Me Passing By
i saw golf-ball in water
deep as my cup of wine
sign of impact still visible
thread of cloud; a crater
that was a cruel slice
thirty yards from fairway
i keep on walking watching
stray shots from sky, wary
geese with their curious eyes
honks and march far; in flock
sailboats are at bay waiting
for weekend or maybe porting
poem by Manonton Dalan
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061011A picking berries
i'm busy picking black berries
when golf ball graze the treetop
it hits the pine close to where
i am and landed on the ditch
curious geese came to look
roll it with their beak to a nook
i'm waiting for anybody to claim
nobody ever did; maybe ashamed
so many balls has wandered here
they are orphans; waiting for rain
so they will shine and to be seen
to roll on the fairway into the green
poem by Manonton Dalan
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The Goose who Loved Golf
On the flight path down from Quebec
in the recent past, they say,
The lead goose saw a foursome
on the fairway, hard at play.
Their clothing was intriguing
Bright Argyles and Staid plaids
Little lackeys followed them,
carrying their bags.
The goose brigade lost interest
in proceeding South that day.
Instead they landed on the course
intent on watching play.
The lead Goose now spent all his time
At Bethpage, on the Black,
and honked golf commentary
to all his fledgling flock.
This lead Goose was the First,
brave Avian pioneer,
who broke the pattern going South-
instead he wintered here.
The Geese are protected by the law,
so we have no recourse.
We can't hunt down these honkers
who are greasing up the course.
Within one human lifetime-
a revolutionary change.
the geese have all stopped flying South
They're students of the game.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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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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Do you know what happens when you slice a golf ball in half Someone gets mad at you. I found this out the hard way.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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031910e Put In The Hole
i open my trunk and break out my club
pick out six balls and neatly line it up
stretch, bend, touch my toes for a few
practice swinging to upgrade my tempo
line up my feet to the center of the lake
recoil, release, impact, flew and wake
it landed to where it's not intended to be
good distance, slice, went out of the way
nice i would rather have bad shots now
blame not my club, i did what cause that
i know somebody is there watching me
maybe behind those windows, i see
i'm here to remind what should be done
relax, get out, get your golf bag have fun
i know you're winter rusty, so is everybody
so what if you'll lost few balls or hit a tree
you're just thinking of one thing, put in hole
yes, drive it, chip it, putt it and hear it growl
poem by Manonton Dalan
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061810C breeze behind me
cold enough for wind breaker
but sea lovers can't be deter
strolling barefoot on the beach
looking up the hill out of reach
joyous crowd found themselves
screaming as golf ball rolls in
surfers doesn't mind waiting
surf are very shy they're hiding
thanks paddle keep 'em going
wind pick up, push dimple flight
veering left away from fairway
challenge and to fans' delight
poem by Manonton Dalan
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To Li Po (Li Bai) and Uriah
Dear Li Po,
strange things happen to poets
during their life,
especially those who like wine.
But now, more than a thousand years
after your suicide,
men have named a crater on
the planet Mercury with your name…
Mercury, the planet the Greeks called
Hermes Apollo, messenger of gods and poets;
the shining one;
although men have not been there yet.
When they do, they may find you
sitting in your crater, watching the Moon
(we think it will appear to you
two times a day instead of once…)
and drinking wine with Uriah;
(and your shadows will be there too,
tall on the crater’s slope…)
you’re teaching him Chinese;
he’s translating your poems into English
with your approval.
He’d like that. We hope you would.
A strange place for immortals to drink wine;
but poets do and say strange things;
that’s why we love them, just as
children love surprises,
dear Li Po.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Fury Of Hating Eyes
I would like to bury
all the hating eyes
under the sand somewhere off
the North Atlantic and suffocate
them with the awful sand
and put all their colors to sleep
in that soft smother.
Take the brown eyes of my father,
those gun shots, those mean muds.
Bury them.
Take the blue eyes of my mother,
naked as the sea,
waiting to pull you down
where there is no air, no God.
Bury them.
Take the black eyes of my love,
coal eyes like a cruel hog,
wanting to whip you and laugh.
Bury them.
Take the hating eyes of martyrs,
presidents, bus collectors,
bank managers, soldiers.
Bury them.
Take my eyes, half blind
and falling into the air.
Bury them.
Take your eyes.
I come to the center,
where a shark looks up at death
and thinks of my heart
and squeeze it like a doughnut.
They'd like to take my eyes
and poke a hatpin through
their pupils. Not just to bury
but to stab. As for your eyes,
I fold up in front of them
in a baby ball and you send
them to the State Asylum.
Look! Look! Both those
mice are watching you
from behind the kind bars.
poem by Anne Sexton
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The headlight emvnxw
The headlight of a car
Can throw light not afar
But, say, thirty yards.
With that in a pitch dark road
One can drive miles and miles.
The next thirty yard road
Will unfold while the first
Thirty yards are covered.
The next thirty yard road
Will unfold when the second
Thirty yards are covered.
Faith is a headlight
With which one is endowed
To tread in the world
Which is pitch-dark by itself.
26.07.2009
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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I can't hit a ball more than 200 yards. I have no butt. You need a butt if you're going to hit a golf ball.
quote by Dennis Quaid
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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061011B feathered parade
rush of air from the beach
is most wanted heat relief
oh! i open my car windows
to clear my lungs upon gasp
i slowed down to almost stop
something happening in front
geese with goose-lings on march
they own the road like monarch
two geese stop letting young ones
cross first; that really amaze me
took longer; they're taking pictures
i already have one from golf course
poem by Manonton Dalan
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76
Death is the leopard in the grass
by the red roadside
waiting for the flock to cross
Watching with eyes of glass-
golden, green-flecked eyes.
Duck if you can, or jump high.
Run, if you can, helter-skelter,
but don't turn back-
you, too, need water.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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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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Weekend
Friday night and everythings right on the weekend
Crazy clothes and anything goes on the weekend
John called in and jim got sue
I made a date with a little ol jew
Off he went to make a date on the weekend
No harm done, just having some fun on the weekend
Cartop down, just a ridin around on the weekend
Took a ride to lookout hill
The view up there was sure a thrill
That was all, we had a big fall on the weekend
There we were just sitting cool and cozy
I just had time to steal a little kiss
A police with a flashlight tried to nose in
He said, holy mackerel there, what is all this?
No harm done just having some fun on the weekend
Took a chance on crashin a dance on the weekend
We were almost inside the place
Then some boy slammed the door in my face
Hey you guys, you gotta wear ties on the weekend
Crazy clothes and anything goes on the weekend
That was all we had a big ball on the weekend
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Deep Water
All change on then merry go line
Everybody looking for a sign
Jumping up and down when the switch goes on
Nobody knows where its coming from
Im here watching, keeping well away
Oh Im gonna live it in my own way
Singing no mister, not me
Im staying here with guys on free
In deep water
I see a captain on a distant shore
Hes got a dream, he wants to make it law
Hes got my number, hes got a plan
He try to get you any way he can
Wants to own everything he sees
While Im here, well he aint with me
Singing no mister, no way
I got my own deep water
Deep, deep water
song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Waiting on a spring sun
Waiting on a spring sun
~
yesterday was overcast
while a chill remained present
flowers still waited to bloom
and trees lined up half naked
spring is springing apparently
although no signs are clear
an eye cast over weather reports
tells of brighter days to come
and a rise in the overall temperature
still waiting on that spring sun
the first spread of warmth
in the new mornings light
where you wince your eyes
and survey a world coming alive
or a light sneaking through curtains
interrupting the beginning of the weekend
where you'd prefer to remain sleeping
no sign of spring has been evident
still waiting and watching
for the change of season
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Only The Future
Somethings coming
Something big
Something I cant stand
Dark as the ocean
Secret and cruel
Something I cant command
Somethings waiting
Down a muggers alley
To see whats on my mind
Take a deep breath
Start walking faster
Its dark, but Im not blind
You never know
If I push at this wall
My hand could pass through
So
This cloud of unknowing
Could disappear too
Its only the future
song performed by by Joe Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Birdie on the Seventh Hole, Shoot like a Pro
John Henry (Tripp) Isenhour III is a real jerk,
He was at the Grand Cypress Golf course,
Where he had been taping a television when there was a sound,
Not a “Fore”,
not car,
not a cow
or a horse,
Tripp was furious,
-no, not Linda Tripp,
he had to silence the source.
It was a red-shouldered hawk got Tripp upset when he had to do another take.
Tripp waited and waited for right shot to silence the squawking bird.
Tripp drove the golf ball 75 yards to the birdie.
The hawk was silent; the golf ball struck its mark,
The blood from the bird’s nostrils did not make the killing fake.
Usually birds are killed with baseballs or M1 Abrams Tanks,
(see Observation Farewell to Feathers) ,
But this was feat that was terrible for the red shouldered hawk,
and later Tripp,
Because the hawk is a protected species.
Tripp was arrested and faces 2 years and $1,500 in fines,
I hope he is found guilty and gets the maximum sentence.
Enough time for him to finish his subject on Man’s Endangerment t to Wildlife thesis.
(3-7-2008)
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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The Mine-Sweepers
Dawn off the Foreland -- the young flood making
Jumbled and short and steep --
Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking --
Awkward water to sweep.
"Mines reported in the fairway,
Warn all traffic and detain.
Sent up Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."
Noon off the Foreland -- the first ebb making
Lumpy and strong in the bight.
Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking
And the jackdaws wild with fright.
"Mines located in the fairway,
Boats now working up the chain,
Sweepers -- Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."
Dusk off the Foreland -- the last light going
And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing
Heading the whole review!
"Sweep completed in the fairway,
No more mines remain.
Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain."
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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