Monday, April 5, 2010

Golf

I hover over my ball
as if I’m a supplicant
and recite a mantra, a prayer.
It starts with please.
Please help me avoid water,
bunkers, tall grass, and trees.
Please let my ball fly,
not scoot and bobble down the fairway.
I don’t know how to end this prayer.
My roots reside in Hebrew chants,
in niggunim, melodies without words
and the figure of a Rabbi
who asks "Who do you say that I am?"

Linda Watskin ©2010

2 comments:

  1. Great poem! Love seeing the everyday meeting the sublime.

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  2. Hi, Linda. I enjoyed this one. I'll be back! And I invite you to read my poems at www.gregoconnell.com (Find NaPoWriMo 2010 on thetop menu bar) = )

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