Malaise over cribbage,
Unmade in our image;
While they ravage the earth:
Pestilence First!
The cowards save pride,
Just along for the ride;
And the prophets, they shrug.
Must be '---' tall for a hug.
A mechanical theme.
Set to writhe and teem
Astride strained ambition -
An inherent condition!
And the sole consolation?
The starved man gnaws bacon,
As he snarls at the pork;
Pokes the end of his fork.
Steely disposition.
Love's prohibition.
Swole at the seam,
This American dream.
Cambridgeshire's John Suckling
poetry's versifier king
Also part of his baggage
he invented a board or cribbage
Play hearts?
No smarts
Blackjack?
Lack knack
Go fish?
You wish
Try bridge?
Ask Midge
Old Maid?
Afraid
Cribbage?
Priv'lege
Euchre?
Nuke her
Hold 'em?
Fold 'em
Psst:
Poker?
Mediocre
It was a foggy, rainy day,
Slight breezes skipped across the bay,
Touched the shorelines and the hills,
Across the fields, buffing houses
And chilled us to our bones.
I and my brother Gerry were
Playing outside and came back in,
It being too chilly to play.
So ,we took out our toys and games,
Begging the sun to shine.
But, dark clouds would not let it shine
And wet rains kept on pouring down.
So, we played trivial pursuit,
Monopoly and cribbage games…
Waiting for tomorrow.
W.C.Hull © 2020-WCH10-WCH1-11 PPS
W.C.Hull © 2020-H1439-2549-I52-K52-17-L59-17
Thanksgiving Day has always been a special holiday
A long tradition celebrated with family in a joyful way
In my younger years we went to my grandparent’s house
When I was young and single and later on with my spouse
Grampa Joe would make homemade coleslaw and pickles
And then played cribbage games with my cousins for nickels
Mema’s home was decorated early with wonderful Christmas cheer
Every wall with reds and greens and a collection of Santa’s everywhere
Decades passed, my Mema became a widow, then moved and lived alone
It was now my turn to cook our traditional meal at my early decorated home
Turkey, stuffing, harvard beets, stuffed celery, deviled eggs and the fixings too
Now a new Thanksgiving tradition, I hoped for many years, but only just a few
We lost Mema a few years ago, Thanksgiving now feels different, so bittersweet
We spent last Thanksgiving home alone with some traditional fixings and treats
We hope to still spend Thanksgiving days with my Dad and our family together
I will cherish my years of Thanksgiving Memories, they are in my heart forever
10/28/19
Contest: Thanksgiving Memory Contest
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
Been waiting for fifteen minutes to connect my call
Not sure if the location code is known.
Keep getting invalid number please try again
What’s up with this phone?
Oh, I hear some progress in the line communicating.
Hope it’s not just a third party line,
I heard a click like someone picked up
Hi mom and dad are you both fine?
I just called to say I miss you both
Have not heard from you in awhile.
Sorry that I can see you but I can hear
Just imagine that I am sending you my smile.
This call is long distace but that’s okay with me
I won’t have to pay as I reversed the charge!
I’m doing fine but I gained some weight
My clothes don’t fit, so I will have to get extra large.
Ido miss your visits and the home cooked meals
Those were especially scrumptious treats you made
I know that food would spoil if you sent it now
and letters would not be sent unless it’s prepaid.
But I won’t keep you as I know you have gardening to do
Must be a cribbage board with pegs which dad is leading?
so I will hang up now, I’ll call again sometime
When I tap on your grave, hug me…it’s what I’m needing.
Oh… I watered the flowers before you…..
The Trivial Pursuits of my fun youth
involved challenge more than I’m so Sorry
or look for a Clue while driving freeway.
We’d fend off Trouble without undue Risk
during long winters playing Canasta
or racking Cranium. Wins came brisk.
Soon a rough Scrabble for food not garbage
meant skills learned with Pinochle or Cribbage
promised a better return on survival.
Attitude, no Big or Little Casino,
before a blocking Operation
meant a Monopoly on Life without
degradation like missing Whist or kisses.
We learned about lonely people
At a tender impressionable age
Our neighbour was sixty or so
A widower leading a quiet life
Grand-father figure to us kids
We’d drop by visit the odd afternoon
It was dark and lacked life or joy
His little house felt smoky and cloistered
He taught us how to play cribbage
First sips of beer, cigarettes, silver coins
He seemed so painfully lonely
In his little house smoky and cloistered
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
Two old men meet for coffee
once a week at a diner while
their wives play cribbage.
Jim says he has a problem.
His wife leaves the water running
in the bathroom sink late at night.
Jim says without her hearing aids
she can’t hear the water running.
Bill admits he too used to leave
the water running. Then he bought
hearing aids he can leave in at night.
Now he always turns the water off.
He tells Jim he should do what
his wife did before Bill bought
his expensive new hearing aids.
Hide the stopper to the sink.
Donal Mahoney
They Say practice makes perfect,
But I'm only practicing Emptiness
They say it's because of heartbreak
But really I haven't had the privilege,
The only reason for my heartache
Is I haven't played life's cribbage
My Imagination Wanders : To Be beside “YOU my Dearest Most Only Beloved Lenore”
Yet: I crawl through the crevices of the Graves, to Deep Craters, of my Living Hell
My Dearest “Nubbies“ , I was the Cribbage Champion ,the Day YOU Entered Glory
It’s so Black now, I can see the Scarlet Embers Leading me to the Lake of Flaming
Blood Red Tears
All my Dreams of Heaven’s Glory, of Our "Eons FOREVER"; Will never touch my Eyes :
I’ve come, to an eerie meadow , where Black Flowers Bloom Shadows of FORGETTING
My Dearest Most Only Beloved Lenore, Your Scent in my nostrils; Voice in my Ears:
You keep me Warm, in the freezing, Flames of Hell; Your soft, Auburn hair in my hands
To be Cont.
Inspired by Carolyn Devonshire
Dedicated to my Fellow POETESS’ and POETS at POETRYSOUP
Thank-YOU : TPS
ONE-WAY TICKET
Whoever wrote the adage -
Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage -
Obviously never spent a life-sentence in solitary - an age.
With nothing to act as time’s gauge
Save heartbeats which tick their way through the bondage;
With no family to the pain assuage;
No hope for marriage;
And less for a small cottage;
Or passing evenings with cribbage.
I turn my book’s story page-by-page
And examine each stage
With no remote feeling of courage
But a repressed longing which would enrage
A saint, a scholar, a sage
Who tries to think about, to engage,
My situation; and to manage
To find a reason for these steel-bars’ tutelage;
To explain my life’s stoppage;
To justify all the psycho-emotional shortage;
To comfort me with my hopes’ slippage
On this slow one-way voyage
Where the last dreary stage
Is death - which is for sin, the wage.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for Miranda Lambert’s Contest BEHIND BARS BLUES
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