Poetry 03/01/2014

Well today has been very much like yesterday blustery and sunny so the view from my window was pretty much the same, neighbours out with dogs cars up and down the close. So under the pain of a bad back I have spent my day losing at poker on Facebook with a dear friend and feeling like a still life model for an artist such is the limit of my movement at present. The following poems in part reflect the outcome of the day and are little bit away from my usual nature works but fun none the less for it. Hope anyone who reads them has a laugh at the Poker Gods. May life share a smile with you all, today and always.

The Poker Gods

Chips remained, so I decreed,

a final chance to succeed.

200k the table was set,

All in! All in! The common bet.

9 and 8 fell at the turn,

chips all in the price to burn.

Two more souls for poker heaven,

very next hand we lost number 7.

I had bided my time, held my chips dear,

pocket aces arrived, my course was clear.

6, 5, 4, fell to river card rape,

The Poker Gods spoke but just for my sake.

Four aces standing, tall and proud,

into the last 3 I did abound.

Chip leader to boot I had held my nerve,

backing a flush number 3 did swerve.

Only 2 remained at the mercy of the gods,

all in, all in, not bad odds.

Betting began, hard and fast,

both of us racing to become the last.

All in again, he threw them down,

a gauntlet picked up by this poker clown.

The flop fell, 2 kings in tow,

a king in hand, 1 to go.

A flush was building, the river came,

carrying a king to win the game.

Whether or not they really care,

for some strange reason the poet's still there.

The Poker Gods' Betrayal

River card raped, oh how can it be,

the poker gods spoke but not for me.

They screwed me again with nary a thought,

taking my balance down to nought.

Once or twice I can manage a smile,

but every hand fills the mouth with bile.

You rip off twats can keep your game,

shove it where the sun's in flame.

For this poet has come to an end,

no more money will he ever send.

So a life without poker shall now begin,

the poker gods can wear their grin.

For the Englishman they came to kill,

is still around and not playing still.

But these words he offers thus,

to all the lost souls in the dust.

The poker gods are tincup muppets

whose only game is for willing puppets.

Backache of the old

Unnoticed,

the passage of time lies bathed in sweat,

forgotten momentarily under a broken body.

Forced into resting against my will,

I become a sitting statue, minimal movement my new best friend.

2014 appeared on the calendar,

the spring in my step faltered under the misshaped shadow by my side,

a Quasimodo stance carrying anguish in each ill-defined line.

Internal tears cascade in their own waterfall of pain,

hours roll by amid dark anger riddled moods,

I find clarity in one singular thought,

I am old!