Some Unusual Rules
Ahead of us a month of handicaps.
There was my two-stroke poem for love.
You played the greens,
I played the bunkers.
Fortunate, to not only
practice but also experiment.
I found things were going well
until I reached the water hazards.
Oh, the stick and ball of poetry’s game.
How we see the words and charisma
rolling out along poetry’s fairways.
We’ve some unusual rules;
we play thirty-one holes.
The rules of poetry, or golf,
give us plenty of time
in the ubiquitous ninetieth.
We birdy, we bogey, we eagle;
a provisional shot. I checked my line:
my line of play. If you cheat here
it’s only yourself you cheat. Beyond
the ropes, our come and go audience.
A good lie/a bad lie, or the sand pit,
the grit that flies from the pen. There’s
dropped poems and loose impediments
until a full month of poetry comes to an end.
But does it ever end for a golfer?
Does it ever end for a poet?
Keep your poetry buggy handy
and practice. Nice; but seldom
a poem in one.
Benita H. Kape © 20.4.2017
prompt for the day. Today, I challenge you to write a poem that incorporates the vocabulary and imagery of a specific sport or game. Your poem could invoke chess or baseball, hopscotch or canasta, Monopoly or jai alai. The choice is yours!