I'm a retired teacher and school administrator and I've written poetry, seriously and less than seriously, since I was a teenager. It's only recently that I've taken seriously the idea of sharing my poems beyond these four walls—where they're met with great acclaim by my wife and sometimes by my daughter—and my poems have appeared in journals, e-zines, and anthologies. My chapbook, Exactly Like Love, will be published in May 2016 by Osedax Press. (Or, at least that's what those good folks tell me!)
In the beginning
but the void,
where soon would be water and earth
and rumor of heaven.
The word came later—
and some proclaim God.
Odd, but none I know
would shout that name
above the bleeding mess was left.
So God left me with this;
this, too, I claim,
out of nothing.
The Golf Poem
The golf links lie so near the mill
That almost every day
The laboring children can look out
And see the men at play.
-Sarah Cleghorn, The Golf Links
My wife says J’accuse partly in jest.
She means: You get lost on the golf course--
or was it a woman?
I figure she ought to be happy
not having to see me fastened to the desk
troubling the 23rd version of this poem no one will read
because golf’s a waste of good time
and perfectly useful space
and there’s no poetry in it.
I like to spend time in it alone,
make my way the order I want,
which is fine so long as I don’t hold up play.
No one cares what you do in poems,
but golf doesn’t like when you break the rules.
I try to walk gingerly there.
My wife wishes I’d care as much about the yard.
She insists, You can’t make a poem from golf,
but you can take a scythe
to the weeds out back and wield it like a 7.
I never tell her how in school we had to memorize The Golf Links,
and old Mrs. Koehler made us boys promise
not to take up that cold, stupid game—
and the girls never to marry
any frozen idiot who did.
©2016 Alan Walowitz