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listen -
hear no sound, feel
only wind on its way, ghostly
nothings, but hush to sharp wings
of ocean birds so fraying as they cut
the sky, shuttle to fairways, far aways,
in plaintive cries, i hear what they say,
sailing into the jeweled skylights, but i
am only weight of air, still on ground,
i mumble out, sidle the bone tides
that roll to land, grains of clarity,
i am mist and tear, a world
of hollow, i am that sound -
of ocean in a shell.
Though cue-***** are glossy and smooth
The felt has been rough since my youth.
Some dimples assist
When fairways resist
But putting on tables is uncouth.
Tyler Matthew Aug 2018
we don't sleep much around here.
the nights are too precious to squander.
we wander streets and alleys,
fields and fairways, looking at the moon,
begging the sun to never come up again.
drunk in our ways, in our loves and hates,
feeling with broken fingers
for broken hearts to mend.
when we find one, we keep it hidden.
we shut off the lights to make love,
moon dangling above our pillows,
smoke billowing out the window
to show we are done.
and we don't sleep much around here.
we make secrets of ourselves.
I used to be a golfer once
But, now I am a hack
I swing around a waist of jello
I only play the middle tees
I used to play the back
I only use ***** that are yellow

My game is up on the shelf
I don't know why
And I only play golf by myself
It's no lie
I wish I still could play, I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play, someone else

I used to have a short game once
I used be real good
(Where do you think you might have lost it?)
I used to have no fear at all
I knew all that I should
(Is it with your sand wedge, where you tossed it?)

My game is up on the shelf
I don't know why
And I only play golf by myself
It's no lie
I wish I still could play, I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play, someone else

I used to split the fairways boys
I used to sink the putts
(What ever happened to the feeling?)
I can't hit a **** fairway now
I only hit wide cuts
(It's enough to send my mindset reeling)

My game is up on the shelf
I don't know why
And I only play golf by myself
It's no lie
I wish I still could play, I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play, someone else

Now, I am afraid most days
I can't hit it off the ground
I only hit well when I drink some
I know each tree out on our course
I know the ball hits tree bark sound
I only play good when I've got ***

My game is up on the shelf
I don't know why
And I only play golf by myself
It's no lie
I wish I still could play, I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play, someone else

I used to be a golfer once
I wish I still could play
I wish so hard for that sweet feeling
I once was good
But not today
If I could find Diablo, I'd be dealing

But, my game is up on the shelf
And it's funny
How, I play only by myself
No money
I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play
I wish that I could play like myself
his star is on the rise again
he's the king of the fairways and greens
he has revitalized the golfing game
he holds the number one position
he's the premier player of the world
his fans are really wrapped
his name is in all the sports pages
he's back to slay his rivals
John F McCullagh Feb 2013
He still is strong and handsome
as he was in his playing days.
He can enjoy a game of golf
on challenging fairways.
Still he knows that somethings gaining
and he dare not look behind.
Even Michael Jordan knows
you cannot outscore time.
It doesn't seem that long ago
he wore a champion's ring.
Now Lebron is all the rage
and commercials are his thing.
No longer can he rise above
the rim, or run and hide.
Time just posted 50 up
and it isn't on his side.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
I've weighed the pranks:
Pulling out a chair;
Flooded fairways;
Skunky beer;
Onion candy apples;
Mayo in cream-filled donuts;
Lubricating jelly in handwash;
Polyurethaning soap;
Baking soda in ketchup bottles;
Flushing while the shower's in use;
Sending a welcome card on behalf of your friend to Kingdom Hall;
Eliot was right,
Snow in April is the cruelest.
****, it's snowing here today. So cruel.
Joseph Childress Oct 2010
Warfare isn’t always a fair war.
Welfare says the best fare well.
It’s all fair play but do they really play fair?

But whether rough or fairways,
Through strife you still play
To make yourself whole in one.
Paul Roberts Feb 2011
A red feathered hawk glides across the semi frozen fairways
as  potential morsels scramble off the daily menu.
He  picks  at random , enjoys his meal, then starts his
search anew.
Such is Life.
A flat bottom ****** has found his home near the pond on  green number two.
Surrounded by trees on all sides for his **** building to choose.
Atlas he chose what wasn't wise and took a beam from someones porch.
So now he dangles at the end of a trap secured to a tree of course.
Such is Life
Wild geese come and gather round, here they found a place to stay.
Each day their wandering gets kind of wild when golf ***** sail their way.
Their droppings cause quite a mess on these wealthy mens shoes
but I laugh inside most of the time , this isn't the worse thing they could do.
Such is Life.
To me , to see nature entwine with population and still come to some course of harmony,
brings a peaceful moment to my life but mabey that's just me.
Such is Life
Paul Roberts: Turn the Page
listen -
hear no sound, feel
only wind on its way, ghostly
nothing's, but hush to sharp wings
of ocean birds so fraying as they cut
the sky, shuttle to fairways, far aways,
in plaintive cries, i hear what they say,
sailing into the jeweled skylights, but i
am only weight of air, still on ground,
i mumble out, sidle the bone tides
that roll to land, grains of clarity,
i am mist and tear, a world
of hollow, i am that sound -
of ocean in a shell.
Anais Vionet May 2022
It’s 8am on an overcast Wednesday morning, Leong and I are about halfway through a round of frisbee golf. Half of the holes on this course wind through dense, hilly woods, but as we climbed a hill toward the 9th hole we left the woods, with its green forest canopy, for the open fairway.

That’s when the first, fat, high-velocity raindrops hit us. They made a tiny popping sound and left small, dark, bullet-hole water-stains on our quick-drying activewear. I wasn’t thinking about the weather, at that point, we’d been under a forest roof, protected from the wind and elements.

I’m so competitive, up until this point my eyes, my entire mind had been focused on the course, the game, the next shot, the angles and the par.

As the oldest sibling in her family, Leong can be a little bossy - but in a nice way. She “older sisters” me sometimes (she’s ten months older). When we’re at school, I abandon myself to her happily because she studies a LOT - something we have in common - and I know she’s always got one eye on the clock.

Leong has an uncanny knack of knowing precisely what to do, where to go, and when. I’m used to going second with her, following, sure that she has everything ordered, in her head, in such a way that the world around us never disintegrates into disorder.

As we topped the hill, overlooking a broad landscape of golf-course-sculptured green, dotted with trees arranged as obstacles, I realized that Leong kept turning around - was something happening?

I started looking around too and focusing more carefully. The trees along the fairways were flailing in the wind, making a collective rustling and shushing sound, as if to get our attention. The forest canopy we just left was an ocean of violently rolling green.

The sky immediately behind us was lower, weighted down with purple-edged black clouds that covered the sky like restless, moving bruises. In front of us, the sky was open, the sunlight still dazzling, but that brightness was quickly receding, as if fleeing the suffocating storm that was pressing in.

Thunder erupted as if freed by our attention and there were sparks of lightning in that menacing, fairy-tale darkness. I looked at Leong, her expression was new to me. Her eyes were narrowed, her knees slightly bent, like a surfer seeking balance and she was licking her lips as she twisted nervously around.

Suddenly, wordlessly, she took my hand and gave me an irresistible tug. I found myself running, unwillingly at first, towards the parking lot - about a quarter mile away. She was squeezing my hand hard. Is it possible that she’s afraid, I wondered?

The clouds were just behind us now, and a thick wall of rain, that looked like a cartoon curtain, obscured the fairway in back of us. The wave of water seemed to be following us, pursuing us - gaining on us. A fierce flash of light and a bomb-like boom seemed to shake the ground under out feet. “Oh, ****!” I half-screamed, half-laughed, panting.

I pressed my door fob as we approached the car and we clamored in just as the lashing rain overtook us. We looked at each other, out of breath, and laughed in relief.
“Who says frisbee golf isn’t exciting?” I asked.
BLT word of the day challenge. Uncanny: "of unusual or almost supernatural character"
JB Claywell Jun 2017
still crippled
and half-crazed
from a day’s worth
of backbiting and
in-fighting amongst
the family,

we’ve separated
ourselves from
ourselves saying:

‘you go left;
we’ll go right
because nothing
else is and that’s
the ******* fact.’

so,
as the sun sets,
the sons and I
make a slight return
to the diner where
I’d eaten breakfast
with friends.

we,
my man-cubs
and I, ate well
and quietly,
with thoughts
of repentance
in mind while we
watched the wild hares
frolic in the clover
outside ourselves
and the window.

having supped
and washed the
the sweat from our
brows,
we returned from the
wilderness of our separate
adventures
to the lanes and fairways
of domesticity.

we,
not He.
are the gods
of our domain.

and,
there has been
enough of breast-beating
and forked-tongue seething
for this particular
earthly rotation.

if only,
it could have
stopped before
I’d absorbed
the sourness of
what was said to
me in the parking
lot of the pre-dawn
diner; before that
first cup of coffee.

we,
us three gods,
my sons and I
return home to
await our goddesses,

forgetting our
Buddhist bacon,
our Hindu eggs,
and our chalices
of Catholic, Apostolic
chocolate milk.

instead, we remember
that I’ve already
disappointed God
once today and I’m
reminded of this by
the heartache of sorrows
bestowed upon my lover,

and,
by the heartburn
of that diner’s finest
bowl of Voodoo chili.


*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications
Magenta clover fairways
Southbound airplanes
Forest green cover shading -
old lovers
Crows speak of the return to summer
with cobalt canopies , jasmine perfume ,
the afternoon call of orioles , crying doves , whitetail
mothers , late night shooting stars and morning dew crystalline cover*...
Copyright May 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
I've thought about it and I'm quite certain that the riddle of cancer , world peace and manned flight to Mars will be solved on the golf course !....At no time will the mind ever be more at peace than the days spent on the fairways and greens !.......
Copyright September 16 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Yenson Mar 2020
Chimes the bells are tolling in outward rhymes
cold dawn fleet in around airing pitiless vapor
my fore-runners are calling in coastal whispers
the clarion blows and beats for my return to shores
Mother I am sorry I never found the golden fleece
nuggets I dug from dawn to dusk in heat and icy wake
were purloined by the buccaneers of the eastern night
Father I am sorry the sweat of my brow washed away
only to earn me a tag avaricious in self seeking alleys
In glorious days I walked the straight and narrow
bought neither shame or sorrow to the ingrained light
But in ways unknown worthy deeds became a crime
and the hays baled in sunshine were turn to mush
a pure hearts love was taken and distilled into hock
to be guzzled and spat out like vinegar at a gypsy fair
In fairways wrought with tender care and toil genuine
now littered thorns and hemlock boughs overhanging
the nightingale left bereft of voice while wild dogs bark
and marauders malice inclined fill jugs of lost-heads brew
Pray forgive me I'm unhitching the tent and pulling plugs
I have song my songs but the carnival has changed in mist
shadows lurks in cauldrons smoke laden incantations rings
I see afar the spirits from my youths and hopeful times
when sun held a thousand dreams and a heart of gold shone
I will look again for days of tomorrow's sun and warm embraces
the chillies  will fire my blood in the footsteps of my forebears
I am thankful for what I am left with and all I have learnt
and to those few who had grace in graceless climate of ides

— The End —