Golf Poem
Poetry in motion

In my hand I hold a ball,
White and dimpled, rather small;
Oh, how bland it does appear,
This harmless looking little sphere.

By its size I could not guess,
The awesome strength it does possess;
But since I fell beneath its spell,
I’ve wandered through the fires of Hell.

My life has not been quite the same
Since I chose to play this stupid game;
It rules my mind for hours on end,
A fortune it has made me spend.

It has made me yell, curse and cry,
I hate myself and want to die;
It promises a thing called par,
If I can hit it straight and far.

To master such a tiny ball
Should not be very hard at all;
But my desires the ball refuses,
And does exactly as it chooses.

It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
And even disappears before my eyes;
Often it will have a whim -
To hit a tree or take a swim.

With miles of grass on which to land,
It finds a tiny patch of sand;
Then has me offering up my soul,
If only it would find the hole.

It’s made me whimper like a pup,
And swear that I will give it up;
And take to drink to ease my sorrow   ;<(
But the ball knows ... I’ll be back tomorrow.

see also   Golf  Section


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