Best Ace In The Hole Poems
All the castles
I'd longed to see,
Will never stand
In front of me
All the knowledge
I have gained,
All the emotions,
I have feigned
And now real love
To make me cry
I lie in bed,
I wonder why...
It seems unfair,
But such is life,
I've suffered much,
As with an unfaithful wife
Those castle walls
Will long outlive me,
And it will come the time soon,
For me to see
My maker,
My love's faker
Heartbreaker,
Soul taker
But I have my one
Ace in the hole,
I've kept one piece
Of me that's whole
That part of me
That believes in me
And no matter
What others see
This part is mine,
And mine alone,
And surely I'll have
Sins to atone,
But this one part,
Unassailable,
Believes in me,
And it knows,
I never hurt anyone,
For I chose
To do what seemed right
And moral too,
And though I'd fight,
To prove it true,
I tried to do
My very best,
I tried to pass
My soul's real test,
If I failed,
It was by mistake,
All I wanted,
Was a smile to make.
Now that you know me;
I am in your life for a reason -
I am in your life for a season.
I may be only your happenstance
your afterthought that comes
when all your cards are played.
Maybe I am your Ace in the hole.
Maybe I am your place to go
when there's nowhere else to turn...
Better I be burned into your memory
Forged into your lifeline
Better than being nonexistent,
like a spirit unavailable.
Open your hand and read my marks.
That's the depth of me burrowed I replenish,
I then branch off at the wrist
fading out of the flesh to watch you trekking
the short distance.
You are left alone with your maker
You and he finish strong.
I witness another winner and then I am gone.
Taking my place again in the back of your mind
You also in mine. Lives entwined for a Season.
imprinted in lifelines.
We are all sinners and we know it
Greed and temptation are some of the tools
That old Satan knows how to use well
God has no problem if we make a profit
If we do it his way and don't act like fools
Or we will be playing card in Hell
The Devil deals from the bottom of the deck
Always has a crooked ace up his sleeve
Tell you he has a ace in the hole
And just waiting for you to end up in a wreck
Unless you let God be the coach and believe
'Or the Devil will have your soul
God does not play cards with Satan
But he does know all the trick, he is the real deal
There is no gamble in his game
He know what Satan can do to a man
And make one dizzy with his old spinning wheel
You see there is no shame in his game
Has Lady Luck there to temp and lead you on
He know that he is a cheat and cannot do it alone
Making the stakes higher and you have to play
When it is over, they are both gone
Cut your throat and to the bone
Your best bet is let God be your dealer everyday
"A child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts."
W. Wordsworth
I am your grandmother.
I spent 24 years making
parenting mistakes, so I think
I'm pretty well trained now,
pretty worn down, open-minded
and accepting.
I think we'll be good friends.
At sixteen, your mother
said she was having a baby
and held up to me the blue pastic
device that tested her urine stream
like when she held up the blue ribbon
she won in kindergarten for the best
easter bunny nest made from marshmallows
and dyed yellow coconut.
Then she threw the blue device out
into the space between us on the bed,
like it was the best card in her deck,
her ace in the hole.
Your father waited in the other room
sitting in the thick silence,
afraid to breathe and miss
my response.
You and your mother did all the work,
but I was there at your birth,
Standing alongside, coaching your
mother to good contractions until
I was exhausted from gritting my
teeth and pushing too.
And your dad was there, too,
but closer to the business end
so he could be the first to know the sex.
An unsolicited psychic had told us
you would be a girl,
and when your dad was told,
he sulked all day
like it was a conspiracy
between the women to produce
only other woman.
He wanted another guy,
someone to give the men the edge,
a male child.
When your mother's body could
keep you from the world no longer,
your head appeared, eyes tightly
shut and a pout on your lips.
Your dad was watching closely,
the shoulder, the belly and then
his arms flew up in the air
like he'd made the touchdown
and he cried, "It's a Boy,
I told you, I told you,"
like he and I had placed a bet.
But then he saw how much
I could love the boy child.
I'm a pretty good grandmother,
and I think we'll be good friends.
He lay awaiting spraying cards
Beckoning with his forked tongue
Come here my son lay down your guard
Bet what you like it is only for fun
I started with a bet so small
A face arriving right at my door
The second led only to reveal
An ace of spades I had won my deal
This seems so easy it cant be true
I lay a bigger bet knowing it is due
Alas there came another Jack
He smiled at me as the devil played back
You have won again now bet it hard
You know you can beat me without any cards
Ride your luck as I did against God
And see where it takes so now bet hard
I lay the rest of all I had
Only to find the cards went bad
A five of diamonds shot out loud
Followed by the Queen as she did frown
His card was showing a souless ace
Asking for insurance I felt his embrace
I declined and waited to see with praise
He smiled as the card flopped over ..... a face
Thank you my son for your donation
Once again? He asked with quotation
I told him I have nothing more
He said dont lie you have your soul
If you win this you will be free
With all the riches and endless glee
I will even show you both cards
Double exposure for my disregard
I agreed and bet my soul
He lay both cards for the endless goal
His smile turned to laughter as he knew
His ace in the hole was on its way through
It dropped and so did my soul
I felt it pull out of my body whole
I lay in his chamber with all the rest
As I saw God next me in distress
For even he had bet his best
And lost to the one that he threw to the mess
Cliche Heaven
Be it as it may I'll try my hand at some clichés
and address the elephant in the room soon when pigs fly.
It’s a win- win situation, put your game face on, work the crowd
as we wrap our heads around comparing apples to orange.
We are all data driven, with an ace in the hole, stick a sock in it
while stepping up to the plate and peeling back the onion
and easily hit it out of the ballpark with a world of hurt.
Be my team player, run with this, my agent of change
but don’t throw me under the bus as you think outside the box.
We can touch base later seeing where the rubber meets the road
and put boots on the ground, a perfect storm, deal with it.
Here’s my two cents, if it works I'll go off the beaten path
driving route 66 on the road not taken when it’s up for grabs,
and taking a walk in the sun, learning the new math.
That said, don’t put me out to pasture, wait for it,
there’s no sign of my slowing down, its going viral.
These are the signs of the times, take the bull by its horns,
It’s a brave new tomorrow and all bets are off.
Don’t force my hand to be up close and personal
I’m a rebel without a cause and to die for.
Don’t get bent out of shape raising the bar in the winds of change
There’s something for everyone, just another babe in the woods.
Stay tuned, like, duh, as a matter of fact, at the end of the day,
it’s a last ditch effort as you live and learn the luck of the draw.
Pay it forward, that’s the ticket, give and take, get a wake up call,
same song and dance, say what you will, you’re as sharp as a tack.
It’s all smoke and mirrors, just splitting hairs to reinvent the wheel
and walk the red carpet for a quick buck to pay as you go
Heaven help us,
I believe there's an app for that.
Jimmie Jim my piddling crony was a little toady
Happened to meet a gaudy king who loved a hot toddy
Jimmie’s ass an ace in the hole
Dipped in snail’s pace in the king’s bowl
Said Jim Sire, my daddy, King of Ire, I am your bawdy
Murk Rammer froze as he felt the nuzzle
of a snub-nosed thirty-eight’s deadly muzzle.
Louis The Retch poked it into his back.
“The jig’s up, Rammer. I ain’t cuttin’ no slack.”
Murk had been tricked by a double-crossing dame,
alias “Frigitte,” he didn’t know her real name.
She’d been his undoing, that cute little louse,
undoing the buttons on her bulging blouse,
then slipping out of her slip and her hose,
and her holster too; yeah, she had one of those.
He’d fallen for Frigitte, completely deluded.
She’d come on strong, delightfully denuded.
She’d kissed him hard and let him get a good grab,
but when he dozed off she skipped out and blabbed.
The shamed shamus woke up and found a clue
and went to a warehouse -- a decision he’d rue.
He’d fallen for the ruse, he’d taken the bait,
and walked right in to a date with fate.
That darn dame had put him on the spot.
He was one peeved peeper who’d loved for naught.
The warehouse was full of contraband goods.
They belonged to The Retch, a sleazeball hood --
lead falcons from “Malta” and vases from “Ming,”
dubious diamonds and other blarney-ish bling,
a lading of lies from a smug little smuggler,
who played for keeps and went for the jugular.
And now The Retch had gotten the drop.
No chance for Murk to call for the cops.
“It’s curtains for you,” the Retched one said,
“The only way out is to go down dead.”
“You win,” Murk said, with a little shrug.
He knew he was beat and waited for the slug.
A bullet in the back was the final payoff.
Fat chance The Retch would decide to lay off.
Murk heard the click of a cocked-back hammer
and waited for death in his taciturn manner.
Bang! went a gun – but not the thirty-eight.
The shot came from someone hiding behind a crate.
The Retch went down with blood on his chest,
then high heels approached; you know the rest.
Bad girl Frigitte leapt into Murk’s arms.
She just couldn’t stand to see him harmed.
And that had been Murk’s ace in the hole,
playing so well the Romeo role.
He wrapped his arms around Frigitte’s waist
and their mouths joined together, such a spicy taste!
Then he took her hand and led her out
into rain washed streets where wet shadows slouched.
Did Murk turn Frigitte in to the cops?
Or let love fill his head with mushy slop?
The ending of this tale I’ll leave up to you,
but as for me, I haven’t a clue.
Out of all the relationships I’ve ever been in, few really ever knew me.
Just bits and pieces rehashed, concocted and dispensed from;
A world I know as the files from my performing arts.
But with you it’s different because you’re so damned pretty.
I tell myself to stay Germaine when I’m around you but;
As soon as I set my eyes on you I lose track.
I’m moved by feelings I can’t even name.
You probably know what I mean don’t you;
Younger days and different faces where the blood flowed so thick;
And passion was so hot it set your body on fire,
Ah but the kicker; the ace in the hole; the crux of the biscuit with you;
And moves me most even more then the probable thrill of your kiss is;
It’s all of you that has made my heart beat irregular rhythms;
And that I’ll always remember.
Somebody told me that cliches are dead
But what if I run out of things to say
Can I say "to know me is to love me"
Or "tomorrow is just another day"
What about "liars never prosper and cheaters never win"
Would I be accused of reviving the dead
"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush"
Or is it "an ace in the hole instead"
"Absence makes the heart grow fonder"
Or if you fall "it's only a scrape"
What if I tell them to "button your lip"
Will they get "all bent out of shape"
But I'm "at the end of the pecking order"
So how much can I really know
I'll never use cliches again
Right after " I told you so"
Can your calluses callus enough that God’s touch
will not touch a nerve ending (to reach you) if God
wants to kiss you (wants contact?) Yes, there! I’d guess not!
But that does leave unanswered if God would allow
you to ‘unfeel’ that feeling, to unring His knock
up your virginal doors? An unfruitful advent-
ure, a dalliance nipped in the bud, that’s your fame?
But delays to ‘what rhymes,’ might that mean you have crutch
or a leg left to stand on if Judgment’s not odd.
Is God’s Grace hope you’ve ace-in-the-hole (it’s a thought
though you hate to admit it?) You’re drawn to Macau?
There’s a bargaining chip? You have something to hock?
(You think hedging one’s bets is an option?) You’ve hint
there’s an exit (non-death) that’s not God’s to proclaim?
Life has binary options, it’s on, or it’s off.
We can’t choose to be ‘good,’ but we can ‘like’ God’s Grace?
If God’s real, ‘God’s’ not Fraud, but God still could be Fraud,
which might mean grace is fraud too and ‘life’s’ what all get.
Yes, we’re here then we’re not, yet death might be unreal
like some say God’s not there (if He is or He’s not!)
It’s confusing to me, and some think that I’m smart.
Are your calluses assets? I don’t mean to scoff,
but it looks more to me like that’s spiting your face
(you want calluses there?) Feet, hands, fingers seem odd
when feet shoed, and hands gloved still can bless life a bit.
Don’t confuse souls with soles (that would not be genteel!)
There’s no knowledge that lasts, and all feelings will rot
if no God is Creator (whose Love’s breath is Art!)
Brian Johnston
15th of August in 2020
speaking severe nasal sounds,
when exhalation boyhood memory draws
obvious twang – another ace in the hole for bullies –
gnashing identityguard where gauze
superfluous, and those hurtful ingrates lobbed words,
when they may as well swang fists at me upper and lower jaws,
though decades in the past, the imprimatur indeibly etched,
yet stinging rebukes from maws
and faux paws trigger remembrance of things past
(analogous to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder -
in my case countless acromonious, denigrating, execrable names
contributed to Schizoid Personality Disorder –
though predisposition for sundry mental illness
most likely incsribed within mom and pop sic cull genes),
now greater enlightenment reacting/responding to stress
comprehending my biology, chronology, ecology, geneaolgy
(fyi – Amelie paid consultant at 23andme.com for blueprint
denoting fabric housing jumbled, linkedin, nested past –
results surprisingly showed 1% Neanderthal
comprise inherited) psychology,
thus explaining insatiable hunger for bananas,
and intermittant urge to swing from tree to tree,
whereby I willingly accept arboreal, corporeal,
generallly less than ideal traits
which pro active overtures arrest
(without a warrant), contest, assent everest
(albeit metaphorically) satisfactorily
extending virtual olive branch (pitted)
recognize immutable imposibility to confront
excrutciating bygone feelings,
this endeavor, a quest to test mine kempf zone, and endure
current flow of uneasiness (clammy
and sweaty hands fostered by andiety),
yet exorcizing mailer demons critical
to experience mindfullness, and requisite
to fast tract expeditious deliverence,
whereat ye ought not be deprived
THIS SIBLING (HAN SOLE BROTHER)
WHOSE LOVE TOOTH HE
(on account of dentures) DIDST OFTEN BESPEAK!
It’s strange somehow thinking about the times I’ve spent in relationships yet;
Few have ever had the chance to really know me.
Just bits and pieces rehashed and concocted;
From a world he quietly calls “the Halls of Lenny’s performing arts”.
But with you it’s different because you’re so damned pretty.
I tell myself to stay natural when I’m around you but;
As soon as I set my eyes on you;
I seem to lose most of my composure.
You move me from a place I sometimes don’t even remember is there;
You probably know what I mean don’t you;
Those times from another place where the blood runs thick;
And passion burns like an eternal flame that sets your soul on fire,
Ah but the kicker; the ace in the hole; the crux of the biscuit is;
What moves me most about you goes;
Way beyond what may be there inside of those jeans I've seen you in
It’s you; all of you that makes my heart beat irregular and I’ll never forget.
.
Solitare is a game
Strategy? Suspense? Quite the game
I can remember the last card I drew
A meaningless red king
The king had nowhere to go
Nowhere to place himself
No queen to lay with
And there were the seven of them all in a row
I saw Jack and two
I read the numbers one by one
Ace in the hole
Then I lost the whole damn thing
The game of solitary confinement
The game of life?
The loss of the loss of himself
The gain of the plot of the wealth
The jibberishly mulled wine words of the mind
I am running out of time
And the time is now
-Jess
Crunch, crackle, crackle, crackle, crunch
The leaves under my heavy footfalls
Those nor easterly winds sure pack a punch
Onward it is, my freedom calls
Nothing worth having seems to come easy
Another bridge to cross, just another bridge
From my past now I must break free
Will I see my future if I climb up on that ridge
Okay okay my future is in God's hand
It's so hard to give up control
I believe that his plan for me is Grand
But it never hurts to have an Ace in the Hole
So I'll leave my future in the hands of God
But I'll set my foot where no man has trod