The swing is everything.
Stance, grip,
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
Eternity.
Doubt about
the Oppenheimer reallocation.
Eye on the ball,
a visual feast,
view the flag,
take a picture of it
with the mind,
eye on the ball.
A breeze, a frown,
left foot forward
a millimeter,
club head opened
four thousands of an inch,
the reckoning
of terrible variables.
Imagine the Masters:
"Mr Scott Davis of Fort Wayne Indiana,
you are away."
Address.
Perfection, shake out,
wiggling hips,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
crystallized.
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
Silence.
The Oppenheimer reallocation
was a good move.
It's time.
The back swing,
a slow pendulum
of machine precision
rises to the twisted apex
and hovers.
The sword of Damocles,
falls slowly to release.
Scott gives it his all.
Eye off the ball.
The Oppenheimer reallocation.
Ping!
Follow through.
Angst.
There it is!
The ball is shooting straight
down the fairway
as an artillery round,
climbing to trajectory,
rising, hanging, hanging
beyond gravity,
falling, falling, dropping.
Thud.
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin.
"Yes!"
Could be better but
birdie is possible –
very possible.
Scott lifts the heavy golf bag
and soldiers down the fairway.
The sun could not
be brighter,
the sky more blue,
the grass more green,
the birds more musical.
Scott is hopeful
of birdie
on Par 3.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1204 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2014-09-20 at 02:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Tee Shot
Address.Stance, grip,
settle in, shake out,
place the club head,
sweet spot kissing
the doomed ball,
a ripe plum
against the steel.
Eternity.
Doubt about
the Oppenheimer reallocation.
Eye on the ball,
a visual feast,
view the flag,
take a picture of it
with the mind,
eye on the ball.
A breeze, a frown,
left foot forward
a millimeter,
club head opened
four thousands of an inch,
the reckoning
of terrible variables.
Imagine the Masters:
"Mr Scott Davis of Fort Wayne Indiana,
you are away."
Address.
Perfection, shake out,
wiggling hips,
exhale, the paroxysm
of tension, mind and body
crystallized.
The flag appears
as a scrapbook photograph,
the drum roll crescendo
of concentration stops.
Silence.
The Oppenheimer reallocation
was a good move.
It's time.
The back swing,
a slow pendulum
of machine precision
rises to the twisted apex
and hovers.
The sword of Damocles,
falls slowly to release.
Scott gives it his all.
Eye off the ball.
The Oppenheimer reallocation.
Ping!
Follow through.
Angst.
There it is!
The ball is shooting straight
down the fairway
as an artillery round,
climbing to trajectory,
rising, hanging, hanging
beyond gravity,
falling, falling, dropping.
Thud.
Direct hit on the green,
rolling, rolling, stopping
ten feet from the pin.
"Yes!"
Could be better but
birdie is possible –
very possible.
Scott lifts the heavy golf bag
and soldiers down the fairway.
The sun could not
be brighter,
the sky more blue,
the grass more green,
the birds more musical.
Scott is hopeful
of birdie
on Par 3.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 1204 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2014-09-20 at 02:06
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Editorial Team |
| Texts |
 by Peter J. Kautsky Latest textsMichelleMalbec This is March Avocado Acronymic Apoplexia |
Increase font
Decrease