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A Perfect Drive - A Poem about Golf

Updated on February 13, 2013


As you walk to the tee box, you look.

You look at the sky, so blue on this perfect day.

You look at the grass, so green as to seem unreal.

You brush your foot across it, feeling the cut.

You bend and pick up a few clippings, tossing them aloft.

You watch as the wind carries them away on the breeze.

Turning down the fairway, you look.

You imagine, you think, you plan, you pray.

The perfect shot.

Bending over yet again, you press the tee into the earth,

And perch the ball atop this tee.

You step back, and settle your feet into the crisp grass.

Address the ball, and balance. Always, you balance.

Waggle once, then again. You look across your shoulder.

Down the fairway. Imagine the flight of the ball.

Look at the ball. Pick out a single blade of grass just behind the ball.

Focus.

Waggle once more, then another peek at the fairway, waiting.

Snug up the grip, and ready. You begin.

Focus.

A single, green blade of grass just behind the sphere.

Nothing exists but that blade of grass.

Your body is a spring, strong and flexible at once.

Your body twists, your arms come back in a fluid motion.

Not too fast, but steady.

A pause atop the arc, then release.

Down, increasing the power with every inch.

Your coiled spring body unwinds smoothly.

Bringing with it the club.

You have eyes only for that blade of grass.

You connect, and you know.

The club strikes the ball.

Then compresses the ball, before it rejects it.

Away; down the fairway.

The club transmits the feel of the ball to the shaft.

The shaft resonates with the impact, transmits to the hands.

The hands, holding firm, yet soft; feel.

Transmits that feeling to the arms, and along the sinew and bone,

To the shoulders.

From the shoulders to the chest muscles.

These then to the heart, and you know.

Without looking, you know.

Perfect.

Your shoulder comes around, bringing your head.

You know. A small smile.

Your head continues around, eyes searching.

Searching for the ball.

There.

Small and white, a perfect sphere moving against the perfect blue sky.

Continuing against the sky, ever outward, and upward.

Perfect.

You smile.

Perfect.


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    • Mr Archer profile image
      Author

      Mr Archer 5 years ago from Missouri

      Billy, from you this is high praise indeed. Thank you, Sir. I do not consider myself a poet at all, I just write what I see or feel, and try to make it palatable to someone. I am so glad you enjoyed it. Thank you again.

    • billybuc profile image

      Bill Holland 5 years ago from Olympia, WA

      Wouldn't it be nice if that happened more often? Man, I can remember them, but not many of them. LOL Great poem!