Fairway Poems

I'll Walk With You

On the Fairway Street
Covered with pine trees
I want to walk with you
Underneath this dark clouds
I have my umbrella with me
In case it rain we are covered
Don't fear if darkness gets in
I'll be your light to guide you
Just hold my hands to get courage
Just be near to me I'll hold you tight
How far our walk it will be synchronized
How far we go I'll be there for you
How far our life we lead I'll go with you
Till we get old I'll walk with you.

my mother shouted 'do you want a coffee?' just as a bloke was teeing off on the first hole

bizarre stuff
in fact, she'd never visited a golf course before

in fact, as i took my daughter to the clubhouse toilet
i held the door open for her 

the contents of the coffee was
all over the floor

i hit my tee shot against the trees
and the ball ricocheted back onto the fairway

'Good shot!' my mother yelled
there was a lot of top of the lungs stuff

MASHED POTATOES  
i shanked it 

mammy chops and bunkers like thunder thighs
my daughter wants to sleep in a bunker

i want to throw my clubs in the lake
worm burners

and municipal memories 
this was meant to be a love sonnet

i'll be your caddy
i love you flagstick

Driving Past the Fair

Fair is a word tossed between us,
quick breaths across wet teeth—
a fleeting agreement that nothing ever is,
except for our burning complexions
beneath the relentless, arid graze of summer sun.
The skin engaged in a heated debate.

But that was a different fair, much like the weather
which, on that day, was not.

The air thickened between us, choking in the scorch,
on the brink of calling it quits.
Then, we reached for each other's hair,
pleaching the fair fringe into a single French plait,
holding the tension steady with every strand—
a silent pact of reconciliation.

Flyaways re-tamed, we resumed our journey,
a fair sojourn toward the next fiery skirmish.
Over orange peels on the dashboard,
amidst a shared coffee, we lost ourselves—
debating whose turn to sip, which turn we missed that day.

Driving faster past the fairground,
children's screams echoed, tossing fares paid
like quarters ablaze in pockets emptied,
desperate for escape onto the open road.

The tollbooth's metallic throat protested with clangs
as change cascaded into the plexiglass bank,
accepting the expense to propel us forward
along the road until the next stop,
on our fairway.

Swing's Ooh Mighty Swings

Swing's Ooh Mighty Swing's
                          ..... The Golfing Season Brings!

Watch Our Hopes Arise,
                        From The Fairway Side To The Green!

With Every Single Hole We'll Mark,
                                  From Your Bag,
                                      Get Your Stick's, We Should Score With Art!

So Swing And Let Your Love Impart Your, Way!

Par, Par, Birdie, Birdie,
                     Start The Show, A LIttle Bit Of Power,
                                                   And We'll Go, Go, Go,  O'Kay!

Swing's Ooh Mighty, .... Swing's!

Golf Widows

What is it, this royal and ancient game
  that gets in your blood and under your skin?
That invites in men’s hearts a peaceful aim
  till you shank one and your head starts to spin.
Not just a game for sadists and man-boys
  though it helps if misery becomes you -
new graphite, titanium and steel toys
  vex me slowly but what am I to do?
I am hooked, addicted to the flagged green,
  and no persuasion can my fix deny -
no finer joy (with pants on) has there been
  but take my wife before my clubs or die!
To all you widows who mourn us at play
hear this…it’s the fairway or the highway.


          Written: September 2004

May and My Lesson

May and My Lesson
	
Hey, the month of May
You are leaving with your days passing away
For me, your fully passing away is just a say
The lesson you have left behind for me is gonna stay.

Dear May, you know what
My mind always values the trust
Trust which makes me stuffed with positive result
Trust which makes my body adjust with all the negative thoughts fully crushed.

But, my dear friend may, on one of your passing day
My mind saw that trust moving away
Since that day, I had a broken ray to stay
Since then, I was not okay as I was left without any way

Now, May, as you are my friend and you are gonna be away within a few days
I feel like I should be very honest with what I wanna say
when trust moved away, I struggled to keep my breathe stay
I worked hard to hold back the broken ray

Yes May, It is true that trust has gone away
But, it is also true that even without it, I breathe everyday
I feel like without trust life journey is a fairway
I am successful to make my soft side walk away

May, you are a true friend
You have taught me the contend
Your company has been a great stipend
You would be my friend even after your end.

The Business of Autumn

The Business of Autumn 
David J Walker

1.	The season of dry clouds and Canada Geese
        Arrived over the weekend

2.	The weatherman says the freeze was 
        too light last night to have been noticed 

3.	A frost is in the forecast but rescheduled 
        for some other tomorrow 

4.	The full moon demands homage 
        deserving its observations 

5.	before the sun sets 
        on another harvest

6.	The farms have formed seas of 
        ripe corn and white cotton  

7.	bordering a thousand small towns 
        in every direction

8.	allergens release in the winds the
        invisible seeds of misery 

9.	The last days and nights of the whine of  
        cotton gins bailing good fortune

10.	The business of autumn comes to an end
        On the fairway of a county fair

11.	The next rain will be cold and will
        Hold its verdict … Ice or snow…
        until after Thanksgiving

Little Hole

Methinks, who wanders after pint size toy
To which Aristocrats bow in humbleness?
Afore the little toy went to dance with the rough,
Off the tee in bounces, unto the way unfair,
Wrong way, or off the fair fairway,
Thought hazard but out of bound!
Grudgingly he bowed for a retake,
Now to the little toy the mighty was humbled.
Pint size, mint size, bright white, 
Toys in colour bundles.
Fly it goes in kiss with the sky 
Little toy, little joy laced in greedy-burden.
Amidst the Aristos stood the landlord, well-trodden,
Yes, the Capo whose toy ran him out of bound,
Silly toy, bad troy, “O, not my day!” He mused.
His baroness hummed, bumped her bum in bummer, 
Pitiable they were before the bunker.
“Handicap will tell.” She said in laughter.
But the Aristos were called handicaps too,
Laughed I was at these “Handicaps” 
As they missed the little hole in taps.
Hopped the Aristo to win the hole;
Warped the baroness in prayer he missed the hole,
The little hole, pint size toy.
With smiles, his toy, she glanced, 
The Aristo did miss the hole.
I laughed at the people of holes.
Hmm! Life with Golfers and little holes.

A Wall In the Woods

No stony wall stands there today, 
in farmer’s meadow near fairway,
rivulet of memories flow,
limestones in rain do wash away!

The trees look up at clear blue sky,
in secret at me, perhaps pry,
gentle breeze runs past soggy grass,
deep beneath our past footprints lie!

Waist high remains of limestone wall,
hand built to stop boundary brawl,
owners since melted into time,
meagre stones remain, if at all!

In distance afar life does flow,
see a church, houses in a row,
school of our days looks much the same,
within new voices, now echo!

Slow in silence I walk away,
up the beaten path, make my way,
the wall behind, in my mind looms,
holds my heart, begging me to stay!

The Wall in the Woods contest
Ranked 13th!! 
sponsor Craig Cornish
written 02/October/2020

Golf On Sundays

I play golf on Sundays.
On fairway, I hit straight.
Hitting ball with iron clubs
ball soars high in air
It is such a sight to 
watch it soar and land
at a spot you aimed for.
Pushing it for a putt
I put it in a cup with a flag
and try to win my match
with par or low count
such as  gaining a bird.
A drink to mark finish
of a good occupation
along with your fourballs
is a satisfying finish.

26.7.2020
Lipogram Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor Emile Pinet

Golf

Sticks bewitched by fairies’ play;
They often lead my ball astray;
The woods much easier for to find;
Than grand fairways of greenery fine;

Of this there can be no doubt;
Golf balls are related to trout;
For every time I play a round,
Into the water my ball is bound.

Maybe it’s bass or perch they seek;
Either way they find the drink;
Sand on a beach, now that is fine;
But in a fairway, is a crime;

It cannot be my skills are amiss;
For many other’s hit shots like this;
I think I know who to blame;
The Scot’s invented this blessed game.

America What's the Issue Why Ya Eatin All the Toilet Tissue--

Every time I go to the store;
I see those same bare walls;

What's the issue;
What's America doing eating toilet tissue;

Shelves are still empty,
no matter what time I go;
And every time I go to the store;
I see those same old blank walls;

America what's the issue;
What you doing eating toilet tissue;

Shelves are still empty no matter where I go;
I go to Sam's Club,  Kroger's;
I go to Fairway,  Wal-Mart,  Safeway;
I go to Kmart, Sears and Walgreens oops!

Some of those stores, 
not here anymore;
Not trying to whine and cry;
I just want to wipe my behind;

America what's the issue; 
Why y'all eating( buying) all this toilet tissue;

It's not that much bowel movement going on; 
So please stop hoarding and give me a roll;
Every time I go to the store;
I see those same bare walls;


Oh!,   ah! Could someone  anyone  somewhere give me a roll,
I, 
I gotta GO-

What's the issue;
What's America doing eatN toilet tissue



5/4/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr  2020

Word Toccata In a Major

Word Toccata in A Major 

Jaundiced ’53 Cadillac in my sweetheart’s carport.
She leaves the hole keys inside the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a set of golf clubs with knife wounds;
Her secret boyfriend with the purple tattoo of a face scar,
Recites from shotgunned memory the Love Song by Mister Eliot,
As my sweetheart bathes upstairs with a fleeting candle and Camay,
Pure white, and scented as eucalyptus breaths in the cooing moonlight.

Fevered ’49 Commodore parked luridly in her back alley.
He retrieves the hole keys from within the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a brace of golf balls with black bruises;
Soon he will trudge through fairway greens in pursuit of exotic birds,
Reciting Prufrock with two young robins pecking seed before him.
Upstairs now, he relaxes in my sweetheart’s bath with Camay and a gun,
Pure crimson, and scented as medusae bulbs in the screaming moonlight.

Driving It Home

Dressed in spike shoes
And summer whites
He steps onto the manicured fairway
Heart in the game and focused

Toting proudly a new bag
With left-handed custom
Putters drivers and irons
Glistening in the sun

Studying every curvature of the lawn
He carefully analyzes distances
Sandy bunkers and water hazards
Pulling out the perfect driver

Defending his championship title
His tournament life on the line
Practicing the swing in his mind
Like he’s done a million times

Stepping up to the tee
A prayer under breath
Positioning the ball just so
There it is the perfect swing

In control of every motion
Everyone follows the flight of the ball
Towards the flag fluttering in the breeze
Kerplunk right in the victory cup

A hole in one !!
Crowd roars and there it is
The jubilant victory dance
And a kiss for that lucky driver



Published in my 24-page photo/anthology ~RANDOM MUSINGS VOL.1~ 2020

AP: 2nd place 2022

Submitted on June 6, 2019 for contest DRIVER OF VICTORY sponsored by JULIA WARD  -  RANKED 2ND

Egg Song

Matilda the peregrine Chanticleer
                                 Has taken up residence
                                 Along the 18th Fairway
                                 Chicken-walking  pizzicato- pecking
                                  Rearranging the leaf pile
                                  Clawing with sharpened talons
                                   Making herself at home
                                   Laying her eggs randomly 
                                   Amongst golfers’ errant balls
                                  Indistinguishable  from a distance
                                   Her plaintive egg song
                                   Like the golfers’ call
                                   Lost in the Wind

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