7th Hole

EvilToasterElf

It was the fifth shot on a par five
that followed the last three into the trees
These empty wednesday evenings allow
plenty of time for a stroll to recover lost shots
After I find a the first ball I notice a small building
tucked between saplings. Not more than two
stone pillars holding the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks
Identical structures straddle it on either side,
each in its own state of disrepair.
The farthest building guards a rusted Catholic cadelabra
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles
These religious relics fade in the woods
with waterlogged Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers for birdies
and a good lie were never answered
The processions of nuns from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers and weeds pressed flat
by the grass of the seventh fairway
The crunches of their footsteps
became the hum of passing golf carts
Though the hail mary's remained
uttered silently on the backswing in the tee box
If I had hit my drive 50 yards farther
my search would take me to a clearing
filled with moss and tall grass
but in that overgrowth stands a rotting podium
two feet above the plants, where the litany's and
incantations of mass would begin
conducted to those who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds, remembering that religion
consisted of more than words in book and ceremony
And I sit among the phantoms of prayers, many for every
dimple of the shot that I had found, and I offer up my own
in the hope that to stoke the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.

Cheers to Fins and Anomis,

ETE

Traver DiDiminico

Wonderfully written.

Golf is a religion, too.

anOmis

Originally posted by EvilToasterElf
It was the fifth shot on a par five
that followed the last three into the trees
These empty wednesday evenings allow
plenty of time for a stroll to recover lost shots
After I find a the first ball I notice a small building
tucked between saplings. Not more than two
stone pillars holding the remnants of a roof
above colored blocks
Identical structures straddle it on either side,
each in its own state of disrepair.
The farthest building guards a rusted Catholic cadelabra
three rows of black troughs,
tiered with moldy candles
These religious relics fade in the woods
with waterlogged Top Flites and Pinnacles,
whose three iron prayers for birdies
and a good lie were never answered
The processions of nuns from a nearby convent
dim like the flowers and weeds pressed flat
by the grass of the seventh fairway
The crunches of their footsteps
became the hum of passing golf carts
Though the hail mary's remained
uttered silently on the backswing in the tee box
If I had hit my drive 50 yards farther
my search would take me to a clearing
filled with moss and tall grass
but in that overgrowth stands a rotting podium
two feet above the plants, where the litany's and
incantations of mass would begin
conducted to those who sit in outdoor pews,
covered in weeds, remembering that religion
consisted of more than words in book and ceremony
And I sit among the phantoms of prayers, many for every
dimple of the shot that I had found, and I offer up my own
in the hope that to stoke the embers of memory
will steer me through the back nine.

Cheers to Fins and Anomis,

ETE

im not a gold fan..but am sure a fan of ETE's poetry!

BooBoo

i like it
after a while i dont actually read it, it starts to beat inside my chest and thats best
thats understanding maximum
even more
thats feeling

FinsburyParkCarrots

A fine piece of work.

EvilToasterElf

Originally posted by Traver DiDiminico
Wonderfully written.

Golf is a religion, too.

I'm still not done trying to convey all the symbolism that this little place in the forest stuck in me, it is the religion of suburbia usurping that crude mixture of fear and wonder that were the old religions, but this entire process is so poignant in a crumbling facade of an old prayer station and chapel not 100 yeards from the golf course.

Thanks for the feedback guys and girls

Buru

Originally posted by EvilToasterElf
I'm still not done trying to convey all the symbolism that this little place in the forest stuck in me, it is the religion of suburbia usurping that crude mixture of fear and wonder that were the old religions, but this entire process is so poignant in a crumbling facade of an old prayer station and chapel not 100 yeards from the golf course.

Thanks for the feedback guys and girls

it's a great poem ETE
you can tell this place in the forest definetely stirred many things in you, and very vivid images come to mind