Long Putter Poems
Long Putter Poems. Below are the most popular long Putter by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Putter poems by poem length and keyword.
Mitch
My friend is my brother
from another mother
who is like no other.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
It’s my privilege to utter
and I do not stutter,
nor would I mutter,
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s certainly no nutter,
as smooth as butter,
like a ship’s rudder,
In Christ, he’s my brother.
In line, he’s no cutter.
His house has no clutter.
He’s firm without judder.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s surely not a hutter.
His roof has no gutter.
His garage has no putter.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
So now it’s time,
to end my rhyme
for he is sublime.
In Christ, he’s my brother.
He’s not poor nor rich.
In him I find no glitch.
His name is Mitch.
He’s my brother.
John Stasukevich
6/24/2023
Finally, my blood began to coagulate.
I counted up my fingers, and found I had eight;
And so, I'm sorry to say, for me it's too late;
But I'm still alive, and hope to spare you my fate.
Let me stress the importance of kitchen knife hygiene.
Listen up, budding chefs, and you will see what I mean.
If you do not sharpen your knife, you’ll pull and you’ll tug,
And you’ll fight with your food, until you give it a slug.
You’ll cut up your fingers until you’re covered with blood
Which will spurt out from you like a diluvial flood.
Your face will turn white; and then you will fall with a thud
While up on your cutting board remains that dumb spud.
So, sharpen up your knife until meat cuts like soft butter,
But miss and you’ve no fingers in the kitchen to putter.
Carolin gave up on love because she had married two bad guys
One was a wife-beater
the other was a wife putter-down-er
She said she would never marry again, not even date
Then she became lonely, and wanted a companion
All of her friends had husbands; they were the age that usually do
They could not entertain her, so she was alone
She became sad and a little down, feeling isolated.
A friend suggested that she make a list of what she wanted in a man.
Carolin wrote down sense of humor, kind, honest, with integrity.
Then she put the list under her pillow. Her angels began working on the list.
A man she had not seen in twenty-years gave her a call.
He invited her out to supper. She said no a few times.
He assured her it was “only supper”.
She told him she would have to be in bed by eight-thirty.
He had her home at 8:27, and asked if they could go out again.
She thought maybe they could. That was twenty-three years ago.
They have been married for twenty-one years, and are happy.
This man fit all of the items on her list.
Now was i talking about a gun
am i coaching a photographer
Am i offering a shot to a shot putter
am i gee-ing myself as i stand infront
of a mirrored glass pretence
i definitevly know what the means
Now take has many definitions
forcefully
to reach for
to hold
your grubby money digitally erased
a basket.
a ball of the foot
sorry i went to far
those last two
are sporting refrences
a small drink that shouts in threes
Which the is definitive the?
Was that a question well it had a question
mark a try
a dart player talking to his inside voice
as eyes feather the edges
and grip unleashes quill
wait maybe they are not in that order
Shot the take
have i just given an innoculation
to a small dog called Take
The take shot- a movie phrase
no one has ever said
Maybe a mad Scottish fsh
a fish with no i
Shotthe Take
imagine i had more than free
cause it sounds like three
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
An afternoon walk, soon after the storm,
where skies had left a world forlorn
An empty lot....I'd pass it by
...just an empty page, of puncture vines
But, then I heard the faintest cry
No other fool, or soul around
It was so slight, the smallest sound...
Through weeds, I searched until I found
a kitten lost. upon the ground
His color washed, as if by rain
Friendless cold, and stiff with pain
How could nature go so wrong?
Overhead, a constant fray,
of squawking Jays...which had found their prey
It seemed they wished to wound the brown
ball of fur, so nearly drowned
I scooped him up, poor little waif
There'd been no place for his escape
I felt, tho' scant, the trace of heart
Putter faintly in my palm
Poor little thing...., with no resist
I sheltered him against my breast
Then...what should be warming calm
Turned strangely cold, and chilled my soul
The air was still
No wind, no rain,
The birds had left,....away with rain
And in my hand the silent depth...
no life in him,.....and mine was spent
How could a thing so small as this
hold death within a tiny grip?
And sudden grief upon me left
become immense.......as vast as this?
The Aussie Squatter
Arnold's an old Aussie squatter
Nowadays he just likes to potter
a vegie garden of corn
he's never forlorn
He's happy when the weather is hotter
The Delicate Art
I once met Martha McPherson
Hard to find a much nicer person
has the delicate art
to suppress a long noisy fart
Never involved in nasty coercion
Man with a Stutter
Max is a man with a stutter
Plays golf much skill as a putter
eighteen holes he's the gun
many tournaments won
His breakfast hot toast spread with much butter
The Lady with schmaltz
Jacqui's a lady with schmaltz
Decided she'd learn how to waltz
slipped on some glass
fell flat on her ass
For many years her teeth have been false
His Funky White Cocky
Billy, he's a local disc jockey
owns a bird, a tattooed and funky white cocky
sometimes it will rise
most times it just lies
Well endowed he used to play hockey
Decorates the Spot with a Freesia
This young woman who's called Alouisa
For many years she's suffered alopecia
no hair down below
nothing will grow !!!!
Decorates that spot with a freesia
She Had to Leave the Party
And there's Sara Paulina McClarty
She always so bloated and farty
it followed perchance
a small squirt in her pants
She had to rush home from a party
footnote: alopecia means hair loss
This is the saga of Veronica Vole
Who committed the perfect crime.
She murdered three lovers,
But not all at once,
She did 'em in one at a time.
The first was a lemur,
A two-timing schemer,
Who seduced all thirteen of her nieces.
Every female enticed him,
So she sliced him and diced him,
Then stir-fried and ate all the pieces.
The second, a lobster,
Was also a mobster
Who threatened her once with a putter.
So she got him alone,
Then boiled him well done,
And had him for lunch with drawn butter.
The third was a vulture,
Devoid of all culture,
Whose name, she remembers, was Vince.
He was planning to eat her
After he bet her,
So she tased him in self-defense.
In a big pot she tucked him,
Then scalded and plucked him
And served him "en casserole"
To her fourth beau, a critter,
Who'll make a good fritter,
She thinks as she spoons out his food.
'cause though she doesn't tend
To have good taste in men,
She does tend to like men who taste good.
Ms. Vole is not a siren or a femme fatale,
The kind of dame who'd tell a guy to take a hike.
At heart she is simply a sweet-natured gal
Who never met a man she didn't like.
My first car is starting to smell old
Like my grandparents house that they no longer live in
Reminds me of an antique store
With trinkets and wooden and things I’ve never seen
It smells of a jacket
In the back of the closet
That no longer fits
My first car took me anywhere
When anywhere seemed like so much
It took me to games and stores and houses and places I shouldn’t have been
But it always got me out
My subtle savior I never remembered to thank
My first car was old a decade ago
It was rusted and I never heard the end of the jokes
But it was mine.
Mine in a way a lot of things never have been
Mine like a name
Like a part of myself
Of my past
Of my shame
My first car doesn’t run
It doesn’t putter and shutter like it used to
And I can’t curse it anymore
When it doesn’t turn on
It died before I could say goodbye
When I thought we had more time
Seems like an old friend maybe
That just won’t text back
Seems like a dumb silly promise
Like maybe it will whine at me again
If I turn the key
But it doesn’t
And it won’t
What a great day for golf in the middle of Fall,
feeling quite chipper I drew a smile on my ball.
My confidence rose as I stepped to the tee,
while I stared down the flag on this gorgeous par three.
I swung back the club that I held in my hands
and prayed that my ball on the green softly lands.
As the white orb pierced the blue Autumn sky,
I soon lost my sight with the sun in my eyes.
I strolled to the green with trusty putter in tow,
but no ball in sight. Where did it go?
I searched in the rough and the bunker of sand,
with extreme disappointment and useless putter in hand.
As my search would yield nothing, I was about to give up.
When a small voice whispered, "Just look in the cup."
Could it be that my little friend found his way in the hole?
Who would believe it? Not one living soul.
So I walked to the flag on this dreadful par three
and I smiled at a ball that was smiling at me.
To whom it may concern this poem is pure fiction.
11/23/20