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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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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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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God Works in Circle
a ball lover
is our god
a soccer player
he is
the whole universe
his field
the planets,
the stars,
our earth
all shuttling
through space
like balls
shove from
one corner
to the other
our heads,
our eyes,
the balls
that the gods
give us
to play
all
the games
in his world
the moon
in its
lunar journey
round and round
good and bad
too come
in a circle
what goes around
comes around
kindness begets kindness
do bad and
it comes back
in a circle
cos our god
is a lover of
a ball game
start walking anywhere
in the universe
and you get back
to your own place
cos our god
loves the circle game
the circle game
the circle game
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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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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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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041310e Sometimes It Could Happened
there's this group of trees by golf course
it collects lost flyballs; home for geese
nobody wants to crass stagnant water
so their balls is stranded there forever
sometimes i go there to pick good ones
some i keep, some i hit it back to them
one day there's an old man playing
he politely ask me if i could find his
lost balls, so i ask what is brand name
he said, ' it could be anything, my son'
i reach into my pocket and throw some
he said, ' thanks, i lost all my balls today'
poem by Manonton Dalan
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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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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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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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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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Hit the ball pretty solid. Haven't played a lot of golf this year, so was really unsure of what it would be like. I've been playing pretty well lately, especially hitting the ball solid.
quote by Trent Dilfer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Can't Disturb These Folks
Are the buttocks firmer on athletes?
Those who adorn sneakers on courts...
Or play on fields wearing cleats?
Are they tighter on women?
Or men who play soccer?
It's harder to tell on those chasing a puck
As they hockey.
What do they see when they arrive at the lockers?
Or those racing horses...
And called jockeys.
Are they really jocks?
Who gave them names like these?
Women playing tennis,
Seem to have stronger thighs.
And why aren't there cheerleaders...
On the sidelines standing by?
And golf?
Ssssshhhh...
Can't disturb these folks.
You know how hard it is,
To get that tiny ball in the hole?
Well...
I am told it isn't difficult at all.
As long as you know how to find it!
And where it is!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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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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Goalkeeper Joe
Joe Dunn were a bobby for football
He gave all his time to that sport,
He played for the West Wigan Whippets,
On days when they turned out one short.
He’d been member of club for three seasons
And had grumbled again and again,
Cos he found only time that they’d used him,
Were when it were pouring with rain!
He felt as his talents were wasted
When each week his job seemed to be
No but minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
So next time selection committee
Came round to ask him for his sub
He told them if they didn’t play him,
He’d transfer to some other club.
Committee they coaxed and cudgelled him
But found he’d have none of their shifts
So they promised to play him next weekend
In match against Todmorden Swifts.
This match were the plum of the season
An annual fixture it stood,
‘T were reckoned as good as a cup tie
By them as liked plenty of blood!
The day of the match dawned in splendour
A beautiful morning it were
With a fog drifting up from the brick fields
And a drizzle of rain in the air.
The Whippets made Joe their goalkeeper
A thing as weren’t wanted at all
For they knew once battle had started
They’d have no time to mess with the ball!
Joe stood by the goal posts and shivered
While the fog round his legs seemed to creep
'Til feeling neglected and lonely
He leant back and went fast asleep.
He dreamt he were playing at Wembley
And t’roar of a thundering cheer
He were kicking a goal for the Whippets
When he woke with a clout in his ear!
He found 'twere the ball that had struck him
And inside the net there it lay
But as no one had seen this ‘ere ‘appen
He punted it back into play!
'Twere the first ball he’d punted in anger
His feelings he couldn’t restrain
Forgetting as he were goalkeeper
He ran out and kicked it again!
Then after the ball like a rabbit
He rushed down the field full of pride
He reckoned if nobody stopped him
Then ‘appen he’d score for his side.
‘Alf way down he bumped into his captain
Who weren’t going to let him go by
But Joe, like Horatio Nelson
Put a fist to the Captain’s blind eye!
On he went 'til the goal lay before him
Then stopping to get himself set
He steadied the ball, and then kicked it
And landed it right in the net!
The fog seemed to lift at that moment
And all eyes were turned on the lad
The Whippets seemed kind of dumbfounded
While the Swifts started cheering like mad!
'Twere his own goal as he’d kicked the ball through
He’d scored for his foes ‘gainst his friends
For he’d slept through the referee’s whistle
And at half time he hadn’t changed ends!
Joe was transferred from the West Wigan Whippets
To the Todmorden Swifts, where you’ll see
Still minding the clothes for the others
And chucking clods at referee!
poem by Marriott Edgar
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It Feels Good
low feathery clouds, cast a shadow
drooping trees hugging the periphery
greens, green grass blankets the plains
on the corner beneath the biggest tree
i sit there, dreaming, writing poetry
when my mind closes the screen
i hit a golf ball to the far end
sometimes i miss, i don't know
so i'll try again, this one for the show.
walking on the rough, looking for my ball clover
white flowers, yellow prairie flowerets
grass a shoe deep, wet and very thick
i use my seventh iron as probing stick
a small greenish frog stands tall
blinks her eyes, she thinks i'm a fool
squirrels run around thinking my ball is a nut
i can't find it, they know where it is at
i don't really mind i have a bag full of that
cars are passing, runners trudging
friends talking, dog stopping and sniffing
birds singing, cool breeze blowing
i could smell the scent of sweetness
feel like screaming but i sneezeso loud,
it scares the buzzing bees
sorry, i must be so excited… i know
does this ever happen to you
it feels good, it's really true.
poem by Manonton Dalan
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Local Park
When you want a good walk
Through day or the dark,
The place to go is our local park,
The park is a pride
The finest ever seen,
Tree's and grass always ever green..
There's swings for the kids
For all girls and boys,
Sea saw and paddling pool
To fill in their joys.
There's a path walk way all the way round
If you want a good walk
And summer seats to sit if you want a good talk,
The park has a lake and plenty good sport,
Bowling on the green and tennis on the court.
There's plenty of fun
Plenty to do,
Even at the park
Good swimming pool there to,
The pool has a cafe
If you want to call in
A wee cup of tea or have a good swim.
There's cricket and football
A horse riding track,
And even a good golf course
It's way round the back.
So here is our park
That's full of good pride,
Were ducks swim the water
And kids play the slide
poem by Gerald Follis Lurgan
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Two Balls One Clock
1 Football game playing on Fox,
Has 1 quarter back with 2 balls, one clock
Against 22 balls running after
1 football running with a cock.
Can the team with the most gowl,
Take the 1 ball and win them all?
I don’t know,
But what a show
In the stadium at Chicago
70,000 nuts and all of them dicks,
Paid to freeze as popsicle sticks.
Half the audience is men with only 2 balls,
Saying can we make it to the Super Bowl?
Looks like I guess not,
Because all our balls shriveled up,
Green Bay really one us by a long shot!
By Christina Sunrise on Jan.23,2011
poem by Christina Sunrise
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World Cup Dream
I don’t have a world cup dream
But I love to play Football
I don’t have the master technique
But all for the good of my team
Food ball + food ball + food ball
This word is my life
Sweating and passing the ball
Running fast and finding that opportune hole
As a result, we can say “Goal”
poem by Rajan Thapaliya
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