Best Divots Poems
“The Clock on the Wall”
That clock! The clock with cruelty, unmovable.
Telling time to be forever in motion.
The ticking, a deafening sound.
Marked by grime.
Yellowed by generations, grown digital.
By generations choosing to be illiterate.
The face, weathered from gazing faces…from faces.
Forever burdened by the echo.
TOCK!
Each minute, reversing youth.
Spinning hours that grin madly at the crows.
Birds destined to stomp divots into flesh.
Surrounding lids and lashes.
TICK-TOCK!
That hellish clock.
Stealing jewelry and lovers and future plans
Dreams given up in anguish to dead time, in the night.
The second hand, proud, purposeful.
Its movement pushing the aged into graves.
Eternally passing hours.
Laughing wildly at years gone by.
Heckling decades…lost.
TICK, TICK!
The ticking of that god-damned clock!
Mocking the genius gone mad.
A shocking reminder of all that is forgotten.
That all will be…forgotten.
The unforgiving clock.
Moving time.
Time, a father, whose knee will be outgrown.
A chastising father.
Protecting nothing.
Holding nothing.
Nothing calm.
Holding nothing safe.
Nothing still.
Curse that clock on the wall.
On walls dropping picture frames.
Loosened by rusty nails.
Images of families smothered in broken glass.
The clock.
TICK-TOCK!
Burning down homes that cradled infants.
With fatty folds and creamy dreams.
The clock, convincing people to set alarms.
Convincing people to startle the soul…
Into a brand-new day.
The freeze-thaw, freeze-thaw
of Newfoundland winters
plays havoc with the pavement.
Cracks become divots.
Divots become potholes.
Potholes become trenches.
Trenches become craters.
Exaggeration? No, not really!
And what lies buried beneath?
A treasure trove of history and mystery
rarely, if ever, to be uncovered.
The past in the past in the past...
in the present.
We stand on the shoulders
of all those who came before
until, one day,
we become a part of before.
Pause for thought.
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 good shots brings smiles...
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...
"Passion Pit" contest by "Sweetheart of Poetry Soup" Linda...
...to Charlie Hebert, my father-in-law,
with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sun burnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart.
...to Charlie Hebert, with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the links
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty, and wily, and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he is ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he will show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers and to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart!
Wind-swept and sun burnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart.
Last Modified: September 03, 2015 at 09:06 am
© bickerstaffe - all rights reserved
Author Notes
...to Charles E. Hebert Jr, my father-in-law and patient golf instructor! May he Rest In Peace.
Las Vegas, Pigeon’s Paradise!
At the Angel Park Golf and Country Club
The pigeons sported neck scarves
Of iridescent iris, white and blue
As they hoped with expectations
Around divots in the turf,
Now filled with sand and seed
By a golfer's hand
And side-eyed morsels with
Tilting beaks in obvious delight
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had dropped
Here.
Pigeon’s paradise!
At the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino
The people sported lewd t-shirts
Of sexual slangs or comic twangs
As they hoped and smoked with expectations
That gurgled and beeped
As neon lights flashed numbers,
Slots filled with flashing icons
By a tycoon’s hand
Yanked and cranked handles
Seemingly in agreement
That heaven had to drop
Here.
People’s price!
...to my grandfather, Charlie Hebert,
with respect and affection RIP
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone
on the course he fusses and frets
with his lie; he's been here for ever
commanding the links, ever since
you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he
breathes for the chance to play just
one more round, replacing his divots,
observing the rules and keeping
his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat
old Charlie, but he's crafty
and wily and mean.
It's the day of the championship
and he's all set to teach those young men
how to play; at the turn he's ahead
with a three under par, he'll show them
how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied
for the lead, they are edgy as each
eyes the pin; Jim misses his putt,
it goes wide to the left, and Charlie
makes par for the win.
In the clubhouse they congratulate
the old boy on his score, he thanks them
from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers,
to bad lies and to rain, to another shot at glory
when they climb aboard the cart!
The Storm by Jennrut
Soiled
Drum drum drum drum...
A pained, wet leaf
saturated by the storm's reverberating pressure.
Compacted,
Smothered by heavy soil which consumes it
Weighted by shadows of familiar clouds. Deadening,
Rotting.
A Reprieve
Unable to breathe but yet mustering the strength to bend
just as the winds take control.
Breaking free
A savory taste of flight
The Drumming
Boom!
Stunted by the perpetual thunder which echoes through its veins
The drumming vibration
Drum drum drum drum
Summoning
Pounding
The Light
Flash!
Momentarily stifled by the streaks of light which reveal its true nature
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Paralyzed
Numbing silence
Rains continue to spit
Rapidly firing
While the undaunted leaf tosses
Trickling through the whirlwind
Unscathed
Spiraling
Crack!
Free fall
Unaware
Scars tear open as it pummels downward
Swept off by the murky currents which rapidly flow beneath its surface.
Tumbling, bopping
through directionless divots
Submerged
Serenity of Silence
Finally ...
Submerged
The Last Breath
Dulled Flashes... Muffled ... BANG!
Wide-eyed
Shaken, panicked
It gasps for vitality
Flailing below, vociferating
Who will hear my cries?
Reaching...
Isolation
Left to fend for itself
Amongst the hollowed cries
Longing for inner peace
The rest of the Earth seemingly unshaken
As it drowns in its sorrowful solitude
Left to choose
Life!
Adrenalin transforms its inner will
Relinquishing the spirit of life
Racing upward for its last willed breath
It resurfaces to face the reigning tattoos which mark its existence
Revival
The inner glow of the sun's spirit
Warming its weathered, torn skin
Internally basking in its renewed beauty
Zealously floating as the rapids calm
Shedding its weighted soul
...more breaths
Drumming fades
Confidently awaiting the future of nature's next purposeful storm
Note:
May we all find the inner strength to believe in ourselves and to accept hardships as the pathway to peace.
three ducks paddling
300 yards, dogleg left
……..no short game
a feral cat
digging in the sand trap
……..replacing divots
an old dog
lays on the first tee
………..licking his balls
the golf ball smiled
the golfer slammed his club
……the caddy smiled back
he addressed the ball
not knowing where it would go
……no return address
a blind approach shot
swinging from the hips
………a gaggle of geese
the nineteenth hole
burgers, fries, beers and BS
………lies about lies
John G. Lawless
©2/20/2022
...to Charlie Hebert, (RIP), my father-in-law,
with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how to play;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them, he'll have the last say!
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when he climbs aboard the cart!
“Objects in the mirror are not as close as they appear”
Should be stenciled on my mirror of life as I look back at the years
Seems like only yesterday I was just a little boy
Filled with hopes of future glory and endless days of joy
“Please don’t feed the animals”, should be posted on the cage
In my zoo of distant memories, wild beasts of olden days
I feed the stories by telling them far too many times
They grow ever more extravagant – at least in my feeble mind
“Please take your seats now, there is turbulence ahead”
Is the announcement they’re making now inside of my head
The flight is getting bumpy as my health begins to fade
I’ve lost the “S” upon my chest from younger Super days
“Please replace your divots”, reads the sign on my life’s golf course
As I ask for forgiveness when I acted like the back side of a horse
I hope I’ve patched it right so others don’t end up in my holes
I don’t want to damage the course of life for the other golfing souls
...to Charlie Hebert, my father-in-law,
with respect and affection
Wind-swept and sunburnt alone on the fairway
he fusses and frets with his lie;
he's been here for ever commanding the course,
ever since you and I were knee high.
Golf is his passion, he lives and he breathes
for the chance to play just one more round,
replacing his divots, observing the rules
and keeping his feet on the ground.
Always nattily dressed he is ready
to tee up and go for the green;
the young guns are anxious to unseat old Chuck,
but he's crafty and wily and mean!
It's the day of the championship and he's all ready
to teach these young men how it's played;
at the turn he's ahead with a three under par,
he'll show them how great shots are made.
On the final hole two men are tied for the lead,
they are edgy as each eyes the pin;
Jim misses his putt, it goes wide to the left,
and Charlie makes par for the win!
CODA
In the clubhouse they congratulate the old boy on his score,
he thanks them from the bottom of his heart;
here's to Charlie then, to bunkers, to bad lies and to rain,
to another shot at glory when they climb aboard the cart!
A test of limits
to crumble a palace
half constructed of dreams
and rebuilt hopes, manufactured
from old green pastures
torn fallow by divots of
malevolent life, a chasm forged
of intimacy far too close, no
stage to act upon in test runs
or delight
Change ushers forth from barren
lands, but only when day breaks
does the earth, so saddened, find
the courage to respond.
Legs of the sea eclipsed with veins of fire
A ribbon tossing about the wind
waiting for Saturn, for whats to transpire
Branches to leaves- fingertips to nails
A spine as strong as the Holy Grail
Transparent and stories told
Dig beneath the sheath
brighter than gold
Knots tangled in spiderwebs and silk
wisps of air whiter than milk
Divots and mounds grounded in the Earth
Tracing up and down in shadows and light
Nothing equals its worth
---
Dedicated to the seventeenth century weirdos
who were obsessed with having the ability to dance.