Poems – Senior Moments V2

Poems published in Senior Moments written by Rex Carter, previous Senior Moments Editor, Senior Men’s Section Members, and others

A Golf Lesson.
Over fifty years have passed,
Tho’ it seems like just the other day;
My father gave me golf clubs,
“It’s a game you need to learn to play.”

He said, “It’s very difficult, but so is life.
There’s more to learn than grip and swing and rules,
Like honesty and dealing with adversity;
Then, pointing to his head, “… and how to use ALL your tools.

Play the Course… and Mother Nature…
Focus on just one shot at a time;
Try to learn from each of your mistakes;
Then, do your best to leave them behind.

These clubs will teach you more
Than our ‘man to man’ talks.
This you’ll learn for yourself,
So you can “walk the walk.”

“Practice makes better, but not perfect.
And always remember what they say:
‘”Golf is not a game that we can win.
It’s just a game we play.’”

His lessons served me very well,
Took them to heart and play the game.
And life is much like a round of golf.
Despite the bad shots, I’m always glad I came.

I really am a golfer

I really am a golfer
And let me tell you why
Its only when I swing a club
I really feel alive

I really am a golfer
And take my driver out
I swing my club and hit the ball
As hard and I have might

I really am a golfer
My ball is in the rough
I swing my metal 3 real hard
To find the grass is tuff

I really am a golfer
My ball goes 50 ft.
It’s out the rough and in the sand
And buried very deep

I really am a golfer
I take my sand wedge out
I open up the face of it
And swing it with a clout

I really am a golfer
My ball is on the green
I swing the putter in an arc
With boggy on the seen

I really am a Golfer
My putt goes 10ft past
I’m looking at a double
But the Green is just too fast

I really am a golfer
The ball’s beside the cup
I make it in the centre
And my friends they call it luck



GOLFING.
You’re in Palm Springs, not much to do
But golf and get some sun
Hop on a cart, still almost dark
Get out and have some fun

Line up your shot, you’re feeling hot
You try hard not to push
But half the time, like you were blind
It ends up in the bush

You curse and swear like no one’s there
Dig up a chunk of dirt
You hit a house, feel like a louse
Thank goodness no one was hurt

You hack around, rip up the ground
The hole seems ’way too small
You miss your shot and swear a lot
This is no fun at all

Every shot’s worse than the last
No matter how you try
They don’t go where you want them
It makes you want to cry

Your buddies laugh, you stand and chaff
You ask them what’s so funny
They grin and say, “Looks like today
You owe us lots of money”

Finally when you make a shot
You think you’re getting hotter
You rip the next shot long and hard

Straight into the water
Every shot makes someone smile
Somehow it’s never you
A foursome comes up from behind
Asks if they could play through

You shank and pull you slash and slice
You finally get around
The only part that you enjoy
Is when you’re homeward bound

You practice ‘til the sun goes down
Determined not to fail
The more you try the worse it gets
You just groove your slash and flail

Today I had a real good day
I’m happy as could be
Had lots of fun, me and my Hon
Stayed home and watched TV

Her Sense of Humour.
A slight hint of consternation was in her voice,
“Why did you tell those people I’m deaf and dumb?”
“I never said you were deaf, my Dear.”
She laughed, but how red my face had become
Yes. It was just a joke.
One evening, she asked, “Will you love me if I get chubby?”
I responded, “Of course I still love you.
It would take much more than pounds and cellulite
To make me fall out of love…it’s true.”

Yes. It was just a joke

“Would you remarry if I die before you?” she asked.
I said, “No…probably not…I’ve been spoiled by you.”
“But you’ve been a great husband. I think you should.”
“Whatever happens, happens is the best I can do.”

“If you remarried, would you play golf with your new wife?
And would you let her use my clubs?” she demanded.
I calmly smiled and said, “Your clubs are safe.
You see, my Dear…she’s left handed.”

Yes. It was just a joke

Then, she whined and whined about her butt.
I responded, “Want to knock some inches off that ass?
It may sound strange, but I heard it works….
Rinse all your panties in Slim Fast.”

Yes. It was just a joke

The next day, I readied for work, took ‘undies’ from my drawer.
They were engulfed in a fog of white, why I didn’t know.
So, I asked, “Honey! Why did you put talcum powder on my shorts?”
She slyly smiled, “That’s not talcum powder. That’s Miracle Gro.”

Yes. It was just a joke….I guess

So, what is my wife’s most endearing feature?
Her sense of humour…. there’s no doubt.
Always a smile where angst or anger might have been,
A smile I never want to be without.



The Eleventh.
It was in the mists of morning, beneath the rising sun,
We had come to conquer the course, It was me and Al and John.
We had all teed off quite nicely, number one I scored a seven,
But Al warned me that one was easy when compared to number eleven,

His eyes clouded as he spoke of it, I thought, My, it must be tough.
If it’s difficult for Allan, for me it’ll be really rough
Now Allan is a golfer, par excellence, among the best
But we ‘could see that number eleven, had put him to the test.

Well we carried on like troopers, we thrashed 3, 4 & 5.
In the cool of a British morning, it felt great to be alive.
We left six’s fairway smoking, seven posed a little hitch
John and Al were on the fairway, while I had smashed one into the ditch

Al was getting on a roll now blasting off just like a gun
But John was coming on like blazes nipping hard on Allan’s run,
We drove off on number 9 hole taking off out into space
In the distance stood eleven ….we saw tension on Allan’s face.

For eleven is a nightmare reserved only for the deft
For pressing hard against you is the river on the left,
It seemed that Al had been there for his trembling would not cease
As we walked toward the tee box Al dropped briefly to his knees

We could feel the tension mounting, by Allan’s eyes we could clearly tell
That the three of us were standing at the gate of golfer’s hell.
John was first up to the tee box drove a beauty out of sight
I was next and drove off nicely, centre line and slightly right.

Al approached like he was frozen by the fears of hooking left
But he mustered his composure till he seemed of fear bereft.
Be careful Al, we cautioned for on the left beyond those oaks
You’ll be straight into the river and that’ll cost two penalty strokes

Al teed up and drove his ball off picked his head up for a look
It was far and straight and pretty then ‘Oh No’ it started to hook.
It disappeared beyond the treetops Allan’s jaw dropped in a flash
In the distance we were certain that we heard a little splash,

Now Allan is a scholar predisposed to being kind
But he muttered as we sniggered something about kissing his behind.
Al said well I’m playing 3 now I said, “No, I think it’s more.”
John said counting two for penalty I think now you’re playing four

Al bent down to tee another, lined up carefully to the right
Then he leaned into the new ball and swung with all his might
Once again it rose like lightning exploding into the skies
But when Al looked up to see it he could not believe his eyes

It was hooking to the river and disappeared into the heaven
“Fore” cried Al in horror, John said, “No, I think it’s seven.”
Al was losing his composure he was crumbling from the stress
But he knew he had to do it and overcome his sheer distress.

Once again he teed a ball up took his time to take his aim
Let her rip and hit a beauty but Oh No, it did the same.
“Fore” croaked Allan weakly, as I fumbled for my pen.
John said don’t forget the penalty I think now you’re playing ten.

Al staggered to his golf bag, his knees as weak as butter
He fumbled with his golf clubs and finally he pulled out his putter.
It was only with much urging, he agreed to try it one more time
This time he hit a beauty straight down field on centre line.

As we helped Al down the fairway walking off the eleventh tee
We thought we heard the devil laughing through the breezes in the trees.
We could see that Al was hurting we knew he’d never be the same
But don’t believe him when he tells you, that he’s given up the game.

He’ll be golfing till he passes, we think he’s real hooked on the sport
But Al, as a proper golfer you’re coming up a little short.



Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’.
There goes my ball sailin’
Into a trap, the water or the woods.

Flailin’, flailin’, flailin’;
You can hear me wailin’,
“Why won’t that pesky ball go where it should?
Drives go right. Putts go wrong.
I shank my wedges or top them long.
My golf game’s just no damn good.

I’m swingin’ too hard & lookin’ up;
As if I’ll actually see it go in the cup….
As if it ever really would.
My alignment’s too far left or right.
My ball can find the only tree or trap in sight,
Even if the shot starts out lookin’ good.

These days, I carry some special tools:
A handheld weed eater with extra spools
And a pruning saw, in case I’m in the woods.
I’ve even tried to ‘buy’ a better game.
No matter. My scores were just as lame.
Those new clubs didn’t do what they should.

Bogies & doubles…even triples… are common scores.
I very rarely get pars any more.
Believe me, I’d change it if I could.
My buddies said it must be me,
A teaching pro I should go see.
They said he’d fix my game…..if anybody could.

The pro said, “Hit some balls while I watch you.
Just set up and hit’em like you normally do.
We’ll see if I can do your game any good.”
After the first bucket of balls I hit,
He calmly said, “Take two weeks off…then quit.
Take my advice. You really should.”

Now, what really has me vexed,
I’m wondering what I’ll try next.
That pro’s advice was no damn good.
So, I struggle along with my flailin’ game;
But, strangely enough, have fun just the same,
Finding hope in rare shots that are actually good.



A Tiger Tale.

Walking my tiger home alone
In the background and unknown
With a rag I polish a club
Then you take it with a snub

I walk around keeping stats
Wet my finger for wind on flats
Calculate yards from here to there
So dimpled ball will stay in the air

As fast as you behind I lag
The difference is I carry your bag
All in white in bright coveralls
Marking the spot to place your balls

On the green is usually where
Sometimes you don’t I won’t go there
Have no problem choosing the club
Throwing it back an uneasy rub

I go the distance for eighteen
Making sure you make the green
Many tournaments you have won
Some are due to the work I’ve done

Raise the cup enjoy the win
I can take it on the chin
Beside you like some garden gnome
Here I’m walking my Tiger home



Once Again Around the Sun.

Many times around the Sun,
With many battles lost and won.

A bat and ball are gifts no more,
And no more castles by the shore.

No more running through fields of hay,
And no more flopping upon a sleigh.

No building forts or climbing trees,
It’s doctor’s visits on hurting knees.

And watching cholesterol is what I do,
Along with a shot to prevent the flu.

And it wasn’t just a slip of the tongue,
That “youth is wasted on the young.”

But from me, there is no complaining,
Cause there are many rounds of golf remaining.



A Golf Limerick.
There was a man from a faraway land.
He held a golf club in his right hand.
He said this to me.
What is that I see?
No club in your mitt, or ball to hit.



A Golfer’s Tale.
Was out playing golf just for fun
With Father O’Toole in the sun
When club from hand burst
Hit priest as he cursed
And I hit his first holy one



Ode to a Golf Ball.
O tiny, dimpled sphere, virginal white,
Whooshing on your preordain-ed flight:
What motivates your Lord to curses spew
When you’ve done naught but to his swing be true?

Slice, and down he calls the wrath of God
On you and those who made you;
Hook, and here he whines you failed to heed
His clear intent to fade you.

You moved, he reasons, at the bottom of the downswing of the shot
(As if, inanimate jot, you have the power to move, or not).
“You’re old,” he mutters when a feeble, graceless effort
Sends you only laughing distance off the tee.
“Too bold,” he sputters when a misselected iron
Flies you over green to rest behind a tree.

Err as physics dictate, and Lo!, you are to blame;
Perform as he expects of you, no credit’s due,
Only commands that you do more of same.

You are twice cut by lethal hacks that scar your face with “smiles.”
(“Grimace” is the better word.)
While the acid words he throws at you,
The vitriol he blows at you,
Drain his duffer’s bile.

Injustice is your lot, bedeviled wretch, until you cease
Behind a bush or in some pond find peace;
For when you’re lost in water, wood, or shrub,
The cretin will commence to fault his club.



Chasing that White Ball.
A strong passion of mine in recent years
is being on a golf fairway…
Its a place as other golfers would agree
is an escape from stress of every day…
Its definitely a whole new kind of stress
but a hand full of shots bring a smile.
The friendships found, with either lawyers
or doctors even the bartender who hits it a mile…
We are all even on hole number one with jokes
and caddyshack quotes as one putts on the greens…
The passion for golf runs straight through my soul,
a good or bad day my smile still gleams…
Even if tired or worn out after a long day at work,
nothing stops me from making that four pm. tee time…
Either on a Myrtle beach well groomed course, or
public one with divots and a green you can’t find..
There is no better place to be then standing in a tee
box with your driver in hand..
A full swing on beautiful blue sky day and hopefully seeing
where your ball will land…



Experts.

Hyperbole is a sports cast

Announcers have egos so vast

My ears must have rest

From this lambasting pest

Collection of morons amassed



A Better Putter.

I have a naughty iron that is a nine
Which some say has become benign;
My balls seem to be slow as molasses
So I had to take a couple of classes.

From whole, entire course I got cut
Because I never learned how to putt,
And you should see the terrible scar
When they beat me for not making par.

My golf game suffered a major mishap
Ball ended up being in a soft, sand trap;
Then there was a complete catastrophe
Had hit ball hard from tee into a tree.

To avoid all of the trash and clutter
I then tried to buy a better putter
On course my dead corpse does remain;
Now all those terrible drives drive them insane.



Is there a Golf Course in Heaven?.
O’lord of mine.
I have Cheated
I have lied
I have killed
I have tried
I have made some people sad
I have made some people mad.
But I just want to know one thing before I go.
Is there a golf course in heaven?.



Have A Great Golf Game.

My belief in God is as firm as it can get
He rains down heaven so I will be wet
With all His love along with his very being
Even when off on the golf course I am teeing.

With God golf weather will be great
May be with much vigour or sedate
And when on back of crucifix rub
He helps me pick out perfect club.

Energy is everlasting and not draining
God is thoughtful teacher when in training
Has a golden rule which is to take a bean
And do gently roll it slowly down the green.

Now that you have found slope and flow
Way much better your golf ball will go
And God makes sure game will survive
By continually keeping your drive alive.

When you will allow God to be your map
He has been known to have your handicap
No longer surprising like a rising star
But somewhere near or equal to par.



Winning is Not Everything.
Just need two under par
I’ve mastered this shot
and my partners will lose.
One is my only son,
and a friend from college.
Fond memory’s to amuse.

Soar among the Eagles!
I’ll let my soul sing,
their spirits to bolster.

I let loose measured stroke.
My eagle’s in flight
soaring t’wards a bunker.

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Golf Widows.
What is it – this royal and ancient game
that gets in your blood and under your skin?
That invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
till you shank one and your head starts to spin!
Not just a game for sadists and killjoys
though it helps if misery becomes you;
new graphite, titanium and steel toys
vex me slowly but what am I to do?
I am hooked – addicted to the flagged green,
and no persuasion can my scourge deny:
no finer joy (with pants on) has there been,
but take my wife before my clubs – or DIE!
To all you gals who would have us not play
hear this… ’tis the fairway or the highway!



The player inside.

As one stands on the first tee
a straightforward start with pumping heart
should be easy enough for me he he
with an arch of the back
a thundering crack
a look from my eye up through the sky
looking for my ball to see

an iron I take for my second
and again look after my ball so keen
then with a skip and a thud it ends up on the green
glove off putter in hand I line up with the hole
with a positive roll it rolls into my goal
1 under par a birdie so rare

Is today the day I wonder
then all hopes are dashed when my next drive hits a tree
after many a shout and searching about
my round of promise some hours ago has gone as all before
but I will be back with new balls to whack
to the game that I adore

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The Duffer.
Clyde Rolf
Played golf

In rough
That’s tough

Mishap
Sand trap

Hole kissed
Putts missed

So far
No par



Little white ball.
Many say it’s a crazy game
Golf is the name
Give it your all
Hit the white ball

Clubs, bags, holes, flags come into play
Throughout the day
All yelling “fore”
Trying to score

Hit it long and straight is the aim
No simple game
Into the hole
White ball must roll!



Women Drivers.

The trouble with women drivers
with all of their if’s, and their butts

is that when they are driving for distance
they lose all their delicate touch

thinking the faster they get there
will get them into bad ruts

but no one cares how well they drive
as long as they make all their putts.



Golfing with Sir Isaac Newton.
When I went golfing with Sir Isaac Newton
He hit tee shots that were not comput’in
Though he struck balls sound
They stayed on the ground
Never making it to where he was shootin’

When we went inside to, have a tea
He showed his disgust with, gravity
I said, “That round went to pot
Coz for each hole’s first shot
For some reason you didn’t, grab a tee!”



The Remote.
I wanted to watch the king of Queens but I’m watching golf instead.
I’m too lazy to walk over to the set now that the batteries in the remote are dead.
I’m so bored as I watch these damn golfers putt.
I ordered my wife to change the channel and she kicked me in the nuts.
I can’t stand this boredom, I want to be put out of my misery.
I’ll be watching a lot of golf because I’m too cheap to buy new batteries.



When a wayward golf ball I do find.

When a wayward golf ball I do find,
I wonder if it’s really kind
To keep it.

An avid golfer, noble soul
Prob’ly paid a lot of dough
To buy it.

My inner conflict is short lived
The ball, it seems, has hardly lived.
I owe it.

A chance to fly, to soar again
To make birdie, roll right in.
I feel it.

Into my pocket, it disappears
Eager, as the next tee nears.
I’ll use it.



How do I keep these dogs at bay.

The rough is long,
The sand is wet,
The wind is up,
I haven’t teed off yet.

How can I keep
These dogs at bay?
Not well I think
With my swing today.

But last time out
My driver I striped.
Straight and far
And pure. I liked.

I’ll swing like that —
You guys will see.
I’m ready now.
Where’s my tee?



I just hit a shot I’d like to forget.

I just hit a shot I’d like to forget,
It went the wrong way, and now my ball’s wet.

That ball was a beauty–
I picked it myself.
So bright white and pure
Sitting there on the shelf.

But that ball has failed me–
It’s gone off it’s own way.
It’s all for the best —
It just didn’t want to play.

I’ll just pick a new ball,
You know I have plenty.
Eager volunteers–
I must have more than twenty.

My last swing was all wrong,
Oh well. That shot’s over.
From where I now lie
I’ve got the perfect number.

So, onward I press.
My confidence re-bolstered.
The right line, a smooth swing,
Reload. Re-holster.



The Golf Walk.

Behold, my child, this touching scene,
The golfer on the golfing-green;
Pray mark his legs’ uncanny swing,
The golf-walk is a gruesome thing!

See how his arms and shoulders ride
Above his legs in haughty pride,
While over bunker, hill and lawn
His feet, relentless, drag him on.

And does the man walk always so?
Nay! nay I my child, and eke, oh! no!
It is a gait he only knows
When he has on his golfing clothes.

Blame not the man for that strange stride
He could not help it if he tried;
It is his timid feet that try
From his obstreperous clothes to fly.



A Lesson From Golf.

He couldn’t use his driver any better on the tee
Than the chap that he was licking, who just happened to be me;
I could hit them with a brassie just as straight and just as far,
But I piled up several sevens while he made a few in par;
And he trimmed me to a finish, and I know the reason why:
He could keep his temper better when he dubbed a shot than I.

His mashie stroke is choppy, without any follow through;
I doubt if he will ever, on a short hole, cop a two,
But his putts are straight and deadly, and he doesn’t even frown
When he’s tried to hole a long one and just fails to get it down.
On the fourteenth green I faded; there he put me on the shelf,
And it’s not to his discredit when I say I licked myself.

He never whined or whimpered when a shot of his went wrong;
Never kicked about his troubles, but just plodded right along.
When he flubbed an easy iron, though I knew that he was vexed,
He merely shrugged his shoulders, and then coolly played the next,
While I flew into a frenzy over every dub I made
And was loud in my complaining at the dismal game I played.

Golf is like the game of living; it will show up what you are;
If you take your troubles badly you will never play to par.
You may be a fine performer when your skies are bright and blue
But disaster is the acid that shall prove the worth of you;
So just meet your disappointments with a cheery sort of grin,
For the man who keeps his temper is the man that’s sure to win



Golf Pride.

As a golfer I’m not one who cops the money,
I shall always be a member of the dubs;
There are times my style is positively funny,
I am awkward in my handling of the clubs;
I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky,
But this about myself I proudly say
When I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky,
I never claim I played the shot that way.

There are times, despite my blundering behavior,
When fortune seems to follow at my heels;
Now and then I toil supremely in her favor,
She lets me pull the rankest sort of steals;
She’ll give to me the friendliest assistance,
I’ll jump a ditch at times when I should not,
I’ll top the ball and get a lot of distance
But I don’t claim that’s how I played the shot.

I’ve hooked a ball when just that hook I needed,
And wondered how I ever turned the trick;
I’ve thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did,
Although my fortune made my rival sick;
Sometimes my shots are just as I had planned ’em,
The sort of shots which usually I play,
But when up to the cup I chance to land ’em,
I never claim I played ’em just that way.

There’s little in my game that will commend me,
I’m not a shark who shoots the course in par;
I need good fortune often to befriend me,
I have my faults and know just what they are;
I play golf in a desperate do -or- die way,
And into traps and trouble oft I stray;
But when by chance the breaks are coming my way,
I do not claim I played the shots that way.



The first rule of golf.

We stood at the tee and the driver we swung,
Then we put back the turf;
At the ball, then a thing called the ‘mashie,’ we flung,
Then we put back the turf.
‘There’s a fine mid-iron shot I am sure you can do,’
Said a friend, ‘you should get on the green then in two;’
We tried it, then painted the atmosphere blue
And put back the turf.

We tried for a shot o’er a bunker ahead,
Then we put back the turf;
We attempted to loft, but the ball remained dead,
Then we put back the turf.
We tackled the niblick, the putter, the cleek,
They went through the air with a whistle and shriek,
And our manner was humble and abject and meek
As we put back the turf.

We posed, a la Travers, and let the club go,
Then we put back the turf;
The pellet was nicely addressed for a blow,
Then we put back the turf;
Out there on the links with the sun shining warm
To watch us the spectators came in a swarm,
And they freely remarked on our wonderful form
As we put back the turf.

At the first, second, third, fourth and fifth holes men see
Where we put back the turf;
From the fifth to the ninth it’s as plain as can be
Where we put back the turf.
And we answered when asked, as we sat at a meal,
Our honest opinion of golf to reveal:
‘It’s great, but it’s terribly hard on the heel
When you put back the turf.



Golf Luck.

As a golfer I’m not one who cops the money;
I shall always be a member of the dubs;
There are times my style is positively funny;
I am awkward in my handling of the clubs.
I am not a skillful golfer, nor a plucky,
But this about myself I proudly say-
When I win a hole by freaky stroke or lucky,
I never claim I played the shot that way.

There are times, despite my blundering behavior,
When fortune seems to follow at my heels;
Now and then I play supremely in her favor,
And she lets me pull the rankest sort of steals;
She’ll give to me the friendliest assistance,
I’ll jump a ditch at times when I should not,
I’ll top the ball and get a lot of distance-
But I don’t claim that’s how I played the shot.

I’ve hooked a ball when just that hook I needed,
And wondered how I ever turned the trick;
I’ve thanked my luck for what a friendly tree did,
Although my fortune made my rival sick;
Sometimes my shots turn out just as I planned ’em,
The sort of shots I usually play,
But when up to the cup I chance to land ’em,
I never claim I played ’em just that way.

There’s little in my game that will commend me;
I’m not a shark who shoots the course in par;
I need good fortune often to befriend me;
I have my faults and know just what they are.
I play golf in a desperate do-or-die way,
And into traps and trouble oft I stray,
But when by chance the breaks are coming my way,
I do not claim I played the shots that way.



The Golf Writer.

The golf writer has become famous for a while the toast of the town
But a few locals with him not happy they feel that he has put them down
It’s that he has a humorous streak in him and with his words he does not mean offence
Some people in their feelings precious and they lack a bit in common sense,
The golf writer is a nice fellow he likes a good laugh and a beer
His humor comes out in his writing he is a creator of cheer
He never does take life too seriously devoted to family and wife
One might call him happy go lucky he does his best to enjoy life
There ought to be more people like him some do take life too seriously
So down to earth and so very witty and few are as generous as he
So many look forward to his golf column and such witty articles he write
Though always one to feel offended in humour some do feel some slight,
Around the town well known and well liked his best to please others he try
He is such a likeable fellow and he would not harm a fly.



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.



Golf of Course.

Two craggy Scots, Angus and Hank,
Had golfed a round of eighteen holes.
In the clubhouse, they sat and drank
Scotch to warm their bodies and souls.
It was a blustery raw day.
The wind howled fierce off the North Sea.
Sleet whipped down from skies dark and grey,
As nasty as nasty can be.
Hank and Angus thawed out some more.
Ice melted from their beards, and drips
Fell into puddles on the floor.
Angus asked Hank in between sips.

‘Same time next week we’ll be hitting? ‘
‘Aye, ‘ Hank said, ‘Weather permitting”



Golf

He drove down the middle, the ball hit the sand
He grumbled allowed with his club in his hand
Then he walked quite a distance and shot for the green
But the ball hit the bank and was lost in a stream
The perils of golf and the groans from around
Were painful to hear as the ball hit the ground
His handicap suffered and so did his mood
he swore like a trooper, the language was crude



Ode to Golf.

Dare you compare it to a country walk?
Dismissed by some a sadly wasted day,
But this of course is ill informed, the talk
Of those ne’er to have shared the joy of play,
Or felt that surge of pleasure at the smack
Of club on ball as it soars through the sky,
A show of perfect symmetry in air,
To land with satisfying thump on track
Then roll and roll to find that perfect lie.
But why are such experiences so rare?

We happily delude ourselves, pretend
Just being out there, playing is the key,
when everything we try seems to descend
to slicing, hooking, drop kicks off the tee.
But then of course we hit that perfect shot
And strong competing juices flow once more
Hopes for a winning round no longer blown
We tell ourselves our putter’s running hot
Try in vain to not focus on the score
And sense that magic space: we’re in the zone!

Dismissed by some as, simply, just a game,
We golfers know it’s something more profound;
A metaphor for life, a course to tame,
The endless quest to play that perfect round.
We seek new tricks to fix that dreadful hook,
One special club, new model, latest version
A better standard ball to help us cope,
And a new wardrobe to achieve that look.
However terrible our last excursion.
We always start each new round full of hope.



Golf and Me.

The lofted ball up in the sky
From early Scotland you can hear them cry
If it lands in the rough and not on the green
A verbal lament, an error gone unseen

Rythmic swings like ballroom dance
The slightest error reduces your chance
An errant head or a wandering eye
If the ball is topped it won’t even fly

The Gods of golf have deemed it sure
You may think your game is clean and pure
A little fatigue, too strong of a grip
The ball’s trajectory it’s own little trip

Or maybe it’s fate with it’s own hand
On some days into the hole it won’t even land
Fickleness reigns-nothing’s the same
The draw of the fairway’s the name of the game.



Golf is slow torture.

Golf is such a silly game
The less you play it-The greater the fame
But not alas for your average punter
Who stalks the long grass, more like a hunter.
He really isn’t playing at all
Half the time he’s looking for his ball.
Head always moving(if not hanging in shame)
The ball stays still, so the players to blame.
As more and more strokes we amass
Mainly playing from the longest grass
Temper flaming and words quite blue!
Are you sure this is the game for you?
The just one shot, that you do not thin
And look! Your nearest the pin
Bringing the fame that you seek
Ensuring your return, and the dream
That you will do better – next week!!!



Golf from Hell.

THE DEVIL INVENTED THIS IMPOSSIBLE SPORT.
WORSE THAN HELLFIRE, IT’S YOUR LAST RESORT.
SO MANY HAVE TRIED; SO MANY HAVE CRIED.
IN THOSE HAZZARDS SO MANY HAVE DIED.

WHAT A PLEASURE TO PLAY WITH A SCRATCH HANDICAPPER.
MAKES YOU WANT TO THROW YOUR STICKS IN THE SCRAPPER.
HE SAYS IT’S JUST EYE-HAND COORDINATION.
HE’S NEVER SUFFERED FROM TWO-FOOT PUTT CONSTIPATION.

HE SAYS IT’S JUST A MATTER OF SHIFTING YOUR WEIGHT.
AS FOR ANYMORE SHIFTING, IT’S NOW TOO LATE.
AND WHAT’S THAT DEAL ABOUT A FULL SHOULDER TURN?
WHEN I TIE MY SHOES, THEY ALREADY BURN.

WORST OF ALL IS HIS SMOOTH, SLOW BACKSWING.
IF I TRIED THAT, I WOULDN’T MOVE ANYTHING.
HE SAYS TIMING GIVES HIM ADDED TORQUE.
I SAY MY TIMING HELPS ME PLAY LIKE A DORK.

AND OH MY GOD WHEN HE’S ON THE GREEN,
HE DROPS PUTTS LIKE A MACHINE.
THAT’S WHERE WE PLAY SOMEWHAT THE SAME
I MACHINE GUN MY PUTTS… AND KILL MY GAME.

AT THE END OF THE ROUND, HE SAYS IT WAS FUN.
BUT I’M HERE TO TELL YOU WHEN THAT ORDEAL’S DONE,
I HEAD FOR THE SHOWERS SAD AND ALONE.
AGAIN I’VE BEATEN MYSELF… ALL ON MY OWN.



Approach Shot.
I seem to have found a decent lie
From this point 150 yards to fly
Over the bunker to the green
No other hazards in between

I select a five iron from my bag
I will draw the shot towards the flag
No flamboyancy, I will be clinical
I read the ball’s mark, it is Pinnacle!



What is Golf?.
On the subject of golf, I would argue with Twain.
It is not a good walk that is spoiled, as he said.
Now to you who’ve not played it, I’ll try to explain
How the game can enthrall and embed in one’s head.

It’s a sport for a lifetime regardless of age
Where the players perform, but with nature the stage.
It can elevate, frustrate, delight, or enrage.
It’s a war with yourself that’s a pleasure to wage.

Golf is exercise gained when you walk all eighteen.
It’s the challenge of beating your best-ever score.
It’s designs of the hundreds of courses you’ve seen
And the thousands of people you’d not met before.

It’s a six o’clock tee time and early to rise
When there’s dew on the grass and a fog in the air.
It’s the joking and digs and the bets with the guys
And the spikes and the visors and braces we wear.



Any Other Time.
ALL of us play our very best game
Any other time.
Golf or billiards, it’s all the same
Any other time.
Lose a match and you always say,
“Just my luck! I was `off” today!
I could have beaten him quite half-way
Any other time!

After a fiver you ought to go
Any other time.
Every man that you ask says -Oh,
Any other time.
Lend you a fiver! I’d lend you two,
But I’m overdrawn and my bills are due,
Wish you’d ask me now, mind you do
Any other time!

Fellows will ask you out to dine
Any other time.
“Not to-night, for we’re twenty-nine”
Any other time.
Not to-morrow, for cook’s on strike,
Not next day, I’ll be out on the bike
Just drop in whenever you like
Any other time!

Seasick passengers like the sea
Any other time.
Something . . I ate . . disagreed . . with me!
Any other time
Ocean-travelling is . . simply bliss,
Must be my . . liver . . has gone amiss . .
Why, I would . . laugh . . at a sea . . like this
Any other time.

Most of us mean to be better men
Any other time:
Regular upright characters then
Any other time.
Yet somehow as the years go by
Still we gamble and drink and lie,
When it comes to the last we’ll want to die
Any other time!



The Golf Ball & The Loan.
I drove a golf-ball into the air;
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, out of sight
I could not follow it in its flight.

I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,
For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may go?

Then long, long afterward, in a bin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;
But the five shillings they are missing still!
They haven’t turned up, and I doubt if they will.



The wreck of the Golfer.
It was the keen old golfing man
Drove off from the golf house tee,
And he had taken his eldest son with him
To bear him company.

“Oh, Father, why do you swing the club
And flourish it such a lot?”
“Then watch it fly o’er the fences high!
When you try with a brassie shot.”

“Oh, Father, why did you hit the fence
Just there where the brambles twine?”
And the father he answered never a word,
But he got on the green in nine.

“Oh, Father, hark from behind those trees,
What dismal yells arrive!”
“‘Tis a man we’d seen on the second green,
And you’ve landed on him with your drive.”

“Oh, Father, why does the one we see
Fall down on his knees and cry?”
“He taketh you for his Excellency,
And he thinks once hit twice shy.”

So next they went to the waterhole,
And he drove with a lot of dash,
But his balls fall soon in the dread lagoon
Disappear with a woeful splash.

“Oh, Father, why do you beat the sand
Till it leaps like the rain on a pool?”
And the father he answered never a word,
For his sorrow was much too full.

“Oh, Father, why are they shouting ‘fore’
And screaming so lustily?”
But the father he answered never a word,
As still as a corpse was he.

For a well-swung drive on the back of his head
Had struck hard and laid him low.
Lord save us all from a fate like this
When next to the links we go.



The Night before Christmas, Golf Style.
Twas the night before Christmas, when all over the course.
Not a golfer was stirring, not even the gorse.
The towels were hung by the back shop with care.
In hopes that high tipping members soon would be there.
The juniors were nestled all snug in their beds.
While visions of birdies danced in their heads.
And Big Mama in her ‘kerchief and I in my cap,
Had just organized her trophies for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn, there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the sofa, as I remembered Feherty’s chatter.
Back into the past, I flew like a flash,
Turned up the volume and prepared for his trash.
The dew on the crest of the fresh cut grass,
Outlined the path where the ball did pass.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a whole slew of golfers imbibing in cheer.
Led by one lefty with a backswing so quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Mick.
More rapid than eagles, his worshippers came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
“Now Dasher, now Dancer, now Prancer and Vixen,
“On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen.
“To the top of the tee deck! To tee up their ball!
“Now slash away! Slash away! Slash away all!”
As dry heaves announce a missed putt for a tie,
Sadness occurs in your partner’s eye.
So up to the tee deck the worshippers they flew,
With a bag full of Chrome Softs- and St. Mickelson too:
And then came some past memories in with a poof,
The prancing and cajoling a life time of goofs.
My head started spinning and turning around,

Jack, Arnie, Gary and Lee, Ben, Byron and Sam came with a bound,
All dressed to the nines, from their head to their foot,
Just the sight of them was all it took,
A bundle of clubs flung over their backs,
Images of Rory, Tiger, Jason and Jordan too,
Presented a true parallax.
The determined look in their eyes, a bid for glory,
Finishing second would ruin the story.
Darkly tanned skin gave proof of their effort,
And their confidence rang hotter than red chili pepper.
The grit in the calluses adorning strong hands,
Tore through a crowd like a bagpipe band.
Trophies they came for after leaving home,
On a march like a Centurion miles from Rome.
Each had supreme confidence in themselves,
My insides burst with the joy from their spells,
A wink of an eye and a twist of their head,
Soon gave me to know I had seen something rayed.
Most spoke very little, on the rise to the top,
Instead let their clubs finish the job.
As we consider them all, when we look back.
Who was the best to come down the track?
Little does it matter, the saying goes,
They all were great and they equally glow.
So I say to you all, many thanks for your ‘colfing’ sights,
Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night.



A Golfer’s Christmas Poem.
‘Twas the first day of Golfmas,
And our tee time was here,
The golf balls were rolling,
All golfers had good cheer.
Our group was next up, the starter gave a call,
I reached in my bag and pulled out a ball.
My friends, were all ready as they waited their turn,
They examined my practice swing trying to learn.
I had just tied my golf shoes and put on my hat,
And stepped up to my ball to give it a whack.
Then, in my backswing, I heard some loud chatter,
I hacked at the ball and heard the club shatter.
The results of that swing came a really nice breeze,
And with a wicked hard slice my ball sailed at some trees.
The spin of the ball went wildly out of control,
I screamed “FORE” and watched a group roll.
Then what to my painful ears did hear,
My ball hit 5 trees, a skunk and a deer,
I jumped in my golf cart so lively and quick,
Curled up in a ball because that shot made me sick.
Slow as molasses my friends then came,
Laughed at my shot and called me some names,
Now slicer, now hacker, really bad golfer, you duffer,
you numskull, you hooker and rougher,
So out in the rough to the back in the sticks,
I pulled out my iron to show them some tricks,
I stepped up to my ball and swung as hard as I could,
The stupid little round thing just hit some more wood.
It bounced all around and shot at my friends,
They hit the ground hard and covered their heads
I look up ahead to see where I stand,
My buddy pointed behind me at a bunker of sand.
I stepped to the bunker where the shot I did shank,
Not paying attention I slipped and down sank.
I may have started out bad but I’ll make it up now,
If I keep my head down I will get there somehow.
I swung and I swung ‘til I started to shout,
I’m poor at this shot I can’t get this ball out!
Then just as soon as I was about to quit,
I hit that sweet spot and watched the ball I hit,
It flew through the air with a perfect flight,
Made right for the pin, I had hit it just right
The ball hit the green right next to the pin,
and wouldn’t you know it, IT JUST DROPPED RIGHT IN!
I smiled as I watched it go true to my aim,
Happy Golfing to all, I love this great game!



Golfing.
You’re in Palm Springs, not much to do
But golf and get some sun
Hop on a cart, still almost dark
Get out and have some fun

Line up your shot, you’re feeling hot
You try hard not to push
But half the time, like you were blind
It ends up in the bush

You curse and swear like no one’s there
Dig up a chunk of dirt
You hit a house, feel like a louse
Thank God no one was hurt

You hack around, rip up the ground
The hole seems ’way too small
You miss your shot and swear a lot
This is no fun at all

Every shot’s worse than the last
No matter how you try
They don’t go where you want them
It makes you wanna cry

Your buddies laugh, you stand and chaff
You ask them what’s so funny
They grin and say, “Looks like today
You owe us lots of money”

Finally when you make a shot
You think you’re getting hotter
You rip the next shot long and hard
Straight into the water

Every shot makes someone smile
Somehow it’s never you
A foursome comes up from behind
Asks if they could play through

You shank and pull you slash and slice
You finally get around
The only part that you enjoy
Is when you’re homeward bound

You practice ‘til the sun goes down
Determined not to fail
The more you try the worse it gets
You just groove your slash and flail

Today I had a real good day
I’m happy as could be
Had lots of fun, me and my Hon
Stayed home and watched TV



Golf Tees.

Golf tees on my dresser
Golf tees in my bed
Golf tees on my pillows
They poke me in my head

Golf tees in my closet
In my shirts and pants
Golf tees on the sideboard
Just like worker ants

Golf tees in the carpet
They’re beneath my feet
Lined up on the mantle
Looking, Oh, so neat

Golf tees in my settee
In my back and thighs
When I sit and watch TV
I feel those little guys

Golf tees in the kitchen
In my coffee mugs
Sometimes when I pass them
They look like little bugs.

Golf tees in the bathtub
Like sailors aboard boats
Golf tee in her make-up
Also in her coats.

Golf tees in the attic
Golf tees in the shed
Golf tees, they are everywhere
Wonder how they bred?

Golf tees in the garden
Making plastic trails
Golf tees in the flowerbeds
With the mulch and snails

Golf tees on my car dash
And underneath the mats
Golf tees in the backseat
Like little cricket bats

Golf tees in my bedroom
Golf tees on the shelves
Golf tees they are everywhere
They just can’t lose themselves

But when I am at the golf course
To my partner, I will say…
“Do you have a golf tee please?”
‘I have not one today! ‘



Feel Good Golf

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!


Limerick.
With envy I don’t wish to sound
Opponent who’s golf has been found
He’s relit the fire
His game to inspire
By cutting the strokes in his round

80.
Today dear Lord I am 80 and there’s much I haven’t done
I hope, dear Lord you’ll let me live until I’m 81
But if I haven’t finished all I want to do
would you let me stay awhile until I’m 82?
So many places I want to go, so much I want to see
Do you think you could manage to make it 83?
Many things I may have done, there’s so much left in store
I’d like it very much to live to 84
And if by then I am still alive, then I’d like to stay to 85
The world is changing very fast so I’d like to stick
and see what happens to the world when I’m 86
I know, dear Lord it’s a lot to ask, and it will be nice in Heaven
But I’d really like to stay about until I’m 87
I know, by then I won’t be fast, and sometimes I’ll be late
But it would be, oh so pleasant, to be around at 88
I will have seen so many things and had a wonderful time
So, I’m sure that I’ll be willing to leave at 89 — Well maybe!!!
Arthur

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Golfer’s Etiquette.
(Jolly Old St. Nicholas)

When to the links you go
There are certain things to know.
Never talk or hum or sing
When a golfer starts their swing.
Never let your shadow fall
Across another putter’s ball
Never doubt another’s score,
You saw a 6 but mark it 4!

Never kick one from the rough
Play it fair when luck is tough.
Never cheat in deepest wood,
God is watching, so be good.
Never raise your voice or swear
When you top or fan the air.
Never, even as a joke
Fail to count each single stroke.

Don’t improve a hanging lie
“Accidentally” – on the sly.
In a sand trap, it’s a rub
Never, never ground your club.
When a foursome presses you,
Don’t be nasty, let them through.
Do all these things and then, ol’ kid,
You’ll be the first who ever did!



Bridgton Highlands Golfer.

I’m a Bridgton Highlands golfer
Swingin’s what I’ve got to do
I turn my shoulders
and I bend my knees,
Then hit the ball into the trees.
I’ve taken many many lessons
Practiced hours on the tee,
Hoped to play and be a champion
Just to win a trophy
Seems that it’s never meant to be!

Pack my clubs and my chapeau
Here I go, swingin’ low
Bye, Bye, golf ball
Everybody waits for me
‘Cause I sliced one off the tee
Bye, Bye, golf ball.
No one here can love, or even stand me
I play all alone out on the prairie
Take my cart, don’t be polite
I’ll arrive late tonight
Golf ball, bye, bye.

Bye Bye Golfball



The Eagle Song.

Cruising down the fairway,
Can’t believe I hit so good!
The ball it flew; it’s rolling, too,
Oh, how I love that wood.

Another hundred yards, and
I flew onto the green.
With luck, it bounced and dropped in
That was really quite a scene.

I’ve got it made, for this I prayed
I always knew I could.
Just like the “pros”
my practice shows
The way a golfer’s should.

Just played the perfect hole, and
My score will surely drop.
Move on and play the next one
Just before my luck can stop!



The Glory of Golf.

You’ve gotta win a little, lose a little
You’ve gotta get the golfin’ blues a little,
That’s the story of, that’s the glory of golf.
You’ve gotta hook a little, slice a little
And sometimes even hit ‘em twice a little,
That’s the story of, that’s the glory of golf.

And when this game gets through to us
You’ll love this game with all its charm.
And when the world is through with us
We’ll still have a strong left arm.

You’ve gotta wink a little, drink a little
And all those putts, you’ve gotta sink a little.
That’s the story of, that’s the glory of golf.



Golfer’s Etiquette.

When to the links you go
There are certain things to know.
Never talk or hum or sing
When a golfer starts to swing.
Never let your shadow fall
Across another’s putting ball
Never doubt an opponent’s score,
You saw 6 but mark it 4!

Never kick one from the rough
Play it fair when luck is tough.
Never cheat in deepest wood,
God is watching, so be good.
Never raise your voice or swear
When you top or fan the air.
Never, even as a joke
Fail to count each single stroke.

Don’t improve a hanging lie
“Accidentally” – on the sly.
In a sand trap, it’s a rub
Never, never ground your club.
When a foursome presses you,
Don’t be nasty, let them through.
When you tear the sod, don’t frown,
Put some sand back in the ground.

Do all these things and then, Old Kid,
You’ll be the first who ever did!



Grand Old Game.

Golf’s a grand old game, just a frustrating game
But forever and ever I’ll play.
I may hit in the lake, or into the woods,
Or whiff and just leave the ball lay.
But I’ll play and play and then maybe someday
I’ll come in with a real good score.
So here’s to shanks and whiffs and hooks,
May they leave me forevermore.



The Hazard.

I drove my ball far down the fairway.
It was such a beautiful shot.
It bounced and then rolled in a hazard.
Now what was that rule I was taught?

Bring back, oh bring back,
Bring back my little white ball to me.
Bring back, oh bring back,
I’ll hit it again for a three!



Hello Golfers.

Hello golfers, well, Hello golfers
It’s so nice to have us all together again
You’re looking swell golfers, playing well golfers
You are driving, you are chipping ,
you are putting strong.
And when we Southern players
leave you Northern stayers
We hope it will stay nice and warm up here, so
Get out and hit that ball, golfers
Thin, fat, short and tall golfers
Bridgton will welcome you all back next year



I’ve Been Working On My Golf Game.

I’ve been working on my golf game
Since the snow went away.
I’ve been looking in the tall grass
Where the ball just seems to stay.
Every time I get a good one,
That’s what brings me back.
Then I went to see the Pro, and
Now I’m right on track!
Ball won’t you go?
Ball won’t you fly?
Ball won’t you get into that hole?
Ball won’t you go?
Ball won’t you fly
Roll right in that hole!



It’s the Good Old Golfing Time.

It’s the good old golfing time,
It’s the good old golfing time,
Grab your clubs and putter, too
We tee off at nine.
We’ll drive and chip and putt away,
This game is simply divine!
I’m glad I chose to play today
In the good old golfing time.



Ladies Day.

Ladies’ Day, I’m so excited ‘cause it’s Ladies’ Day
I’m so delighted ‘cause I’m gonna play, big hooray
Hope that I recall, just how to hit that ball on
Ladies’ Day, I’m very nervous
And I’ll try not to delay.
And though I just have been,
I’ve gotta go again,
Nervous, ‘cause it’s Ladies’ Day.



My Wild Flying Ball

My wild, flying ball
Lies in the rough so tall.
I can search far and near,
But it doesn’t appear,
Not my wild flying ball.

My wild flying ball
Still in the grass so tall.
I guess it is lost;
More strokes it will cost
Because of my wild flying ball!



Oh. What a Beautiful Morning.

Oh, what a beautiful morning,
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I’ve got a wonderful feeling,
This is a day I can play!

There are bright-colored balls
on the fairway;
And the one with the best lie
is mine.
I’m swinging so clean, as I
reach for the green,
And there I feel just like a Putting Machine!

Oh, what a beautiful morning
Oh, what a beautiful day.
I’ve got a wonderful feeling,
Everything’s going my way!



Off We Go.

Off we go onto the lower fairways

Nice and green, see the RAVINE

Off we go into the woods and water

Obstacles worse than we’ve seen

Plan your shot with every care and caution

Tee it high, watch it go up

With lots of luck and even skill

The ball will roll right in the small cup.



Over There.

Over there, over there
I keep hitting the ball over there.
Because the shanks are coming
The shanks are coming
And I’m succumbing to despair.
Oh beware, I’ll say a prayer, if I shank it again, I will swear.
I shanked it over, right in the clover.
I took the club straight back
But I drove ‘er over there.



Take Me Out To The Golf Course.

Take me out to the golf course
Take me out to the club.
Buy me some golf balls and
Colored tees, I’ll
Go over the water and
Through the trees. Then it’s
Swing and whiff on the fairway, that
Little old cup is my goal, and it’s
One, two, three drinks for par at the
Nine-teenth hole!



That Old Game of Mine.

Not a soul out on the fairways,
That’s a pretty certain sign,
These rainy days are breaking up
That old game of mine.

All my friends are either shopping,
Or they’re cleaning all the time,
These rainy days are breaking up
That old game of mine.

There goes Jill, there goes Lee,
By the clubhouse door.
Bet they do the same as me,
Putting on the floor.

Gee I get that lonesome feeling
When I know it’s golfing time;
These rainy days are breaking up
That old game of mine.



We’ll be playing golf at Bridgton.

When we can (when we can),

We’ll be playing golf at Bridgton

When we can (when we can),

We’ll be playing golf at Bridgton

Tho’ it often isn’t easier

We’ll be playing golf at Bridgton

When we can (when we can).

We’ll be playing rounds on Wednesdays

If we can (if we can).

We’ll be playing rounds on Wednesdays

If we can (if we can).

We’ll be playing rounds on Wednesdays

And we hope there won’t be rain days

We’ll be playing rounds on Wednesdays

If we can (if we can).

We might even shoot a bogey

When we can (when we can,.

We might even shoot a bogey

When we can (when we can),

We might even shoot a bogey

But we’ll never be fogey

We might even shoot a bogey

When we can (when we can).

On a great day we’ll get birdies

If we can (if we can),

On a great day we’ll get birdies

If we can (if we can),

On a great day we’ll get birdies

So our score is in the thirties

On a great day we’ll get birdies

If we can (if we can).



When You Wore a Tulip.

When you were a loser and I was a winner,
I thought things were really great.
Now you’re the winner and I am the loser,
What an awful quirk of fate!
There must be a reason; it’s just not my season,
My scores have been OH SO BAD.
So I will cheer for your winnings and
Wait for my innings, and
Try not to look so sad!



The Wiffenpoof Song.

I’m just getting older, I can’t hit so far
Whiff, Whiff, Whiff
I’m afraid it I move, I won’t connect at all
Whiff, Whiff, Whiff.
All the good golfers they swing nice and free
They hit the ball to eternity.
Lord have mercy on such as me
Whiff, Whiff, Whiff



You’re a Grand Old Ball.

You’re a grand old ball; just a high-flying ball
And forever and ever you roll.
You’re the symbol of the game I love,
A part of my heart and my soul.

I will chip and putt, even hit from a rut
‘Though I’m not one to boast or brag.
Should old acquaintance be forgot
Keep your eye on the eighteenth



A Golf Tale

Into the ground a tee I push
With a mighty swing the club went whoosh
This I will share
The ball still there
But my club it sailed into a bush



Weekend Golfer.
Randolph
Tried golf

Paid fees
Bought tees

Teed off
Friends scoff

Drive muff
Into rough

Balls lost
They cost!

Oh crap
Sand trap!

Putts bad
Gets mad!

More flubs
Breaks clubs!

So far
No par

Played poor
No more!



Flog is an apt anagram of golf.

I’d watched the ‘Open’ and the ‘Masters’
And thought that l’d give golf a try
I hired some clubs and little white balls
From the tee I hoped my ball would sail high

I lined up perfectly and took a swing
But the ball stayed on that little blue tee
I tried again and missed it once more
I was a laughing stock for all to see!

If questioned about my handicap
I’d smile and say I don’t have one at all
The only real problem that I have is
I can’t hit the ruddy golf ball!



Little White Ball.

Many say it’s a crazy game
Golf is the name
Give it your all
Hit the white ball

Clubs, bags, holes, flags come into play
Throughout the day
All yelling “fore”
Trying to score

Hit it long and straight is the aim
No simple game
Into the hole
White ball must roll!



The Golf Club Auction.
Based on a poem by an unknown poet and written for a friend who bought a club at a golf auction!

It was old and scarred and the Auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time with the old Mashie.
So he held it up with a smile:

“What do you bid good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start bidding for me?
A pound, a pound” then “Two only two?
Two pounds and who’ll make it three?

Three pounds once; three pounds twice;
Going for three” but no:
From the back of the crowd an athletic young man
Said, “Please let me give it a go.”

Then wiping the dirt from the old Mashie,
And placing a ball on the ground,
He hit it as far as the eye could see,
And said, “I guess it’s worth more than a pound.”

The ball came to rest and the Auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet with awe
Said, “What am I bid for this old Mashie?
You all know what we just saw!

A thousand pounds so who’ll make it two?
Two thousand and who’ll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice;
And going and gone!” said he.

The crowd all cheered but some of them said,
“We do not quite understand?
“What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply;
The touch of the Master’s hand.”



.Don’t Give Up.

Line up my putt, allow for borrows

Then stroke the ball through humps and hollows

It’s fast approaching, near the pin

Cross fingers lads, it’s going in!

I’m willing it with all my might

Just at the hole the ball breaks right

So once again the putt’s misread

It’s three foot past, the ball’s not dead.

I stalk across, give it a whack

Oh heck! I’ve missed it coming back!

Then tap it in-but not too hard

Write double bogey on the card.

Scores of excuses start to flow

“Holes not cut square! It’s crowned you know.”!

I march away to the next tee

Fuming inside-“Must get a three”

Now threes are rare when I’m so cross

This mood can cause me further loss

After three putts the mind just flips

Do think on! It’s not the yips.

Two putts or less, it could restore

The equilibrium to my score

So. Don’t give up, I make this plea

The game’s not stupid,it’s just me!



A Good Walk Spoiled.

High above the blistering sun
When the weekly walk turned not so fun.

It started well, watching perfect flight
Of dimpled orb as it flew from sight.

It fell to earth on manicured green.
A more perfect shot had not been seen.

Only inches from the hole in ground
Where an eagle surely should be found.

The owner of this tremendous smash
Opened mouth and started talking trash,

Of amazing shots he’d made before
And of the beating that was in store

For the sorry trio that followed him.
Then he stepped up to the ball and grinned.

But the yips kicked in and spoiled his day
Three taps later; the ball, still in play

The silent smiles on his partners lips
Were too much to take and made him flip.

He threw his club and he cursed and swore,
And stormed away to return no more.

Now he claims to the game he’d once been loyal
That golf is just a good walk spoiled!




This Game of Golf .

Ah this game of golf, as is this life,
Played, played all life, perfect can’t be,
Rife with thrills, frills, threats from player’s wife,
Now on pedestal, now on tee,
Roughs and toughs, handicaps, bogies, strife,
And played as if on the edge of knife!

Easy to start, so hard to finish,
And harder still if ever to master,
Pursued though, pushed like unfulfilled wish,
Always one stroke from disaster.
As in the game of life handicaps to cap,
Birdies and eagles wing, claps every lap.

What a rage this game played by all age,
Many a high as there are lows,
A game that ever on players grows,
And yet ageless a sport, in image,
And also that of a nigh high brow—
Classy clubs and caddies in tow.

And you might think you the ball drive,
No, ‘tis the game that drives, you naïve,
This game of greens, grows to its max,
And greener goes the envy as of hers,
This game of golf, greatest leveler,
Enjoyed, novice or pro much as sex.



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 golfers had easy jobs
And that those who enjoyed golf were well to do snobs
But such antiquated thinking’s 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.
Arthur



I have a little Satnav.
It sits there in my car
A Satnav is a driver’s friend
It tells you where you are

I have a little Satnav
I’ve had it all my life
It’s better than the normal ones
My Satnav is my wife

It gives me full instructions
Especially how to drive
“It’s thirty miles an hour”, it says
“You’re doing thirty five”

It tells me when to stop and start
And when to use the brake
And tells me that it’s never ever
Safe to overtake

It tells me when a light is red
And when it goes to green
It seems to know instinctively
Just when to intervene

It lists the vehicles just in front
And all those to the rear
And taking this into account
It specifies my gear.

I’m sure no other driver
Has so helpful a device
For when we leave and lock the car
It still gives its advice

It fills me up with counselling
Each journey’s pretty fraught
So why don’t I exchange it
And get a quieter sort?

Ah well, you see, it cleans the house,
Makes sure I’m properly fed,
It washes all my shirts and things
And – keeps me warm in bed!
Despite all these advantages
And my tendency to scoff,
I do wish that once in a while
I could turn the damned thing off.




On reaching senility.
Standing on the very first tee
II thank the Lord that I can see
I place the ball upon the tee
with warning noises from my knee
my first drive with which i:m pleased
my worries now should be eased
for where it went i cant remember
thank God for a fellow member
now comes my very favourite wood
willl be so easy if I could
but life I find is so unfair
I cannot hit it in the air
with two more shots im on the green
to take two more would be obscene
but now I find ve got the yips
through warning spasms in the hips
myround complete with much the same
all body parts can take the blame
from a handicap of once eleven
now approaching four times seven
my ageism is not yet complete
for in the club when taking seat
I;m asked with whom I played
but answer now that I;m afraid
the truth is really most absurd
I can name two but not the third
my troubles over not by far
where did I park the bloody car



Mike Pack – Limericks
The first tee’s a nerve wracking shot
That can twist on your nerves like a knot.
This stark comprehension
Will stymie retention
And the golf swing you knew, is forgot.

He hunkered down over the shot
Preparing to swing but forgot,
All of the liquor
Makes everything quicker
Now his swing’s looking more like a swat.

His shot over water looked grim
As he had to stay under a limb,
“I have just the ticket,
Strike hard and skip it
Then hope it don’t go for a swim”.

The cup is an object of desire
Like a woman in scanty attire.
They both promise pleasure
In ways beyond measure
But you’ll need a good ‘line’ to acquire.

The Cheese of my Childhood-Arthur Hansley

I remember the cheese of my childhood,
and the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
and the men went to work not the wife.

The cheese never needed an ice chest,
and the bread was so crusty and hot,
The children were seldom unhappy
and the wife was content with her lot.

I remember the milk from the billy,
with the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
and not from the fridge in the shop.

The kids were a lot more contented,
they didn’t need money for kicks,
Just a game with our mates in the paddock,
and sometimes the Saturday flicks.

I remember the shop on the corner,
where a pen’orth of lollies was sold
Do you think I’m a bit too nostalgic,
or is it….I’m just getting old?

I remember when the loo was the dunny,
and the pan man came in the night,
It wasn’t the least bit funny
going out the back with no light.

The interesting items we perused,
from the newspapers cut into squares,
And hung on a peg in the outhouse,
it took little to keep us amused.

The clothes were boiled in the copper,
with plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
as Mum pressed everyone’s duds

I remember the slap on my backside,
and the taste of soap if I swore
Anorexia and diets weren’t heard of
and we hadn’t much choice what we wore.

Do you think that bruised our ego?
or our initiative was destroyed
We ate what was put on the table
and I think life was better enjoyed.



Found by Geoff Staley
I remember the bologna of my childhood,
And the bread that we cut with a knife,
When the children helped with the housework,
And the men went to work not the wife.

The cheese never needed a fridge,
And the bread was so crusty and hot,
The children were seldom unhappy
And the wife was content with her lot

I remember the milk from the bottle,
With the yummy cream on the top,
Our dinner came hot from the oven,
And not from a freezer; or shop.

The kids were a lot more contented,
They didn’t need money for kicks,
Just a game with their friends in the road,
And sometimes the Saturday flicks.

I remember the shop on the corner,
Where cookies for pennies were sold
Do you think I’m a bit too nostalgic?
Or is it….I’m just getting old?

WE had baths in a old wash tub,
With plenty of rich foamy suds
But the ironing seemed never ending
As Mama pressed everyone’s ‘duds’.

I remember the slap on my backside,
And the taste of soap if I swore
Anorexia and diets weren’t heard of
And we hadn’t much choice what we wore.

Do you think that bruised our ego?
Or our initiative was destroyed?
We ate what was put on the table
And I think life was better enjoyed.



Author Unknown.

What is a birthday.
A birthday is a gateway
Between old years and new
Just an opening to the future
Where we get a wider view

for it takes a lot of birthdays
To make us wide and kind
And to help us judge all people
With the heart and not he mind

Every year brings new dimensions
That enable us to see
All things within a kinder light
And more perceptively

So birthdays are the gateway
To what the future holds
And to understanding
As the story of life unfolds

Arthur Hansley



The Golden Years.
A row of bottles on my shelf
Caused me to analyze myself.
One yellow pill I have to pop
Goes to my heart so it won’t stop.
A little white one that I take
Goes to my hands so they won’t shake.
The blue ones that I use a lot
Tell me I’m happy when I’m not.
The purple pill goes to my brain
And tells me that I have no pain.
The capsules tell me not to wheeze
Or cough or choke or even sneeze..
The red ones, smallest of them all
Go to my blood so I won’t fall.
The orange ones, very big and bright
Prevent my leg cramps in the night.
Such an array of brilliant pills
Helping to cure all kinds of ills.
But what I’d really like to know………..
Is what tells each one where to go!
Regards

Arthur



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!



I closed my eyes.
Last night I went to bed and closed my eyes
and found myself in a dream of how and whys.
I had entered a world that made no sense
giraffe’s had wings and flew with elephants.

Dogs were sitting perched high in the trees,
dining on a menu of twigs and leaves.
In a nearby pool cats swam on their backs
while others listened to music and tried to relax.

A crocodile orchestra sat upright on their tails
playing classical music to listening whales
who were sitting on skate boards blowing out water,
which drenched a hippopotamus tight-rope walker.

A party of hyenas sat crying in a puddle of tears
as they watched an angry jelly try to sit on two chairs.
A dozen snakes who were standing upright like sticks
swayed to the music of Brahms and Liszt.

A bear was playing golf with a polka dot kangaroo,
using eggs as balls painted red, white, and blue.
Everything vanished when I heard someone shout,
“Come on sleepy head, your breakfast is out.”
From Arthur




The computer swallowed Granma.
Yes, honestly, it’s true!
She pressed ‘control and ‘enter’
Then disappeared from view.
It devoured her completely,
The thought just makes me squirm.
She must have caught a virus
Or been eaten by a worm.
I’ve searched through the recycle bin
And files of every kind;
I’ve even used the Internet,
But nothing did I find.
In desperation, I called Mr Google
My searches to refine.
The reply from him was negative,
Not a thing was found ‘online.’
So, if inside your ‘Inbox,’
My Grandma you should see,
Please ‘Copy, Scan’ and ‘Paste’ her,
And send her back to me.

Cheers

Arthur
From Arthur 29th August 2014




To my memory-Rust in Peace.

Your memory goes as you get old
But sometimes you have to laugh
It happened to me the other day
When I was having a bath.

I stood there astride the edge of the bath.
My mind was brimming with doubt.
Was I about to get into the bath?
Or was I about to get out?

I called to my wife in the kitchen below.
“Please come up _ I need your advice.”
“Righty-ho” she replied – she is so kind
“I’ll be there in less than a thrice.”

The minutes rolled by and she hadn’t appeared
I called out again in alarm.
“Where are you, my dear, Are you sure you’re alright.
I do hope you’ve come to no harm”.

!I am here on the stairs” was the nervous reply.
“But I’m feeling a bit of a clown.
Was I on my way up?
Or d’you think I was on my way down”?

I’ve finished my poem – though my memory’s gone.
And deserve a resounding ‘hurrah’
It’s been nice being here – wherever I am

And I thank you – whoever you are.



Alphabet for Seniors.
A is for Apple, and B is for Boat, that used to be right, but now it won’t float! Age before Beauty is what we once said, but let’s be a bit more realistic instead.
A’s for arthritis; B’s the bad back, C’s the chest pains, perhaps cardiac? D is for dental decay and decline, E is for eyesight, can’t read that top line! F is for fissures and fluid retention, G is for gas which I’d rather not mention.
H is high blood pressure- I’d rather it low; I for incisions with scars you can show. J is for joints, out of socket, that won’t mend, K is for knees that crack when they bend. L’s for libido, what happened to sex? M is for memory, I forget what comes next.
N is neuralgia, in nerves way down low; O is for osteo, bones that don’t grow. P for prescriptions, I have quite a few, just give me a pill and I’ll be good as new! Q is for queasy, is it fatal or flu? R is for reflux, one meal or two.
S is for sleepless nights, counting my fears, T is the tinnitus; bells in my ears! U is for urinary: troubles with the flow; V is for vertigo, that’s ‘dizzy’ you know.
W for worry, now what’s going round? X is for xray, and what might be found. Y is for another year I’m left here behind. Z is for zest I still have in my mind!
I’ve survived all the symptoms, my body’s deployed, and I’m keeping twenty-six doctors fully employed!
Arthur Hansley



A Day’s Golf.
I got up early Sunday morning, wondering what to do,

The wind had dropped, the air was still, the grass awash with dew;

And an idea formed in this brain of mine, bubbling up from the source,

A great idea on a perfect day: a round at the East Horton Club course.

I blew the dust from the old golf clubs, and hurried on out to the car,

On top of the world I travelled the road, East Horton Club wasn’t too far;

I flew past Waltham Chase, still asleep, and tore past the Waltham Back Track,

Fish Creek dozed as I hurried on through, the sun coming up at my back.

Then out on the course, with the grass so green, I teed off with nary a care,

And watched as my ball sailed off down the hill and into the bunker there.

I hacked and I swung as the day passed by, as I fumbled from fairway to green,

At the eighth I near cried after losing my ball in the biggest lake I’ve ever seen.

But worse was to come, and I wish that I’d quit, I fumed and I prayed and I cursed,

I teed from the tenth with a beautiful slice and ended up back on the first!

The twelfth was a ripper, I got to the green with a drive that was lovely to see,

Then it took me six putts and my Ping putter died as I smashed it in half on my knee.

At the fourteenth my chance of an ace was real good, but just as my swing reached its peak,

Some fool with a tractor roared past the course and my ball ended up in the creek.

I got to the last, all tattered and torn and I hoped it would all soon be over,

But I shanked at the green and broke the windscreen of a shiny new V8 Land Rover.

And so I drove home, feeling sorry and sad,

I can’t go to East Horton next week –

I ain’t got no clubs, they’re still at the course

Under three feet of mud – in the creek!



Cranky Old Man.

What do you see nurses? . . .. . .What do you see?
What are you thinking .. . when you’re looking at me?
A cranky old man, . . . . . .not very wise,
Uncertain of habit .. . . . . . . .. with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food .. . … . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . .’I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice . . .the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . .. . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . … lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . .The long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?. .Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse .you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am . . . . .. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, .. . . . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . .with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .. . . .. . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . . .. with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . .. . . a lover he’ll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . ..my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows .. .. .that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . .I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . .. . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . .. With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons .. .have grown and are gone,
But my woman is beside me . . to see I don’t mourn.
At Fifty, once more, .. …Babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . My wife is now dead.
I look at the future … . . . . I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing .. . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . And the love that I’ve known.
I’m now an old man . . . . . . .. and nature is cruel.
It’s jest to make old age . . . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles .. .. . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . A young man still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . .. . I remember the pain.
And I’m loving and living . . . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . .. gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .. . . . .. . . open and see.
Not a cranky old man .
Look closer . . . . see .. .. . .. …. . ME!!

Regards

Arthur



Fore!

He stood on the tee and he gazed at his ball
At the fairways so long and the green far too small
At the crowd who were silent, then started to grin
Just eighteen more holes and a million to win!

He drew back his driver, high over his head
And swung it down smoothly like a young thoroughbred.
The gallery “ooooh”ed and the gallery “ahhh”ed
What would be the score that he wrote on his card?


His grip on the shaft wasn’t all it could be,
His driver went flying, it was glad to be free.
Down range they all ducked to his loud warning call,
While still on the tee sat his unmoving ball.

Perhaps he was careless, perhaps just unwise,
He thought less of practice than winning the prize.
It isn’t enough to set off with a will —
To rise to the top you may also need skill!

Stroke

golf is such a silly game
once you start you’re never the same
chasing a ball on someone’s lawn
following lines no one has drawn

it’s tee off time, this is your chance
wearing some very awkward pants
waiting all day to take this swing
meaning more than your wedding ring

you breath the air, you’re having fun
while battling flies & the sun
the wind picks up, you’re way off course
feels like you’re playing a game of H.O.R.S.E

you’re in the reeds, you’re in the rough
acing shots that are rather tough
you hit a tree, it hits the pin
you win the round, the ball goes in

a bogey, par, ace and eagle
mark your card so it’s all legal
then grab a beer & talk about
how you won it all without a doubt



It all Depends on The Lie.

Keep your bloody head still !!
Eyes fixed on the ball
slightly bend your knees
don’t stand up too tall.

Grip the club quite lightly
slowly, slowly, back
now begin the down swing
give that ball a whack.

I’m trying for a gentle fade
instead I got a slice
can you check the score card
I think I hit it twice.

An eagle or an albatross
for that I’d sell my soul
instead I spend all morning
looking for the hole.



A Small Mistake.

When Gordon T Goodacre strode to the tee
The crowd were all hushed to a man
The hole was a short one, an easy par three
An eagle was Gordon T’s plan

When Gordon Goodacre selected his club
His caddy was knocked to the floor
A putter for driving is rarely the nub
Of anyone’s best ever score

When Gordon T Goodacre wound up to drive
The gasp was as loud as a gale
Surely no golfer who still seems alive
Looked any more likely to fail

Now Gordon Goodacre is looking absurd
A stain on the pride of the game
He’s twelve over par and approaching the third
And somebody must be to blame

One Justin de Beaucastle made a mistake
His mistyped a T for a D
The tournament secretary should be awake
To the prospects of such tragedy

Poor Gordon D Goodacre scowls at the screen
He’s sure he’d be leading the field
But none of his talent will ever be seen
The door to his future’s been sealed!



Tiger (with apologies to William Blake)

Tiger, Tiger driving far,
In the fairways from afar,
With immortal mighty swings,
That drive the ball and give it wings.

In the distant desperate traps,
Sand may fling while duffer flaps
But on the fairway you aspire
And none may ever douse your fire.

And with shoulder, drive the ball,
Pointing clearly where it fall,
For when your heart began to beat,
The golf gods smiled, their dream replete.

For you’re the hammer, there’s no chain,
In furnace forged can stop your game
Nor anvil, on which to mold
the beauty of your clubs to hold!

When the grass grows on the green
And twinkles in the dew-light’s sheen
It seems to wait and slightly list
For ball to drop with pumping fist

Tiger, Tiger driving far,
In the fairways from afar,
With immortal mighty swings,
That drive the ball and give it wings.



Life is like a Round of Golf.
Life is like a round of golf
With many a turn and twist.
But the game is much too sweet and short
To curse the shots you’ve missed.

Sometimes you’ll hit it straight and far
Sometimes the putts roll true.
But each round has its errant shots
And troubles to play through.

So always swing with courage
No matter what the lie.
And never let the hazards
Destroy the joy inside.

Just keep a song within your heart
Give thanks that you can play.
For the round is much too short and sweet
To let it slip away.

I really am a golfer
I really am a golfer
And let me tell you why
Its only when I swing a club
I really feel alive

I really am a golfer
And take my driver out
I swing my club and hit the ball
As hard and I have might

I really am a golfer
My ball is in the rough
I swing my metal 3 real hard
To find the grass is tuff

I really am a golfer
My ball goes 50 ft.
It’s out the rough and in the sand
And buried very deep

I really am a golfer
I take my sand wedge out
I open up the face of it
And swing it with a clout

I really am a golfer
My ball is on the green
I swing the putter in an arc
With boggy on the seen

I really am a Golfer
My put goes 10ft past
I’m looking at a double
But the Green is just too fast

I really am a golfer
The balls beside the cup
I make it in the center
And my friends they call it luck

Golf or Bowling.

If at first you don’t succeed,
Try looking at the ball.
But if that doesn’t work for you
Try bowling or the crawl.

Short Putt.

To be in the hole and not in a rut

With a short one left, don’t rush your putt.

The Rules of Golf.

The Rules of Golf are not to be broken;

Nevertheless, sometimes they are,

By Pros who should know when to invoke them,

Even when they are close to bizarre.

There are Rules for playing the ball as it lies,

And rules that relate to the putting green,

Rules for a ball, moved, deflected or stopped,

And others on “Lift.place and clean.”

The Rule Book’s first subject, Etiquette,

Says bunker raking should be in your plans,

But that brings up a delicate subject:

What if no rake and the prints made by fans?

Remember that towel? An unneeded addition,

Placed on the ground somewhat in advance

Of a shot hit from kneeling position,

For which Stadler got caught for ”building a stance”

And what of that famous scorecard debacle,

When De Vicenzo got himself in a jam.

Caught up in the moment, he missed the error,

His quote when informed, ”What a stupid..so and so…I am”

Penalties are sometimes imposed by officials,

Walking along and right on the scene.

But now they are aided by enterprising viewers,

Vigilantes with Rule Books watching the screen.

Has all this complexity made the game better?

Maybe the Rules need more serious rethinking.

In the early days, thirteen were plenty,

A judicious review might lead to some shrinking!

Not for Attribution.

He who swings and lifts his head
Will say things better left unsaid.
He whose putting’s for the birds
Will likely echo former’s words.

Reality Check.

I’m on top of my game
I’m winning all bets
Opponents cower at my name
It’s as good as it gets.

I’m hitting it long
I’m firing at the pins
My short game is strong
I get nothing but wins.

But then I wake up
And remember, alas,
My grip is too tight,
My swing is too fast.

I’ll never amount
To the player I’d be
If I played with my head,
Let the golfclub swing free.

Essence of Golf.

There is a rhythm
And there is a line
Both can be arrived at
With some practice, just fine.

With balance,
Angular momentum,
And alignment
The rest requires a bit of refinement.

By-Ways of Life.

In the simple by-ways of life,
Devoid of rancor and strife.
It is there that I travel
And let my life unravel.

I love the air that is free
And the sun that shines on me.
No dark clouds hover above;
No rain to dampen my love.

For I’m walking on air,
Without a worry or care.
Me and my fairway wood.
Eighteen holes is understood.

The greens are fast and forgiving;
Each birdie is why I am living.
Yes,it’s the simple life for me;
Out on a course that’s free.

Read Golf Poetry.

Read golf poetry out loud,
It will lower your score;
And if one poem doesn’t do it,
Read two or three more!

October’s Here.

October’s here: I hear her tread,
Upon the hilltops, glad and free;
And also in my weary head,
I have a cold that’s killing me.

October’s here:but I don’t care,
I still get in my game;
I care not for the air so rare
Nor do I look for fame.

October’s here: but what of that,
Why think I of the weather;
My only thought is now of what
My score’ll add together.

October’s here: her robes are red,
And yellow, too abounds;
The summer days have surely fled,
The talk is better rounds .

Club and Ball.

What is the opposite of club?
It might be ball, but here’s the rub.
If you don’t hit it well enough,
The opposite of club is duff!



In and Out.

The opposite of in is out;
Putters know, without a doubt.
But if you’re out and in a match,
Then for sure there is a catch.
You putt first but, not so fast-
Then opposite of out is last!



The Golfers Way.

If the golfer had his way
He’d be playing every day,
Though with talent he’s not blessed,
Concerning golfing he’s obsessed.

He walks for miles,hills to climb,
Losing balls and wasting time,
Carting clubs round in his trolley,
Looking like a complete wally.

With his cap and silly pants
Looking for the perfect stance.
This poor deluded soul
Racks the score up every hole.

But the idiot won’t quit
For one day “I’ll master it”
And though his game is so erratic
Like any other golf fanatic.

He boasts he has a handicap
To play with any other chap
This is oh so very true
It’s just like us,me and you.



Later Please

On the second tee,
It’s all right with me
If I start my old topping and hooking:
But give me a long one,
A straight one,a strong one,
On the first,when everyone’s looking.



I’m Off My Game.

“I’m off my game,”the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
“My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe’er I swing,howe’er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I’m in the burn,I’m in the sand-
Oh yes. I’m off my game!

“Oh,would that such mishaps might fall
On Westwood name of Lee,
That he might toe or heel the ball,
And scuff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And all avoid my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet,
Oh yes, I’m off my game!

Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it-BEHIND ME.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame-
It cannot cover half my sins-
Oh yes, I’m off my game!

“I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassie yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting’s wild or tame;
It’s really time for me to stop,
Oh yes, I’m off my game!”

December Snow and Ice.

Snow and ice,they are not nice
To fairway nor to green.
Followed by flood, more rain, then mud,
So not a soul is seen.

How long will these conditions last,
How long must we all wait?
As long as Winter’s icy blast
Takes grip, and won’t abate.

It makes one grateful to be sure,
When all is said and done,
To have our course to play once more,
And out there , all and one.

The season it’s back underway,
The bad times they’re forgotten,
We live to play another day,
Although my game’s still rotten!

Christmas Shotgun.

Another year for Ken to hide
His shotgun and his cartridge,
No need to use the gun for golf,
Reserve it for the partridge.

Christmas Lunch.

That time of year it soon arrived
When Seniors together
All celebrate, having survived
Another years bad weather.
It’s never quite the same again
As were those years before
With far less frequent days of rain
And no snow on the floor.
The seasons could be told apart,
As regular as clock.
The colours were a work of art,
The thistle and the dock.
But thankful everyone must be
That we can still attend.
For speaking just for you and me
Attendance is our friend!

New Year.

Christmas present, Christmas past,
Old Father Time has gone at last!
The bells are ringing loud and clear
To herald in a bright New Year.

We trust the snow and ice has gone,
Course closure really isn’t fun,
Snowdrops will soon the fairways line
Encouraged by the warm sunshine.

Then Daffs,Primroses Tulips too,
All harbingers of spring it’s true.
Club matches soon will start again
On days,we hope,when it won’t rain.

Warm weather our New Year will bring,
As Winter heads towards the Spring.
At least the climate is sublime,
But let’s not wish away our time



Tiny Little Golf Ball.
Tiny little golf ball please tell me of the trick
To hit you down the middle with this skinny little stick.
I try to keep my left arm straight – my head is always down,
But still I see my efforts go dribbling on the ground.
Why do I pull you to the left, or slice you to the right?
What will it take to hit you straight until you’re out of sight?
The money spent on lessons, the practice balls I hit
Just add to my frustration when it doesn’t help a bit.
For even when I do things right it only lasts a while.
It never seems like very long before I lose my smile.
Tiny little golf ball please tell me of the trick
To hit you down the middle with this skinny little stick.



Christmas Golf.

Back in October a Christmas wish I made,
A brand new set of golf clubs before new year I played.
Then on Christmas morn,with my eyes I spied
An oblong box under the tree,with ribbon wrapped and tied.

I looked out of the window and saw the ice and snow,
But in my heart I knew,a golfing I would go.
Now I’d need some special gear to play in these conditions.
So I loaded up my golf bag to start a new tradition.

A broom to sweep the greens and a hammer for the tees
And different coloured balls,for white I wouldn’t see.
Arriving at the course,the ground was glistening white,
I wouldn’t have to wait,no other one in sight.

I swept away a pile of snow and pounded in a tee.
Placed coloured ball upon it,and swung away with glee.
My ball went soaring down the course and landed with a plop
Into a two foot snow drift ,so had to take a drop.

My next shot went into the sand,a shot to truly dread.
That was the time I spotted him,a man all dressed in red.
As I’m lining up my shot,it’s Santa Claus I think,
When my ball flew into the hole he just gave me a wink.
I knew these clubs would work for me,I’d started with a par,
Let’s play one hole, us two,and then go to the car.
Believe in Santa at my age,you surely think it’s queer,
But it isn’t very often you get to see reindeer.

A long par three was next to play as we walked on the tee,
There was no flag to aim for and the green I couldn’t see.
Don’t worry said the man in robes,I know what lies ahead,
Use your trusty four iron and aim it for my sled.

I’d like to thank you for these clubs,I wasn’t sure I’d get.
He said you’re very welcome, bu t it’s not over yet.
I kept my head so nice and still,and checked my stance and grip.
“Nice shot” the bearded man he said,”It’s hanging on the lip.”

It seems a shame,he must be blind,no ball’s upon the green
And I was disappointed as I’d struck it crisp and clean.
So now you know my story end,which started at that tree,
I’d got my very first hole-in-one, with Santa there to see.



Golf Socks.

Today I’m wearing golf socks,
And please excuse the pun;
This pair is named as golf socks
‘Cause there’s a “hole in one”.
ANON



Seaside Golf.

How straight it flew, how long it flew,
It cleared the rutty track
And soaring, disappeared from view
Beyond the bunker’s back-
A glorious, sailing, bounding drive
That made me glad I was alive.

And down the fairway, far along
It glowed a lonely white;
I played an iron sure and strong
And clipped it out of sight,
And spite of grassy banks between
I knew I’d find it on the green.

And so I did. It lay content
Two paces from the pin;
A steady putt and then it went
Oh, most surely in.
The very turf rejoiced to see
That quite unprecedented three.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
And thyme and mist in whiffs,
In-coming tide, Atlantic waves
Slapping the sunny cliffs,
Lark song and sea sounds in the air
And splendour, splendour everywhere.

Yesterday.

I’ve trod the links with many a man,
And played him club for club;
‘Tis scarce a year since I began,
And I am still a dub.
But this I’ve noticed as we strayed
Along the bunkered way:
No one with me has ever played
As he did yesterday.

It makes no difference what the drive;
Together as we walk
‘Till we up to the ball arrive,
I get the same old talk.
“Today, there’s something wrong with me,
Just what I cannot say,
Would you believe I got a three
On this hole-yesterday?2

I see them top and slice a shot,
And fail to follow through,
And with their brasseys plough the lot,
The very way I do.
To six and seven their figures run,
And then they sadly say:
“I neither dubbed nor foozled one,
When I played- yesterday.”

I have no yesterdays to count,
No good work to recall;
Each morning sees hope proudly mount,
Each evening sees it fall.
And in the locker room at night,
When men discuss their play,
I hear them, and I wish I might
Have seen them- yesterday.

O dear old yesterday! What store
Of joys for men you hold!
I’m sure there is no day that’s more
Remembered or extolled.
I’m off my task myself a bit,
My mind has run astray;
I think, perhaps, I should have writ
These verses- yesterday.

Arthur



A Golf Dream.
Choosing to be great at golf, I bought a golfing book,
Bashing balls for megabucks without a slice or hook?
Balance, grip and leave the wife was Faldo’s claim to fame,
Golf clubs branded “Great White Shark” would guarantee my game.

Bought some DVD’s and copied Gary Player’s stance,
Tiger taught me how to wield a three wood like a lance;
Johnny Daly’s trap shot tricks were magic in the sand,
Days went by-my US Open rookie tour was planned.

Shoes by V.J.Singh and cap as worn by Arnold P.
Putter nine feet long and autographed “Trevino, Lee”
Balls designed by laser beams, ingrained with extra spin,
Grabbing all my brand new gear,I headed off to win.

“Rookie gets a wild card” was the headline of the day,
Clad in purple plus-fours,striding to the first to play;
Teeing up, I swear I saw a golden bear walk by,
Swung my club,the crowd all gasped, then gave a sorry sigh.

Later on,I sat in silence,getting drunk on wine,
Broke the old course record of eight hundred ninety-nine;
Paparazzi chased me and the phone rang off the wall,
Same old message:”Tell us if you ever hit a ball!”



Great Golf.

It’s usual that when I play golf
My score is not too great.
I’ll line it up and take my swing
But ball does not go straight.

But when I played,the other day
And though it was bad weather,
I played the best I’ve ever played
And shot my best score ever.

I took my score and added up
The total, it was great.
The best I’ve played in my whole life
I shot a sixty eight!

I patted me upon the back
For playing golf so fine.
Just wish that I’d have played so well
When doing the back nine!

ANON



Dislike of Seaside Golf.

How low it flew,how left it flew,
It hit the dry-stone wall
And plunging,disappeared from view
A shining brand new ball-
I’d topped the ball upon its head
It made me wish that I were dead

And up the fairway,steep and long
I mourned my gloomy plight;
I played an iron sure and strong,
A fraction to the right.
I knew that when I reached my ball
I’d find it underneath the wall.

And so I did. I chipped it low
And thinned it past the pin;
And to and fro, and to and fro
I tried to get it in;
A final putt went true and straight
And then I’d holed it out in eight.

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves
They really get me down;
In-coming tides,Atlantic waves
I wish that I could drown.
Swarming insects in the air
And flying wasps are everywhere.

Seventy.
A very close friend is 70 today.
He’s so lucky in every way.
He can play golf and walk and smile
As he enjoys life with manner and style.
He suffers no crippling, chilling pain
That makes the world seem all in vain.

Like us all, he’s made mistakes,
But learned that’s what it takes
To become a better man
Who spreads love as best he can.

The celebration of this day
Is but another way to say
That we celebrate his birth
Since it’s become a better earth
For the mark that he has made
And the foundations he has laid.
So during his next seventy years
Love will conquer all his fears.

Oh dear friend, with family and friends you see
How lovingly wonderful seventy can be!



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.
Francis Duggan

Life is Like a Round of Golf.
Life is like a round of golf
With many a turn and twist.
But the game is much too sweet and short
To curse the shots you’ve missed.
Sometimes you’ll hit it straight and far
Sometimes the putts roll true.
But each round has it’s errant shots
And troubles to play through.
So always swing with courage
No matter what the lie.
And never let the hazards
Destroy the joy inside.
And keep a song within your heart
Give thanks that you can play.
For the round is much too short and sweet
To let it slip away.
— Criswell Freeman

The Opposite of Cup.
What is the opposite of cup?
Glass an answer that pops up.
But if the cup is on a green
Though underground and so unseen
It could be paired with holes of sand
Where errant balls are want to land.
Then cup’s opposite’s a clunker
Known to golfers as a bunker.
The Opposites in Putting.
Fast or slow could be the query
When on green begin the theory.
Then there’s also straight or not
Uphill or down will thicken plot.
The wind as well, be still or breezy
This all makes putting hard not easy.
Opposites of Driving.
The opposites of driving may hold less terror
But still there’s plenty of room for error



The Land of Par
There are days when my drives wing far,
When my iron shots clear the rut;
But then when I get on the green in two
I putt and I putt and I putt.
There are days when my chip shots roll
Like a Vardon’s to the pin,
But I’ve missed my drive and I’ve taken six
At last when the putt drops in.
There are days when my putts run true
And straight to the waiting hole;
But these are the days when my mashie shots
Have shattered my aching soul.
Oh, gods of the golfer’s realm,
Over the bunkered heather,
When is the day to come when I
Put three fine shots together?

From time to time we make those shots
Instead of just imploding;
Then brief delight is our lot
And we make like Vesuvius exploding.



Upbringing.
The elevator man’s son counts:
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12,14 and so on.
And sometimes mezzanine.
The porter’s son counts by fives:
5,10,15, and carry one, 15,20,25, and carry two. Or
By tens should speed require.
The agent’s son counts by fractions:
1-1/10, 2-1/10, 3-1/10, and so on.
He does it in his bean.
The golfer’s son counts:
1,2,3,fore,5,6,7. And balks
At counting any higher.

The futility of Thinking.
With golf and sleeping
The more that you think
The odds of succeeding
Are likely to shrink.
Be it sheep in a line
Or the ball at address
Your thoughts only lead to
An increase in stress.
But,
To swing without thinking
Requires that you
Fill your mind up with blanks
It’s darn hard to do!



The Hook.
Does it swing to the left without the control,
Does it bend round too far, never threatening the hole,
A draw, then a hook, then a snap that’s no fun,
But one thing’s for sure, you’ll get lots of run,
Where will it go? Into trouble, I see,
Then reload and fire, that’s 3 off the tee,
2 knuckles to left, you should only show,
If the fingers to right, you’ll never let go



Arthritis and the Golfer Poem.
It hurts on the back swing, it hurts when I bend
I’m stiff as a board when the flag I attend.

So I went to the Doc with a list a mile long
He said not to worry, I was one of a throng.

My case wasn’t special, my symptoms not rare
As he poked and he probed, all my secrets laid bare.

There are hundreds of cases of arthritis he stated
And the type that I have, is so much over rated.

So he seemed to lose interest in my case right away
As he waddled then staggered and wandered away.

His nurse said he’d choked on the very last tee
He’d swallowed a divot, she confided to me.

Now, how in the world was this old golfer treated?
All these expensive drugs would just be excreted.

So in pain I continue, though my affliction is plain
I notice it most when I’m out in the rain.

My golf swing is wrong when I try to swing free
My shoulders don’t seem to catch up with my knee.

There must be alternatives to turning so stiff
But with THAT considered, I feel just terriff!

I’m feeling less pain as I make make a good shot
My score may be injured but my body is not.

So, arthritis or not, in my heart I feel good
Enjoying my golf as I know that I should.



Bunkered But Not Bunkered.
I have been treading in sand all day until I am bunker-tired.
Millions of grains I have trodden on, and I have felt mired.
Perhaps I have been too fierce with fear of out of bounds.
I have trod upon sand I trod in previous rounds.
All summer long traps have invited me in,
And urged me to mistake and flaw, and sin.
All summer long I heard them threaten under their breath,
And when I entered them it seemed with a will to death.
They spoke to my granulated heart as if it were grain to grain.
They filled my shoes and eyes and touched me with the mark of Cain.
But it was no reason for exile to the land of Nod, east of Eden.
I would be up to my ankles in sand the following season.



The Emporer of the Golf Swing.
Call the corrector of golf swings,
The famous one, and bid him whip
Bob’s s crooked stroke into concupiscent flow.
Let the foursomes dawdle and palaver
As they are used to do, and let young men
Boast their rounds in the clubhouse bar.
Let Bob’s summer be more than a finale of spring.
The only emperor is the emperor of the golf swing.
Take from the pages of Golf Digest
All the instructional articles, those sheets
On which slices and shanks find their cure,
And spread them in front of Bob’s face.
If his elbow still protrudes and he yet reverse pivots
It shows how incorrigible he is, and dumb.
Let inept then affix its venomous sting
And frustrate all help from the emperor of the golf swing.



Doubts and Glory.
As I look down at this little white ball.
I wonder if into the hole, it soon might fall.
My doubts have grown during the past few goes
Confidence gone, clubs acting like foes.
Just one solid shot, that’s all it will take,
However the next drives got to carry a lake.
These doubts continue, I soon will see,
On the very next hole I hit it “O.B.”
The putters not working, it feels like a stick
My timing is off, tempo………way to quick.
My cart partner is a nice young folk
But the past five holes we’ve hardly spoke.
Why do I insist on enduring this game?
I’ve got to be crazy to think it’s the fame.
The next hole might better my stroke and my score.
If not, then these clubs I’ll play no more
I place my ball on a small broken tee
After all it’s only a buck eighty – par three.
Slowly I start, my club rises and falls.
Begging the golf gods with short hopeful calls.
Club makes solid contact, “finally a good swing!”
A beautiful draw, right on line, I could sing.
It lands on the green, just a little too far,
But wait it’s got juice, it drives like a car.
Toward the hole, my ball slowly is headed.
Could this be the moment my wallet has dreaded.
“Get in the hole!” I scream at the green
The ball disappears, nowhere to be seen.
We jump in our carts, and race to find out.
Still in my head there remains a slight doubt.
Approaching the green, I soon discover
It wasn’t the hole my ball used as cover.
Still ten feet away, there my ball lay.
“Sorry not this time.” I hear someone say.
I am bitter and feel very ripped off
Yet it helps none just to sit here and scoff.
I wait for my turn and a birdie attempt
The hole in one club, I remain desperately exempt.
So now I look down at my little white ball
And I wonder if into the hole it soon might fall.



Golf Handicaps.

Said Jeffery “I’ll play from the whites
Cause my index is reaching new heights,
My release is too early
And my aim is too squirrelly
So the yellow tees give me the frights”.

Dave’s getting his handicap up
Just before he competes for the Cup.
It’s The Bates not The Ryder
So he who is wider
Will probably have to give up.

His good play had tagged him contender
But he turned out to be a pretender.
A hole he made tough
With two shots from the rough,
Had left him no choice but surrender.


We’re golfing ’round Christmas so lets
Enjoy the good mood it begets.
I’ll share with my bro’s
Some hearty ho, ho’s
As soon as they pay off their bets!

A new chipper David did bring
Hoping his short game would sing
But the song was sung blue
With again 92
So it’s back to improving his swing.

You don’t want your golf ball to land
Smack dab in the middle of sand
To the pros it looks easy
But with me I get queasy
Knowing bogey or worse is at hand.

The par five was short, so I think
I can get there in two in a blink
But the next shot did tarry
And my ball wouldn’t carry
So it ended up taking a drink.

Mike’s lesson brought changes in view
His putting was given review.
He replaced his old poke
With a new smoother stroke
Which cut his whole total by two.

His swing from the tee it lacked grace
And the ball had some water to face.
So he took a stiff drink
And manage to sink
The tee shot…for his first ace.

Today is your birthday bash
The golf course is where we’ll clash
Don’t bet on it though
‘cause birthday or no
I still plan on taking your cash

A short par four, number three
With risk and reward plain to see
I took the safe way
and kept it in play
But took six which was all down to me

A man in our group was so slow
He looked like he swung in slo-mo
But bad as that was
It got worse because
He usually walked off with our dough.

If Manny the golfer would play
We would mark it a ‘red letter’ day
His excuses were many
And not worth a penny
But we kept him a friend anyway.



Another Year On.
Another year has passed
and we’re all a little older.
Last summer felt much hotter
and winter seems much colder
There was a time, not long ago
when life was quite a blast.
Now I fully understand
about ‘Living in the Past’
We used to go to weddings,
football games and lunches.
Now we go to funeral homes,
and after-funeral brunches.
We used to have hangovers,
from parties that were gay.
Now we suffer body aches
and while the night away.
We used to go out dining,
and couldn’t get our fill.
Now we ask for doggie bags,
come home and take a pill.
We used to often travel
to places near and far.
Now we get sore arses
from riding in the car.
We used to go to nightclubs
and drink a little booze.
Now we stay home at night
and watch the evening news.
That, my friend is how life is,
and now my tale is told.

So, enjoy each day and live it up…
before you’re too damned old!

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CORHAMPTON GOLF COURSE.

Because of the wet and the icy season

The Greens Committee have had good reason

To stop damage to players and course

Several rules have to come into force

Please don’t take shortcuts just follow the ropes

We don’t want you falling down slippery slopes

We try to protect you from felling of trees

So follow the signs put up, Gentlemen, please

Don’t take your trolleys twixt bunker and green

You may have to walk further but don’t think we’re mean

The main paths get worn and then you may slip

It’s a long time off golf while you get a new hip

We don’t want to have to ban buggies or trolleys

But this we shall do if you continue these follies

It’s a nuisance we know but don’t make things worse

Just remember come summer we’ll have a great course   

      Chris Cheesman—Chair of Greens



IN MEMORY OF DICK CUTLER.
Our long serving Seniors member Dave Meadus has submitted this poem which he wrote in the year 2000 about an event concerning another member Dick Cutler.
Many of our members will remember Dick Cutler who passed away some years ago . He worked a farm in Denmead and was well known at the Golf Club and in the Corhampton area.
Dave ,who was a regular playing partner, wished to submit this poem in memory of our friend Dick Cutler

A Corhampton Golfer

Dick Cutler
Now Dick was an amiable golfer

A jolly good fellow to boot –

A thrower of clubs on occasions,

And he’d gained a certain repute!
Demented beyond human reason

Frustrated again and again

An iron flew into a Yew tree

As straight as a jet aeroplane
The next four were patiently waiting

For their turn to play to the green

Having searched for all of five minutes

The damned club was not to be seen
All around other golfers were halted

Amazed by the terrible sight

Of Richard assaulting the Yew tree

With all his considerable might!
Dick then saw the club up above him

Alas it was not within reach

So he threw up a 4 wood to move it

It stuck – and it hung like a peach!

We finished the round off in silence

With a feeling of sadness and pain

Dick spoke – “that settles the question

I’ll never play this game again!”

But he did – and for many an aeon.

With a smile and a joke or a curse

But beware of low flying missiles

If matters should get any worse

So that was the saga of Richard,

A golfer of steel and of soul

He holds the Corhampton record

For losing two clubs on one hole!!
Dave Meadus



Life at 80.

Today dear Lord I am 80 and there’s much I haven’t done

I hope, dear Lord you’ll let me live until I’m 81

But if I haven’t finished all I want to do

would you let me stay awhile until I’m 82?

So many places I want to go, so much I want to see

Do you think you could manage to make it 83?

Many things I may have done, there’s so much left in store

I’d like it very much to live to 84.

And if by then I am still alive, then I’d like to stay to 85

The world is changing very fast so I’d like to stick

and see what happens to the world when I’m 86

I know, dear Lord it’s a lot to ask, and it will be nice in Heaven

But I’d really like to stay about until I’m 87

I know, by then I won’t be fast, and sometimes I’ll be late

But it would be, oh so pleasant, to be around at 88

I will have seen so many things and had a wonderful time

So, I’m sure that I’ll be willing to leave at 89 — Well maybe!!!

Arthur Hansley



The Lone Opinion

  My temper’s soft by green and tee

 Though winter winds may blow;

 There’s isn’t much that bothers me

  No matter where I go.

  But where I burn is when some dub

  Whose game is none too strong,

  Butts in each time I fluff or flub

  To tell me what was wrong

The Wind by any Name

When, at last,

The sun has set,

And dusk begins to grow,

With all our strokes recorded,

We’ll reflect, and smile, and know,

That though the wind was raging,

And stole from us the score,

We’ll rise at dawn tomorrow,

To battle it once more.

ANON



Moving Right Along Then.

Let’s try to eliminate Slow play

When you reach the ball before the rest

So everyone enjoys the day

Be first to hit– you’ll find that’s best.

As you come to the course and contemplate

Should partner’s ball be in tree or brook                        

Here’s some hints you may appreciate

Hit your own before you help to look.

Move quickly to each and every shot

And if the ball is hard to find

Those seconds saved add up to a lot.                                                                                                                                                        Call through the group that’s stuck behind.

If some hit off before marking cards

So take heed of these handy clues

You’ll certainly gain some extra yards

And then a fairway you won’t lose.

  When you fall behind, it’s such a shame

  Because that can spoil everybody’s game. 

Ageing and recycling 

Spring is here and so am I

But at my age I wonder why?

If nature can be born anew

why can’t I be recycled too?

Be recycled’s what you say?

Turn this used thing into pay?

The glass they take they grind and crush

the paper’s boiled in acid mush

aluminium is torn and shredded

I don’t wish that’s where I’M headed!

I’ll just grow old and try with grace

to leave but golf clubs in my place.

Thanks to Arthur Hansley



1950’s Version of an E-Mail.

LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY, IN A LAND THAT TIME FORGOT,

BEFORE THE DAYS OF DYLAN , OR THE DAWN OF CAMELOT.

THERE LIVED A RACE OF INNOCENTS, AND THEY WERE YOU AND ME,

FOR IKE WAS IN THE WHITE HOUSE IN THAT LAND WHERE WE WERE BORN

WHERE NAVELS WERE FOR ORANGES, AND PEYTON PLACE WAS PORN.

WE LONGED FOR LOVE AND ROMANCE, AND WAITED FOR OUR PRINCE,

EDDIE FISHER MARRIED LIZ, AND NO ONE’S SEEN HIM SINCE.

WE DANCED TO ‘LITTLE DARLIN,’ AND SANG TO ‘STAGGER LEE’

AND CRIED FOR BUDDY HOLLY IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

ONLY GIRLS WORE EARRINGS THEN, AND 3 WAS ONE TOO MANY,

AND ONLY BOYS WORE FLAT-TOP CUTS, EXCEPT FOR BILL HALEY.

AND ONLY IN OUR WILDEST DREAMS DID WE EXPECT TO SEE

A BOY NAMED GEORGE WITH LIPSTICK, IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE FELL FOR FRANKIE AVALON, ANNETTE WAS OH, SO NICE,

AND WHEN THEY MADE A MOVIE, THEY NEVER MADE IT TWICE..

WE DIDN’T HAVE A STAR TREK FIVE, OR PSYCHO TWO AND THREE,

OR ROCKY-RAMBO TWENTY IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

MISS KITTY HAD A HEART OF GOLD, AND CHESTER HAD A LIMP,

AND REAGAN WAS A DEMOCRAT WHOSE CO-STAR WAS A CHIMP.

WE HAD A MR. WIZARD, BUT NOT A MR. T, 

AND OPRAH COULDN’T TALK YET, IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE HAD OUR SHARE OF HEROES, WE NEVER THOUGHT THEY’D GO,

AT LEAST NOT BOBBY DARIN, NOR MARILYN MONROE.

FOR YOUTH WAS STILL ETERNAL, AND LIFE WAS YET TO BE,

AND ELVIS WAS FOREVER IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE’D NEVER SEEN THE ROCK BAND THAT WAS GRATEFUL TO BE DEAD,

AND AIRPLANES WEREN’T NAMED JEFFERSON , AND ZEPPELINS WERE NOT LED.

AND BEATLES LIVED IN GARDENS THEN, AND MONKEYS LIVED IN TREES,

MADONNA SHE WAS MARY IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE’D NEVER HEARD OF MICROWAVES, OR TELEPHONES IN CARS, 

AND BABIES  MIGHT BE BOTTLE-FED, BUT THEY WEREN’T GROWN IN JARS.

AND PUMPING IRON GOT WRINKLES OUT, AND ‘GAY’ MEANT FANCY-FREE,

AND DORMS WERE NEVER CO-ED IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE HADN’T SEEN ENOUGH OF JETS TO TALK ABOUT THE LAG,

AND MICROCHIPS WERE WHAT WAS LEFT AT THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG.

AND HARDWARE WAS A BOX OF NAILS, AND BYTES CAME FROM A FLEA,

AND ROCKET SHIPS WERE FICTION IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

T-BIRDS CAME WITH PORTHOLES, AND SIDE SHOWS CAME WITH FREAKS, 

AND BATHING SUITS CAME BIG ENOUGH TO COVER BOTH YOUR CHEEKS.

AND COKE CAME JUST IN BOTTLES, AND SKIRTS BELOW THE KNEE,

AND CASTRO CAME TO POWER NEAR THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

WE HAD NO CREST WITH FLUORIDE, 

WE HAD NO HILL STREET BLUES,

WE HAD NO PATTERNED PANTYHOSE OR LIPTON HERBAL TEA

OR PRIME-TIME ADS FOR THOSE DYSFUNCTIONS IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME,ME.

THERE WERE NO GOLDEN ARCHES, NO PERRIER TO CHILL,

AND FISH WERE NOT CALLED WANDA, AND CATS WERE NOT CALLED BILL

AND MIDDLE-AGED WAS 35 AND OLD WAS FORTY-THREE, 

AND ANCIENT WERE OUR PARENTS IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

BUT ALL THINGS HAVE A SEASON, OR SO WE’VE HEARD THEM SAY,

AND NOW INSTEAD OF MAYBELLINE WE SWEAR BY RETIN-A.

THEY SEND US INVITATIONS TO JOIN AARP,

WE’VE COME A LONG WAY, BABY, 

FROM THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

SO NOW WE FACE A BRAVE NEW WORLD IN SLIGHTLY LARGER JEANS,

AND WONDER WHY THEY’RE USING SMALLER PRINT IN MAGAZINES.

AND WE TELL OUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN OF THE WAY IT USED TO BE,

LONG AGO AND FAR AWAY IN THE LAND THAT MADE ME, ME.

Thanks to Arthur Hansley



A Little Poem for Seniors

By way of Chesterfield GC (Senior Moments).

Another year has passed us by

And we’re a little older.

Last summer it felt so much hotter

This winter seems much colder. There was a time not long ago When life was quite a blast.

Now we fully understand

About ‘Living in the Past’.

We used to go to weddings,

Football games and lunches..      Now we go to funeral homes

We used to go out dining,

And couldn’t get our fill.

Now we ask for doggie bags,  Come home and take a pill.

We used to often travel

To places near and far.

 Now we get sore bottoms

From riding in the car.

We used to go to nightclubs

And drink a little booze. Now we stay home at night

That, my friend is how life is,                              And now my tale is told.

Go, enjoy each day to the full

…. Before you’re too damned old

Spell Checker.

Eye halve a spelling checker

It came with my pea sea,

It plainly Marques four my revue

Miss steaks eye kin knot sea.

Eye strike a key and type a word

And weight for it two say,

Weather eye and wring oar write

It shows me strait a weigh.

As soon as a mist ache is maid

It nose bee fore two long,

And eye can put the error rite

Its rare lea ever wrong.

To rite with care is quite a feet

Of witch won should bee proud,

And wee mussed dew the best wee can,

Sew flaw’s are knot aloud.

Eye have run this poem threw it

Your sure reel glad two no,

Its letter perfect awl the weigh

My checker tolled me sew.

OK I guess it is right

Daffodils.

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I wandered lonely……...

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Devil’s Luck.

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