Best Teed Poems
Birdie Trouble
So you think you’re going to hole me
Teed off well and on the green rolled me
Looked like hole in one
Then all hope was gone
When old albatross swooped and stole me
He excitedly grabbed his bag of clubs,
He drove to the course that day.
He had no qualms about not going to work
He merely wanted to play.
He briskly walked to tee number one,
He smartly teed the ball.
He swung his driver with gusto immense
He never saw it off the tee fall.
After time he realized to his dismay
The ball lay right by the tee.
He never did completely understand
Why the ball did not speedily flee.
After quickly replacing the misplaced ball
He gave it a hearty blow.
He watched it slice off into the rough
Where he never intended it to go.
This first hole ended with strokes very high
It actually was only the first.
It made him soon begin to think
He probably should have better rehearsed.
In actuality he should have at work stayed
And completed those unfinished tasks.
He probably will this message convey
In case anyone ever asks.
After chewing shoe leather they called steak,
in the Pencey cafeteria,
Mal, Ackley, and I enjoyed a winter afternoon on campus,
on the bus, and in a restaurant.
We walked across a puffy white quilt
as students conversed, laughed, and threw snowballs.
I held my snowball until the bus driver told me to leave it outside.
We had intended to see a comedy with Cary Grant,
but Mal and Ackley had already seen it.
We hung out in the restaurant played pinball and ate burgers.
Arriving back at our dorms at a quarter to nine,
Mel left for a bridge game
and Ackley shoved his acne ridden face into my pillow
until I told him I had a paper to write.
I couldn’t write what Stradlater wanted.
I couldn’t describe any rooms without elaborate furniture.
I couldn’t describe sporty rooms
with trophies on dressers and pennants on walls.
My brother Allie played baseball.
He wrote poetry on his catcher’s mitt with a green pen.
He stood in right field and recited verse from his imagination,
in his mind.
He died from leukemia very young.
I fell into a depression,
a garage,
a gym with windows to punch out.
I broke my hands against our station wagon’s windows.
I cannot make a tight fist.
I curl my fingers enough to type excerpts of Allie’s poetry
for a paper that will never be appreciated.
My red headed brother Allie,
such a good natured kid,
he had a good combination of extrovert and introvert,
avoiding anger.
Sitting on his bike fifty yards away
with his hair shining in the sun
as I teed off,
hoping to make a distant green and shoot under par.
Mom had scored a hole in one with him.
I still try to overcome unidentified handicaps
on a hazardous course.
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
The swing of this royal and ancient game
gets in your blood and under your skin,
but invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
till you shank and your head starts to spin.
I am hooked, addicted to the flag green,
and no golf widow will my fix deny -
no finer joy with pants on has there been
but take my wife before my clubs or die!
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
Now all you golf junkies repeat after me
I shall not hit and miss, swear or kick,
lest soon that birdie become a bogey
and your putter become a broken stick.
A cruel game for sadists and man-boys
where a preferred lie is sometimes true,
and new graphite, titanium and steel toys
vex the woman but what am I to do?
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
I love its sexy curves, doglegs and roll
in fatal attraction of grounds and course,
I play my best on the long nineteenth hole
but in my house that’s grounds for divorce.
I am hooked, addicted to the flag green,
and no golf widow will my fix deny -
no finer joy with pants on has there been
but take my wife before my clubs or die!
There is no greater handicap in life
than a teed-off nonplaying wife.
She who snidely thinks
to call us the "missing links".
I love you both but I declare
to my widow who mourns me I swear
I drive the fairway or the highway!
Written: September 2004
There was a weekend duffer named Rolf
Who proclaimed he knew all about golf
Ball dinged a guy's head
Hapless guy saw red
Rolf should have yelled "FORE" when he teed off!
(23 March 2013)
Sending the tending to an unfriended ending,
yet somehow suspending from rending a newly offending recommending.
Logotype monotype linotype,
overripe stereotype,
teletyped an unripe heliotype.
Guttersnipe snipe,
stipe snipe ripe,
a wipe type a tripe,
unleash a withering hype.
Dip snip,
nip lip,
slip skip,
rip the apple pip
over a battleship Chip.
Clip,
airstrip,
blip,
scrip,
gyp,
flip,
dip.
Unsip, blue clip,
A warship, weathering stick.
To miche an itch,
to stitch a witch.
Rich a quitch,
Hitch a flitch.
Gabrilowitsch,
the grand son of a *****!
Pitched a ditch to flitch a niche.
Made a rich hitch lich.
The Thia tie thy tried to untie an unshy,
Spied a sny sty,
He ascribed a bribe tribe,
to dib drib, lib and sib.
A death pale,
dwaled and engrailed,
enjailed and bewailed.
The cocktale turned into a,
ginger ale stale.
A hobnail.
A pale kale.
The whale waled
a veil of wail.
The stale air,
railed the quailing sale.
Dipped the snip,
to pip the tip,
and baled the avail,
to the flailed snail.
Attract extract reenact,
saddle backed and subtracted,
the tact the pact
an unmistakable fact.
Swag the unsage,
the wage of the tutelage.
A coffee break
a bit of a cornflake
cupcaked the cake of the devil's flake.
Draked the fake fruitcake,
and hake the jake on the mellow lake.
Mistake the overtake.
A pancake sheik,
cried spake of a toothache.
Ack Ack!
Back, Bootblack Jack.
Pack the Pontiac rack,
sack the Hackensack,
hijack the leatherback.
Offtrack the outback,
rack the sack,
smack the stack,
stickleback the tictack track,
to the umiak Union Jack.
Twack the whack yak sack,
A mystical one eyed zodiac.
Bready a speedy,
deedy the weedy,
Reedy to leedy.
Unheedy indeedy.
Leda, Vida, Theda.
Sketched an etch,
itched a hatch.
So speechless,
breathless,
toothless.
The socialist,
the communist,
the theorist
the terrorist.
Bedded the bedding
in a dreadful beheading.
Weeded the weed,
leading the lead,
tended the teed.
The ready read,
the reedy reeded.
The seedy seeded.
The end is Ending.
I remember when my Aunt
wanted a divorce,
said, "at last my time is mine
I shall live on the Golf Course".
My Uncle never played
he gave the game a snub,
thought it pretty pointless
to hit a ball with club.
He only wanted offspring,
to fertilise her eggs,
but she was bloody adament
he would never part her legs!
She never wanted family,
He wanted Son and heir.
So they found that life
became too much to bear.
So it was they split,
my Uncle he played Bowls,
Auntie she liked golf
she loved those eighteen holes.
One day while she was playing.
A great Storm began to brew.
Thunderclaps were shouting
with Lightning Bolts that flew!
She had just teed off,
then was walking past a dyke
when Thunder blew a fuse
then lightning it did strike...
( When my Uncle heard
my Auntie had been zapped,
the only thing he said was...)
"Well aint that very apt!!! "
Oh my giddy Aunt!!!
It was the ultimate birth control!
Guess where she was hit?
Between the first and second hole!
Randolph
Tried golf
Paid fees
Bought tees
Teed off
Pals scoff
Drive ****
In 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!
Club house
To souse!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
After making the trip to Bar Harbor in Maine,
we set off on excursions within that domain.
In the midst of events, aggravating, arcane,
we began at a loss.
We embark on a most unpredictable task -
touring Cadillac Mountain with fog as a mask.
Fifteen hundred feet high and sh-shaking, we ask
with alarm, "Where's the bus?"
Safely back at sea level, we all need to chill -
"Tell me, who put the rest stop on top of a hill?"
Giving vent to our steam, we release it with skill
by creating a fuss.
So we cuss as we scurry, we snort and stampede
up the fifty-two steps to attend to our need.
On the zig-zag descent, rather tetchy, still teed,
we by chance run across
a botanical gem - symbiotic, we learn.
A bizarre kind of growth, some avoid with concern.
Is it algae? or lichen? a fungus? or fern?
a true whatzit for us.
I see fanciful lace mid inherent decay;
I see whimsical bubbles entangled in play.
I see change as our mood now reverses dismay -
it's an insight from moss.
**************
anapestic tetrameter
Every fourth line I change to dimeter to counteract the monotony.
Reason A. Poteet
http://wiseacre-gardens.com/moss/white-cushion-moss.jpg
There once was a weekend golfer named Rolf
Who thought he knew everything about golf
His wild ball dinged a guy's head
His cuss words best be unsaid
Rolf forgot to yell "FORE" when he teed off
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Tariffs spanked my 401k
The shank-the-ball king had to say:
I will never flub
I’ve used the right club
Just check out my lie on this play
The Terrorist is Dead
The terrorist is dead, for
He has killed his feel
Even sold his only soul.
Terrorized with his error eyes, then
Errantly slaughtered his brothers
Run his evil planned fun
Ruined the beautiful boon
Organized the blasted organs
Roamed, bombed freedom rooms
Ignored man’s pride honor
Shot the open thought
Terminated his faith.
In short, befriended his being teed off,
Stopped his love:
Designed with evil mind
Ended all with his pleasant id
Assassinated his sole humane state
Doomed he forever into his life tomb
Warrior Wombs
(for Sandy and the loss of our first grandson)
By Joyce Teed
2/8/17
Warrior Wombs
Every woman
Has an untold story
A secret
Untold
Or unseen
Her story
Includes
Silent sorrows
Wounds with no words
Winding through the untold
History of all women
Empty wombs
Miscarriages
Mistimed pregnancies
Unwanted babies
Wanted babies
wished for babies
babies without a heartbeat
Nature’s
way
Of weeding out
The mistakes
A blessing perhaps
Women wear
these truths of nature
Doubting themselves
Shoring themselves up
Alone
Reminding us
Of the tenuousness of life
And the
Tender disappointments
Awaiting us around each curve of life
Bodily hazards
And then there is our hearts
Breaking
For our loss
Yet shoring up to bring in another life
Or not
We all don’t get the same luck
Or burden
But together we stand
Sisters in sorrow
Crying for the unborn
Unspoken lives
That we have all
welcomed and mourned.
Tough love
Was never harder
And now
Some righteous men demand
A funeral for a fetus
As if that would heal the wound
As if it would not punish more harshly
And more publically
Our hurts
Our disappointments
Our wounds
We know how to heal ourselves.
We embrace our loses
We never forget
We empathize with other sisters’
Conditions
We do not judge
We stand together
And wail.
Twas the night before Christmas - came like a flash,
Mob of gingerbread reindeer prodding elves for cache.
The Clausman reigning, doling out orders this stint.
Lady of his, keeps his tongue supplied with peppermints.
The vainglorious list of children, like snow through the Pole,
Now hides in the cloud - smart tablet tabulates toys or coal.
Head of the snowmen, cold and wise, supply the twinkle
To Santa’s eyes. Green-elves polish his boots, unwrinkle
The fat man’s caboose, untangle the reins, ready the ride.
The lineup from A to Z better well shine or it’ll be their hide.
All is still as the stars light up the path until Santa hops
Down, creates sinkholes in the snow with flatulence, flops
Into the overstuffed sleigh, jolly and jingling, creating pain
For the svelte and prideful eight who sail gift cargo like a plane.
Twas Christmas Eve and children around the world wait,
For the jingle and jangle of the sleigh-bed to find out their fate.
Tired, the sharp-suited Santa, now enters by window or door,
A small finder’s fee for each elf who steals a key - keeps score.
This year dear Santa abhors the cookies, milk, and snores.
The liquor cabinet habit keeps him warm, loving kids to the core.
Even when both parents and all the kids deserve some coal,
He’ll ignore the rules, with a good whisky or rum (takes its toll)
The reindeer left the last house hastily, and onward they speed,
As lightning sears the sky but jolly old saint Nick is teed-
Off, for he was found sleeping on the floor, by a kid. Now he shops
For a good Santa Claus lawyer. Who doesn’t toy around? The cops.
On Christmas day he is one of many dressed in black and white.
All say they’re the real Santa. He snatches beards, ready to fight.
Mrs. Claus makes him retire after his cheerless reflection.
The head elf ready to update the store in a whole new direction.
She puts the sleigh to bed, the deer no longer on loan,
Fires up the internet, next year she will send out drones.
11/27/2019
The Night Before 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
"FAKE" assertions unstoppably
bandied with beef,
(sans doughty deeds done dirt cheap)
courtesy of commander in chief
trumpeted as a way to backout,
embarrassment analogous to the thief
of Baghdad, when culpable faux pas
woe philly pops thought balloon of mine
reckons with transparent "good grief"
within mind of yours truly,
who finds himself dumbstruck
aghast, and shaking noggin with disbelief
how people can be so gullible
who would just as lief
eat a pin cushion to deliver strep throat relief.
First amendment teeter totters on brink
of dissolution mainly by the rat fink,
whose defamation against journalists
risking life and limb, yet not shrink
king enlightening liberal minded, who think
similar to myself, imposter
hood drums utter rubbish
while feeling teed off puttering
along Mar a Lago,
or another owned golf link
resorting to silence protesters
whisked off to the klink.
Distortions, (nee outright
blatant lies) saturate
social media platforms,
which followers didst rate
as their numero uno slate
supposedly reliable sources
harkening back to papa retaliate
Tory Bush prez administration,
regarding patrilineal shogunate
where Iraq summarily
targeted for crashing Kuwait
violating, jeopardizing, and
compromising vital oil, literate
folks suspected, that critical
lubricant mandatory to resonate
greasing western civilization
particularly self anointed great
super power USA, hence
alarmists didst exaggerate,
whose military intelligence
industrial leaders got irate
contracting complex projecting
global economy would vacillate
and, perhaps take Kamikaze nosedive
hence procrastination could not wait
demanding based on sketchy accusation
Saddam Hussein, and his ilk ultimate
harbored weapons of mass destruction
despite lack of distilled proof,
would severely truncate
nary a trace sniffed out,
nonetheless damn the torpedoes blitzed
in an effort to triangulate
miscreant running amuck
eventually met demise
with Bush Junior delivering
permanently placating tete a tete,
no matter dispensing top notch
fighting soldiers, whose strong
lifeless bloodied bodies remain prostate.