V is Veronica struck dead while golfin'

V is Veronica struck dead while golfin'
04/25/2008 - National Poetry Month post #30, part of The Unlucky Twenty-Six

Veronica's father often would mutter
while leaning aggressively over his putter
and then he would tap and in anger he'd sputter
while little Veronica ate peanut butter.

She sat in the cart every Saturday morn,
for six solid years since the day she was born
through warm baby bottles and gushy strained corn
even though Daddy's buddies looked on them with scorn.

It wasn't that Daddy was such a good dad.
It had more to do with Mom being mad.
When she realized this golf thing was not just a fad,
she made Dad agree to a deal, iron-clad.

If he was to golf with his Saturday friends
and suck all the quality time from weekends,
he must take his daughter to make some amends;
on that, she told him, their marriage depends.

So he golfed, rain or shine, for six solid years,
and their lives carried on, though laughter and tears,
and his buddies and he slugged down too many beers,
while little Veronica played with the gears.

While the guys were all putting, it started to rain,
a righteous storm like a thunderous train
and the wind whipped the trees like a raw hurricane
while Veronica watched and did not complain.

But the rain caused a putt to go wide of the hole,
and her dad got so mad that he lost all control
and he raised his club up to the sky black as coal
and he roared with the strength of his entire soul.

Then he did something bad, he spun round and flung
that big, metal putter which twisted and sung
as it flew through the rain where it struck and it stung
poor little Veronica, who died much too young.

One of my writing goals for 2008 is to write at least one light verse or poem every week in addition to my haiku wednesday and fiction friday posts. I will try to do this on Mondays.