They look at how the grass lies,
And briefly check out the breeze,
Then search their bag of supplies,
To find a club that will please.

Next they set up ball and tee,
In the ground right at their feet.
In foursomes, the other three,
To a safe distance, retreat

After rapt hesitation,
(What is it that they hear?)
They take out their frustration
On the small white dimpled sphere.

They swing their club with vigor
At that wee defenseless ball.
Does it make them feel bigger
To assault a thing that small?

And then, as if weak of heart
From the fury of their swing,
They mount a motorized cart
To pursue the little thing.

Then, once again, they beat it
With another club instead.
It seems they must repeat it
Until the poor thing is dead.

Now and then, balls get away,
By hiding deep in the rough,
But replacement balls must pay -
Golf sadists canít get enough.

At last, they prod it gently,
And observe its final roll.
Then they stroll off contently,
When itís buried in a hole.

© By RickMack (




Watch these pages for more poems by RickMack.
In the meantime, click the links below for other poems and stories by the authors at Lara's Den.

City Streets and Flower Carts

Field Of Dreams

March Wind

The Leaf

I Dream



What's Going On Here?

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