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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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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The City of Golf
Would you like to see a city given over,
Soul and body, to a tyrannising game?
If you would, there's little need to be a rover,
For St. Andrews is the abject city's name.
It is surely quite superfluous to mention,
To a person who has been here half an hour,
That Golf is what engrosses the attention
Of the people, with an all-absorbing power.
Rich and poor alike are smitten with the fever;
Their business and religion is to play;
And a man is scarcely deemed a true believer,
Unless he goes at least a round a day.
The city boasts an old and learned college,
Where you'd think the leading industry was Greek;
Even there the favoured instruments of knowledge
Are a driver and a putter and a cleek.
All the natives and the residents are patrons
Of this royal, ancient, irritating sport;
All the old men, all the young men, maids and matrons --
The universal populace, in short.
In the morning, when the feeble light grows stronger,
You may see the players going out in shoals;
And when night forbids their playing any longer,
They tell you how they did the different holes.
Golf, golf, golf -- is all the story!
In despair my overburdened spirit sinks,
Till I wish that every golfer was in glory,
And I pray the sea may overflow the links.
One slender, struggling ray of consolation
Sustains me, very feeble though it be:
There are two who still escape infatuation,
My friend M'Foozle's one, the other's me.
As I write the words, M'Foozle enters blushing,
With a brassy and an iron in his hand ....
This blow, so unexpected and so crushing,
Is more than I am able to withstand.
So now it but remains for me to die, sir.
Stay! There is another course I may pursue --
And perhaps upon the whole it would be wiser --
I will yield to fate and be a golfer too!
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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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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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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Ballade Of The Royal Game Of Golf
There are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee,
But ye mauna think driving is a',
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt--ony she, -
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw,
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen -
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree -
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
ENVOY.
Prince, faith you're improving a wee,
And, Lord, man, they tell me you're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
poem by Andrew Lang
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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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Out Of Exile
When I first came to this island
that I called by own name
I was happy in this fortress,
in my exile I remained
But the hours grew so empty
and the ocean sent her waves
In the figure of a woman
and she pulled me out to sea
Chorus
When you come down to take me home
send my soul away
When you come round you'll make me whole
send my soul away
On the altar of a sunrise
was a wedding in the waves
And inside her shown a young light
from her labor I was saved
Though I've traveled long in darkness
in her harvest I'm embraced
Chorus
When you come down to take me home
send my soul away
When you come round you'll make me whole
send my soul away
Now the spires and the gables
grow in orchards to the sky
And the blessings on my table
multiply and divide
Chorus
When you come down to take me home
send my soul away
Yeah when you come round you'll make me whole
send my soul away
Yeah when you come down to take me home
when you come round you'll make me whole
Yeah when you come round to take me home
Send my soul away
send my soul away
Send my soul away
send my soul away
song performed by by Audioslave
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My soccer team
I see men standing next to each other
in a line
and they wear yellow and green.
The national anthem plays
and its like nobody honours it
or know the words,
but maybe they are caught by the great moment.
The whistle blows
and the ball is kicked to and fro
and there are men attacking
and others that defend.
The goal is open
and the ball flies past in a wide arc
and it’s as if my team
can’t score any goal.
The opponents have the ball
and shoot it right over the field
and one of their front players
hits it with his head.
The ball flies twisting
and with a swing in the air
and is accurately aimed at the goal
As from the ground
the goalie rises
and the onlookers are silent
and just before it’s too late,
the ball is caught
and the crowd cheers.
It is as if something sweeps into
the men with yellow and green
and they play perfectly,
like only a good team can.
There’s passion to win
and the ball is passed
from player to player
and a mighty kick,
launches it accurately past the goalkeeper
to get entangled in the net.
The crowd cheers and go nuts
and vuvezelas are blowing
and flags are swept to and thro
and the players grab each other.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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My Very First Football Match
Holding my Fathers hand
walking to the ground
crowds of Football fans
making lots of sound.
Standing on the terraces
players warming up
maybe a League game
or even the F.A.Cup.
Dad said I just stared
but that I enjoyed it all
and when I got back home
went straight out with my ball.
And when I too became a Dad
I went and did exactly the same
taking both my young sons
to nearly every home game.
So if your looking down Dad
and you spot me in the crowd
you'll see I've carried on the tradition
and I hope it makes you proud.
poem by Kevin Halls
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We're A Miracle
Written by todd chapman, david zippel, christina aguilera
Mmmm...oh
Here we are, safe at last
We can breathe a sigh
Seems the storm has passed
All our friends, would ask us why
With all that stood between us
Why did we even try
No one i know, imagined we would make it
But it only matters that we both believed, oh
You and me, we're a miracle
Meant to be and nothing can change it
Mountains move and oceans part
When they are standing in our way
You and me, we're a miracle
Angels stand watching over us
And heaven shines upon us everyday, ooh oh yeah
All my life, i felt incomplete
But you turned my soul, with your love so sweetly
You hear my thoughts, you read my mind
You're the part of me, yeah, i thought i'd never find
No one i know, can make me feel like you do
You hold me and i feel like i can fly, ohh oh yeah
You and me, we're a miracle
Meant to be and nothing can change it
Mountains move and oceans part
When they are standing in our way
You and me, we're a miracle
Angels stand watching over us
And heaven shines upon us everyday, ohh ohh oh
The chance was so unlikely
That we would ever be, oh
Two stars upon the heavens
Destiny brought you to me, oh ohh...
You and me, we're a miracle
Meant to be, and nothing can change it
Mountains move and oceans part
When they are standing in our way, ohh
You and me, we're a miracle
Angels stand watching over us
And heaven shines upon us everyday, yeah ohh...
You and me, we're a miracle (miracle)
You and me, we're a miracle (miracle)
Miracle, miracle
song performed by by Christina Aguilera
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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On The Birth-Day Of Queen Katherine
While yet it was the Empire of the Night,
And Stars still check'r'd Darkness with their Light,
From Temples round the cheerful Bells did ring,
But with the Peales a churlish Storm did sing.
I slumbr'd; and the Heavens like things did show,
Like things which I had seen and heard below.
Playing on Harps Angels did singing fly,
But through a cloudy and a troubl'd Sky,
Some fixt a Throne, and Royal Robes display'd,
And then a Massie Cross upon it laid.
I wept: and earnestly implor'd to know,
Why Royal Ensigns were disposed so.
An Angel said, The Emblem thou hast seen,
Denotes the Birth-Day of a Saint and Queen.
Ah, Glorious Minister, I then reply'd,
Goodness and Bliss together do reside
In Heaven and thee, why then on Earth below
These two combin'd so rarely do we know?
He said, Heaven so decrees: and such a Sable Morne
Was that, in which the Son of God was borne.
Then Mortal wipe thine Eyes, and cease to rave,
God darkn'd Heaven, when He the World did save.
poem by Anne Killigrew
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Andrew Jones
I hate that Andrew Jones; he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage.
I wish the press-gang or the drum
With its tantara sound would come,
And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man, a travelling cripple!
For this poor crawling helpless wretch,
Some horseman who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor cripple was alone
And could not stoop--no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground
For it had long been droughty weather;
So with his staff the cripple wrought
Among the dust till he had brought
The half-pennies together.
It chanced that Andrew passed that way
Just at the time; and there he found
The cripple in the mid-day heat
Standing alone, and at his feet
He saw the penny on the ground.
He stopped and took the penny up:
And when the cripple nearer drew,
Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown,
What a man finds is all his own,
And so, my Friend, good-day to you."
And 'hence' I said, that Andrew's boys
Will all be trained to waste and pillage;
And wished the press-gang, or the drum
With its tantara sound, would come
And sweep him from the village.
poem by William Wordsworth
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Great Is The Son
Great is the Son when his work is done
Heavens portals are lifted up
Thy will be done on earth as in heaven
He goes wide through the celestial gates
Be ye lifted up you everlasting doors
And let the king of glory come in
Jesus meets the angels who are with him
We behold the ancient days.
The firmament paint repose
Every flower and trees in the garden,
Glitter and shine like a terrestrial rose.
All the gold we fined in the ground,
They were made by the great Son,
Fashion among human took our sin
And in him we have found God.
Great is the son who binds the cool shade
In the night slips the light around the world,
He makes us not afraid,
To walk in a world of darkness,
Because he is the everlasting light
Shining through the key hole of our heart.
poem by Gerry Legister
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Young David The Under Fourteen
With the local football club he plays under fourteen
In their football colours the black, brown and green
He dreams in the A F L he will star one day
Against Australia's finest he will be picked to play.
Everytime I see young David he's with the egg shaped ball
Playing by himself or with other boys in the park for his age he is tall
His dream is to play as number one ruckman for his favourite team Geelong
Enjoying a great victory as he sings the Club song.
Most boys of his age have a wish or a dream
To win a gold medal or play with a top football team
But not all dreams do come true everyone can't know fame
Still it is nice to dream of great things just the same.
He is the top ruckboy in his football team
And as a player of promise he knows local esteem
But few good juvenile players into great players grow
And young David he still has a long way to go.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Game Of Fame
'GOLF-THE GAME OF FAME'
I was watching this golf tournament through the visitor's window
The opening pairs were standing under a big tree's shadow
I had been waiting here to see
Who shall the winner ultimately be?
My two sons were participating, and were outside
There were competing against each other, side by side
First session ended, and the players are now in the second half
I was watching them through the window, including the club staff
Everyone was trying their very best and hard
Well it's not an easy game, just like playing cards
I saw some players taking a short nap
This was some relief time for them and for I, after a gap
The third session of the game goes worst
Till the end of the game, we didn't knows who will be first
The game has begun to ooze
I was still watching them through the window, "Who is go'na loose? "
My two sons were slowly picking on the game
My thoughts were, "Who will earn the coveted fame? "
Opponent players were also moving off at last
I saw my younger one ‘playing pretty fast'
My elder one was rushing down the lane
Why his game slowing down the lane
The competition has become intense and difficult to bear
So, the victory time is getting close and near
Now the game has become fast enough
Oh! My younger son has now found a fluff
Players have now quickened and have hurried by
They seem to be working fast, as if to fly
At last, someone has to be won
Nobody else, it's my younger son
I was watching this golf tournament through the visitor's window
The opening pairs were standing under a big tree's shadow
BY SAMRA HAQ
Prayer
In my perfect world
Theres no need to right the wronged
Laid down my burden
I know I did not carry the weight
Not sure to who responsibility belonged
I turned a blind eye
While waiting for the hand of fate to still the waters
Heal all the broken hearts
And hope it could be done without a sacrifice
And maybe I just wouldnt pay the price
Ive fought this long enough
Now I send the prayer to heaven for the chance to be
A better man than the man I see
I send the prayer to heaven, lay your hands on me
I aint a saint but to this I swear I send the prayer
And now I feel all I can do is not enough
My rome is burning and Im standing at the deep abyss
But every passion started with an act of love
And every act of love, started with a single kiss
Father, father your gift was my world of light
And Ive betrayed you with a single judas kiss
Ive been my own executioner
But its not just me anymore
Now I send the prayer to heaven for the chance to be
A better man than the man I see
I send the prayer to heaven, lay your hands on me
I aint a saint but to this I swear
Burn my wasted pride
Open your heart to this
Theres a voice thats crying somewhere
Deep inside my soul for shelter
Now I send the prayer to heaven for the chance to be
A better man than the man I see
I send the prayer to heaven, lay your hands on me
I aint a saint but to this I swear
Now I send the prayer to heaven for the chance to be
A better man than the man I see
I send the prayer to heaven, lay your hands on me
I aint a saint but to this I swear I send the prayer...
Now I send a prayer to heaven...
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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J-Home
These soft, round, green hills
Soothe my mind
Quiet my soul
I left them for the ocean
And some other hills
I saw whales and seals
Waves tossed my kayak
Winds threatened my schooner
Sunset at Campobello gloried my dinner
Granite boulders demanded climbing
Tide pools opened other lives to us
A sandy beach of ground up seashells
Gave us rocks and sand dollars
And time to chase the waves
The stiff, soft ocean air
Changed us for a moment
A day
A lifetime
These soft, round, green hills
Soothe my mind
Quiet my soul
Welcome me
Home
July 25,1997
poem by Marjorie DeBol DeFazio
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Heaven I Need A Hug
Heaven send one of your Angels down from above,
To show me which way to go, and shower me with their love,
Heaven send one of your Angels because their help is needed,
so I can fight this battle, without being defeated,
Heaven send one of your Angels to carry me in their arms, to keep me away from all saddness and Satans harm,
Heaven send one of your Angels to wipe my tears away,
Because I cry everyday,
Heaven send one of your Angels down from above,
Because Heaven, I really need a Hug.
poem by Nahjee' Wes
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