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Array ( [sid] => 138686 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => GOLFER’S LAMENT [time] => 2007-11-22 00:06:19 [hometext] => inspired by over 30 years of playing the links... [bodytext] => Ah….the smell of fresh cut grass, with a hint of two cycle exhaust
The sweet sound of swallows
Dancing in fairways
The sunshine warm on shoulders
Loosening muscles for the next shot
The rustle of leaves, in the breeze, on the trees, is never forgot
For this is golf

Solo, or with friends
Who appreciate what golf truly is
A brisk walk up hill to the next tee
Straining muscles and out of breath
Taking time to recuperate
But needing time to take in the nature
All around

The laughter at the sight of a wayward shot,
Into a creek
Mingles with hysterics of a soaker
Obtained while trying to retrieve the ball

This game is played by walking
The heart pumps and the blood flows
In sync with the trees, the birds and the leaves
The true game is not played by masters
But by amateurs, with no care for the next shot

This is life, the gentleman’s game
To be played on a sunny, windy or rainy afternoon
In solitude or with friends
But only with those who truly know golf

Keith W. Saunders
[comments] => 0 [counter] => 212 [topic] => 7 [informant] => gribbs [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => HumorPoetry )

GOLFER’S LAMENT

Contributed by gribbs on Thursday, 22nd November 2007 @ 12:06:19 AM in AEST
Topic: HumorPoetry

Ah….the smell of fresh cut grass, with a hint of two cycle exhaust
The sweet sound of swallows
Dancing in fairways
The sunshine warm on shoulders
Loosening muscles for the next shot
The rustle of leaves, in the breeze, on the trees, is never forgot
For this is golf

Solo, or with friends
Who appreciate what golf truly is
A brisk walk up hill to the next tee
Straining muscles and out of breath
Taking time to recuperate
But needing time to take in the nature
All around

The laughter at the sight of a wayward shot,
Into a creek
Mingles with hysterics of a soaker
Obtained while trying to retrieve the ball

This game is played by walking
The heart pumps and the blood flows
In sync with the trees, the birds and the leaves
The true game is not played by masters
But by amateurs, with no care for the next shot

This is life, the gentleman’s game
To be played on a sunny, windy or rainy afternoon
In solitude or with friends
But only with those who truly know golf

Keith W. Saunders

Copyright Â© gribbs ... [ 2007-11-22 00:06:19]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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