive I'd done
By luck,--well, grant a little skill,
I'd holed in one.
Say that my score is eighty odd,
And though I won't give up,--
Say that as round the course I plod,
I never win a cup.
Say that my handicap's nineteen,
And of my game make fun,
But holler: 'On the seventh green
HE HOLED IN ONE.'
poem by Robert William Service
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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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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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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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Golf 'N' Me
Golf and me are not to be I’ve tried it many times,
I slipped I fell and heard folk yell and even hit a old brass bell
At hole’s I crossed when ball was lost
Then shortly after leaving Tee I let those pass who Tee long after me
While colleagues wait quiet patiently for me to find a perfect swing
And make the day worthwhile thing
Then suddenly success it’s been I find my swing and hit the green
A putters what you need right now until I seem to miss somehow
Again to find the missing ball oh why do I bother at all?
The driving range would sort me out or so the experts all would shout
Yet many balls I’d bash and hit just went their own way, not ahead
The many times I failed to hit a single net or hole or flag
Yes golf and me are not to be and now we all know why
So shoes that crimp and made me limp, the single glove and strange shape clubs
I waive them all goodbye!
Copyright © 2007 Ray Feasey
poem by Ray Feasey
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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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David Cleek
I cannot think that Death will press his claim
To snuff you out or put you off your game:
You’ll still contrive to play your steady round,
Though hurricanes may sweep the dismal ground,
And darkness blur the sandy-skirted green
Where silence gulfs the shot you strike so clean.
Saint Andrew guard your ghost, old David Cleek,
And send you home to Fifeshire once a week!
Good fortune speed your ball upon its way
When Heaven decrees its mightiest Medal Day;
Till saints and angels hymn for evermore
The miracle of your astounding score;
And He who keeps all players in His sight,
Walking the royal and ancient hills of light
Standing benignant at the eighteenth hole,
To everlasting Golf consigns your soul.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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1984
Nineteen eighty four
Someday they wont let you
Now you must agree
The time they are a telling
And the changing isnt free
You read it in the tea leaves
And the reacks are on tv
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Theyll split your pretty cranium
And fill it full of air
Theyll tell you that youre eighty
And really you wont care
Youll be shooting up on everything
Tomorrows never there
Beware the savage jaw
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Im looking for a vehicle
Im looking for a ride
Im looking for a party
Im looking for a side
Im looking for a treason
That I knew in sixty five
Beware the savage door
In nineteen eighty four
Come see come see
Remember me
I played in an all night movie role
You said it would last
But I guess weve enrolled
In nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
Who could ask for more
Nineteen eighty four
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Basketball
I was bouncing my ball
on a warm summer day
when he looked up
and he did say
shoot me through
that hoop up there
and let me fly
right through the air
shoot me through
that orange round rim
if you make it
we will win
but if you miss it
that's okay
cuz i'll still love you
anyway
I shot the ball
and i made the shot
the ball looked up and said
thanks, thanks alot
I knew you could do it
I knew you would
keep practicing now
just like you should
Havin A Ball
Written by james young, john curulewski
Lead vocals by james young
Yeah
Now tell me girl
Wont you tell me true
Help me get this out of my head
Now fenny thinks that there aint no stoppin
Until you got me flat on my back
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
Now theres things that I agree with
And things that I really dont
If you think Im free to try something crazy
There aint nothing round that I wont
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
Yeah
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
Now if you want to spend some time with me
If youve got some time to kill
Tell more or else Ill leave this place
Know a couple of a ladies that will
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
Yeah
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
Just havin a ball
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
You know my number
Just give me a call
You know what Im thinking
Were just havin a ball
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into a even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill-designed for the purpose.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Golf is a game whose aim is to hit a very small ball into a even smaller hole, with weapons singularly ill- designed for the purpose.
quote by Winston Churchill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Ageing Golfer's Dream
His great dream in his fifties is to emulate his son
Who was lucky enough to score a hole in one
Which is something in golf that is quite rare indeed
Where many do fail few can hope to succeed
A far better golfer than his son it is said
By those in the know who rate the ageing golfer ahead
Of anyone else in the local golf club
I only say here what I hear in the pub
From the local amateur golfers who enjoy their weekend game
Who play for the love of it not for the fame
As a golfer the young man in his twenties with his dad can't compare
For the father indeed is a far better player
But the father has yet to hit a hole in one
And on that score alone 'tis one up for the son.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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The Village Green
ON the cheerful village green,
Skirted round with houses small,
All the boys and girls are seen,
Playing there with hoop and ball.
Now they frolic hand in hand,
Making many a merry chain;
Then they form a warlike band,
Marching o'er the level plain.
Now ascends the worsted ball,
High it rises in the air,
Or against the cottage wall,
Up and down it bounces there.
Then the hoop, with even pace,
Runs before the merry throngs;
Joy is seen in every face,
Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
Rich array, and mansions proud,
Gilded toys, and costly fare,
Would not make the little crowd
Half so happy as they are.
Then, contented with my state,
Where true pleasure may be seen,
Let me envy not the great,
On a cheerful village green.
poem by Ann Taylor
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The Village Green
On the cheerful village green,
Skirted round with houses small,
All the boys and girls are seen,
Playing there with hoop and ball.
Now they frolic hand in hand,
Making many a merry chain;
Then they form a warlike band,
Marching o'er the level plain.
Now ascends the worsted ball,
High it rises in the air,
Or against the cottage wall,
Up and down it bounces there.
Then the hoop, with even pace,
Runs before the merry throngs;
Joy is seen in every face,
Joy is heard in cheerful songs.
Rich array, and mansions proud,
Gilded toys, and costly fare,
Would not make the little crowd
Half so happy as they are.
Then, contented with my state,
Where true pleasure may be seen,
Let me envy not the great,
On a cheerful village green.
poem by Jane Taylor
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031910b Yellow Birds On The Green
i see. group of tiny yellow birds
gatherings seeds at the green
they hop, hop and start to sing
they never scratch the ground
they just eat what they can find
bobbing their heads in rhyme
a golf ball landed at the fringe
two went hop hop to investigate
and came back with message
time to disappear by the trees
they're up there quick, grooming
some offer to help, maybe courting
after the ball is putted to the cup
flag is raise to flirt with breeze
they came down picking seeds
they don't bother fading laughs
playful ones want a piggy back
only to be bitten and wing whack
poem by Manonton Dalan
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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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Hole In My Wall
Through the hole in my wall,
I see into your head
a beggers day banquet
on a four poster bed
It's food for the eyes
drink for the soul
The hole in my wall
I can't let myself go
CHOURS
I'm spinning 'round and 'round
('round and 'round and 'round)
Don't let me down
(Ooh I groove) Through the hole in my wall
(Love the view) Through the hole in my wall
(Velvet Blue) through the hole in my wall
(I see you) through the hole in my wall
The hole in my wall, lets in the sound
Of bodies and sweat, and merry-go-rounds
The whole in my wall, is better than sex
An x-rated Disneyland, gooving T-Rex
CHORUS (2 X's)
Through the hole in my wall.
song performed by by Warrant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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A man saw a ball of gold in the sky;
A man saw a ball of gold in the sky;
He climbed for it,
And eventually he achieved it --
It was clay.
Now this is the strange part:
When the man went to the earth
And looked again,
Lo, there was the ball of gold.
Now this is the strange part:
It was a ball of gold.
Aye, by the heavens, it was a ball of gold.
poem by Stephen Crane
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