Patience hides in deep creeks,
humans dull, slow and undaunted by frustration,
design sharp but not challenging,
dichotomy of greens in trees and grasses,
pairs of contrasting greens everywhere but up high,
Really peace, but the mind is searching for some other truth.
Condo towers surround the course like white fences from god.
We are in a jar, being judged, but we also look out to judge.
Do they work? Do they love?
How do they find enough to fill all of these places?
From where do they come? What do they do?
All of these questions and I feel so stupid,
trying to imagine that I can catch on
with the flow of life.
I can sense how it is
to ride with the flow of life,
and when the flow is there,
everything should go right.
I work the flow on my ten-foot putt.
The putt goes way wide and long by ten feet.
stillfugue 
#1 by carldagostino on May 23, 2011 - 10:54 am
Flowing, flowing, ever flowing. Make the flow where you’re going.
#2 by Carl on May 23, 2011 - 11:04 am
You describe the master at work in a smooth fashion.
#3 by liv2write2day on May 23, 2011 - 12:01 pm
Golf is such an incredible metaphor for life. I just got home from getting my golfer’s elbow injected. Sometimes (often) it can cause pain. Psychic if not physical. And when you’re in the flow–pure bliss. I so hope I do better at life than at golf. I love this poem, Carl.
#4 by Carl on May 23, 2011 - 10:17 pm
You understand it all! I hate that golfer’s elbow. Golf teaches me much about life, but I am often not in a learning mood.