Let’s get the ball rolling:
Fractions and decimals form a hill;
A rock as big as a house appears at the top
And starts turning at subtraction.

Quicker now, here comes

Derivatives

And

Long division.

What have I done to provoke this improbable pursuer?
Miscounted decimal places,
Carried the wrong number,
Or did I just forget to underline my answer?
Questions dance in the background of operations,
The star of this ill-provoked tantrum.

Though it never catches me before I wake,
The rock stays with me until the next act:
Pieces of it stuck to my shirt
Like the Devil’s Velcro golf *****.

Tiger Wood's wins the Masters today
Another green jacket comes his way
Finally, his image stands large at the doorway
For it's been a knock and a hiatus of his cache
As the years after 2008 suffered from his play
No major championships one can say
Only gossip headlines, mugshots, and injuries in gray
Where once a phenom in his twenties on display
Such greatness and legend his star headway
His mid-thirties saw some of his luster fall  in dismay
With mostly self-injury to his ego in disarray
It was hard watching a once proud man's fall and decay
Especially one that held his world at bay
With his swagger, swoosh, and shine turning to clay
And like a good drama of accents and descents convey
With the wait and weight on his shoulders belay
He turned the storybook pages of dismay today
The pressure of his swing, swing, and putt on display
And how he uncorked his demons is a pure bouquet
After 43 years of his years, he took the fairway
Running, running, today after his prey
It was great seeing his game not get away

Logan Robertson

4/14/2019

Dare she lies
With a three inch putt
Tap in birdie
For sure
With a **** in her eyes
She looked askance
How can this be
It was a beautiful drive
Straight down the fairway
A pitch and a roll
Fortuitous is the bounce ...  swing
Now standing abreast on the green
Nonchalant
She takes the putter to bed
One under par

Logan Robertson

3/30/2019

We stood in a circle in the parlor,
Jim was chatting with his golfing crones;
Her body was there for the viewing,
But we're keen on his hole-in-one.

We gave him our proud approval,
We chorused, Jim, well-done!
Then Jim took his turn on the kneeler,
To ponder before her coffin.

We all know the cold humility,
That an ace needs a load full of luck;
Yet we're pleased to hear all his details,
From the crack off the tee,
To the flag in the cup.

I waited for my turn behind Jim,
I overheard his solemn words:
... an eight iron... bounced once, then straight in...
Oh, and may you rest in peace too, Mrs. Hobin.

I sometimes think
the solution
is flowing illusion,
and evolution:
and forward tracks that
stop for delicious snacks:
and put light
into back packs.

One never expects one
Standing *****,
Straddled with club in hand;
There's a postage stamp
With pole and flag
Daring resolve and grit;
So one checks one's stance,
Sneaks a glance
And slightly adjusts one's grip;
Then a reaction occurs
Like controlled fussion,
And out of confusion comes sense.
The contact cements a crack and launch,
Startling one like a gun;
One scratches one's head,
Dumbfounded and red,
One's aced a hole-in-one.

Now is the sixty-third Springtime
Of my life,
And the Summer of my contentedness
Tees up.
A fore-gone conclusion.