New Poetry
by Mark Bollman-->

Not Exactly PGA-Approved
Hack across the landscape, headed for a pit;
Par is 62, but you'll not get close to it.
If you're golfing in December, some changes must be made.
At the Beaver Creek Athletic Club, you're gonna have to trade
Your golf cart for some snowshoes; that's the way to get around.
When Winter Campers hit the links, inventiveness abounds.
We're driving straight across the ice and chipping through the trees
With a single target in our sights: to finish `fore we freeze.
At last the forest parts and we're atop a hallowed hill
Where sheer brute strength takes over and a shot flies through the chill.
If the ball is found thereafter, it's a few shots to our goal.
Across the arrow, toward the trees; beneath one is the hole.
It's a game unlike all others, a sport without a peer.
But nonetheless it's probably best we play just once a year.

In Response To The Thought
"Someone Sometime Ought To Write A Winter Camp
Limerick Where The Last Line Is ‘Traditionally Unconventional'"


Winter Camp brings fun four-dimensional
Some by accident, some more intentional.
It's a world all its own
Where two words set the tone:
Traditionally unconventional.

If you listen and pay close attention, I'll
Blow your mind with the tales I can mention. All
Of Winter Camp's curious ways
Where we are, for 4 nights and 5 days,
Traditionally unconventional.

Capture The Objective
First we scheme to grab the objective
Then gather ‘round and shout some invective.
It’s not CTO without a good fight,
Whether we’re playing by day or by night.

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