Whether birdie or bogey or double or par,
whether topped shot or fat, not so terribly far,
I love you golf even more than a Cuban cigar,
and the times I pause for praying.
It’s a love that at times leaves bad tastes in my mouth.
It’s a love that does grieve me, makes me rage and shout.
It’s a love that, believe me, I know little about,
except that I’ll keep on playing.
But mostly I long for the solid feel of a strike,
hit on the screws, Bobby Jones-like.
Holding together like the Dutch build a dike,
not a skunk that tends towards spraying.
I will love you golf until my dying day,
and even beyond as I whither away.
For when I am gone, my soul it will stay,
game improving and constantly training.
–Stephen Altschuler
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!
Richard says
Your poem is quite well done, I have to say.
Not quite as good as your game this very day.
The love for golf can be an obsession or an addiction, but it gives pleasure without restriction.
To stroll those fairways and greens, is like Dante’s inferno.
Visiting heaven and hell in the same afternoon is better than Church, you know!
Stephen Altschuler says
Bravo, Richard!
From you, some nice rhymes, like a swing in tyme.
Methinks, these poems from you and I are certainly no Wordsworth
But they are worth the words they bring: golf smiles and wordsmirth.
Thanks, my friend.
Donald Lamia says
Three to five hours of uninterrupted time with my father and grandmother. I use it now as I bring my own children to the golf course with me. — Jim Bennett
Stephen Altschuler says
Nice reminders and memories.
Thanks for the comment, Donald.