Murphy Deals Nothing But Nineteens - a Poem of Life as Cribbage

(been a while since I spoke of the cribbage game I so often see life as... bear with me, ye who know not that counting by fifteens is important somehow.)


Murphy showed,
took a seat,
shoved the board over,
and started to deal
without cutting first,
to decide.

Foolish me,
I accepted challenge.
And now stare hard
at cards that are useless
unless he plays wrong
during the peg,
unlikely event.

Nineteen hands,
all I see,
no matter who deals,
as my luck fades away
into the convective debris
cloaking night sky
rotating above.

Can't peg,
cannot even score,
even the crib's crap,
touched by a sinister hand
of his fickle mistress,
ol' Lady Luck,
joining in.

Life watches,
as does Fate,
God's too busy elsewhere
to interfere this time around,
so I slog on.
Each hand draining
away hope.

He rounds
that First Corner,
steamrolls across Double Skunk
as I creep down holes
that try to suck
me into Hell
each move.

Each failure
echoed in Life
who snarls over this
despite her best efforts lately
to let me recover.
Murphy's ideas, though,
are different.

Anger flares,
as he passes
across the Skunk Line,
with me eking out points
only when his ego
over-extends cards
he holds.

Mugged him
twice along way,
but still his pegs
keep their bloody, damned distance,
And the cards refuse
to cooperate any,
never delivering.

Three hands
it takes him
to manage to win,
pegging out by baiting me
into seeking six points
for three fives,
fourth his.

Another loss,
and anger rising,
I reset the pegs,
snarling at that distant cousin,
knowing it won't help
but needing to
vent steam.

No clue
how next game
will yet play out,
but looking at my hand,
I got an idea
I won't like
the results...
anymore
than
last
time.

17July2015 - A pissed off and desperate Dyfedd Rex, seeking at least an eight or twelve hand, to break this drought of luck.

Too many "Nineteen Hands"
dealt out by ol' Fate
and she wonders why I duck
when she moves her hands,
dealing more cards out.

The pegs sit still
back behind that awful line
marked by two nasty minded skunks
who want to spray you
to mark your failure.

This is what's faced
when the cards don't fall
in patterns you can make work
to dig yourself out slow
from this worldly grave.

The cards don't lie,
they just fail to show,
and you pray to peg some
just to move those pegs
on God's Cribbage Board.

Each hand plays out,
and with it, my luck.
Fortune being so fickle a gal,
she loves to watch me
squirm at the drought.

But those ladies fear
the day the cards turn.
For give me one good hand,
and play your cards wrong
and I'll deny victory.

Tens, no fives showing.
Sixes, lacking any nines around.
These are the hands I keep seeing.
No runs, no fifteens, nor
taste of a flush.

Still, I keep playing,
striving to get across lines
that only God and I know,
marking life events, some great
most too damned small.

Wait a minute, here.
It's my turn to deal!
Despite the dismal showing to date,
I resist temptation once more,
and refuse stacking deck.

If not by hand,
then by that lonely crib,
or perhaps a bit of "muggin's",
I'll to one-twenty-one
and win out, perhaps.
15August2014 -  A grumpy Dyfedd Rex.

Nuttin' but Nineteens - More Cribbage and Philosophy Mixed in Poem

Life's been dealing off the bottom,
nothing but crappy Nineteen hands
meant to break my spirits,
and wear me down to grist.

So I do what I can,
trying to peg my way
round that final corner
ahead of the Grim Reaper.

Fate is a fickle gal,
so I hope she turns
her back on the others
trying to catch me 30 back.

We'll see what she deals
once I make the effort
later this week at looking
for a job yet one more time.

Better be enough
to prevent the skunk
I've been smelling lately.
Or to slide to 121.

Been a rough spell,
these last few years,
enough to wear one out
and make one fear cards.

Still, never can tell
what a crib will hold,
especially in the game
life makes me play...
...Upon God's Cribbage Board.

23September2013 - Dyfeddd Rex

Starting Count Late - Another Poem of Life's Cribbage Game.

Someone started dealing again
and I seem to be starting out
about a corner behind others
as Murphy applies his Law
to my Life one more time.

Each hand we play sucks,
seen better garbage dealt
by Blackjack dealers westward
about Wendover's location.
But you play what's dealt.

The Ace of Rejections,
the Jacks of Damnation and Despair,
Three of Ill Omens appear,
with the Six of False Hope
and Seven of Bad Weather.

Not a Fifteen to be had,
no matter how I hold,
so I toss the low cards off
only to have that bite,
as Deuce of Cold is cut.

This is my Crib too,
and as I fail to peg
and miss one Muggin's
when Murph fails count
I realize things ain't better.

Turning over the final hand
well behind the Skunk line
Life digs me harder
with Eight of Hate
and King of Fear.

Wonder how I stand
on God's Cribbage board
probably well down tubes
as the points get counted
and I take another loss.

23September2013 - Dyfedd Rex (Still hoping for a better hand dealt)

Murphy Wants to Play - A poem of God's Cribbage Board

When I came in today
I heard the shuffling cards,
and after a little bit
that ghostly crib board appeared
once more with pegs set
for three players to game.

Looking at the score track
I note the skunks taken
by the others of late
as I got mugged again.
Yet I am not out
needing to settle my account.

God deals out first hand
and from my five cards
I choose one to discard
having to load his crib
or break my sweet hand
leaving me to trail behind.

So once more we play
on this ethereal game board
and the pegs mark progress
though I wonder some times,
is it just a dream
until Satan's hand is nineteen.

That leaves me to smiling.
Yeah, even the Lying Prince
has to be honest here
for he knows he's replaceable,
as Murphy sits behind him
asking to be dealt in.

Never sure what cards land
on the table for me
until I lift them up
and pray Lady Luck intervenes
to give me the cut
and make my hand win.

13December2012 - Dyfedd Rex.

New Project Alert.... A short story of CRAPP...

So, this idea has been bouncing off the rocks in my head for a while now, and its flowing out today...
Imagine if the EPA had a special division to do the cleanups behind all the Vampire Slayers, Zombie Killers and Wizards that roam around in fantasy these days...
Then give the main character all my worst tendencies, amplified... and an attitude about bureaucracy that is beyond even mine. Make him a Luddite (Technophobe), only able to love women unavailable to him and hate paperwork even though its his mealticket.
Then toss in a division of the Army that creates problems all the time he has to clean up, two demons who follow him around and his dog, which has allergies to paranormal phenomenon and those with abilities in such.
Not sure where its going yet, other than out to Dugway Proving Grounds.... This may get ugly.

Poetry? Philosophy? or One from the view of the other?

There is a poetry about some philosophies
that twist the words about in dance
leaving one to feel lost in the flow
about you as they are read in quiet.

There are so many philosophies about poetry
one barely knows where to start out
from calling it words to soothe the soul
or a nasty, wicked habit you don't like.

Truth be told, they are intertwined tight
wound up into a near singularity of words
each conveying many meanings within
sometime carrying concepts unintended.

So you seek a sage as metaphysical guide
someone to hold a guide on high up
for you to follow through the maze
the words are built into at times.

The poet works with words and images
as the philosophers work with words and ideas
and some weld the two disciplines together
seeking to make beauty with words of spirit.

Stanzas, choruses, lines and words become sharp
even as intent is shrouded in the vagaries
where meanings try to leak out between the ink
seeking to excite some one's brain just for a moment.

Deeper callings are presented within the forms
words chosen to be like daggers of old
to penetrate armor built up in ignorance
and release the souls bound within such rigidity.

The metal we sheath ourselves in now
is not to save the body so much
as its there to keep out new thoughts
holding us in brittle and dangerous rigidity.

Can you see the words blossom with power?
Even as ideas collapse fast into seeds of words?
each seeking to return to Earth's warm embrace
and grow safely or wait for a personal Spring's arrival.

Every letter now floats in the air around me
seeking rearrangement in my foggy head
to either shroud or illuminate what I lay out
can you see where I am headed with this?

Neither can I, for philosophy oft fails
to convey directly what I have to share
as the preacher man walks by me softly
offering his own thoughts of the day.

And as he hath his philosophy to spread
so too do I have one to sow and harvest
farmed out in rows of digital words and sigils
within which lay my soul, dreams and perhaps...
         ... my own path to redemption's embrace.

(12/6/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)

Bottom Dealer's Punishment

The rasp of the cards
Makes ol' Scratch flinch quick
as memory of past games rise.
He knows this is another
of those games coming now
at him with a vengeance
just by the mean glint
in my eyes' squinting corners.

Cards float across the table
and are picked up fast
by his red clawed hand
that trembel a small bit
as he thinks once more
"Why am I playing again?"
Then remembering where he was
when not across from me.

I won't embarass him much
other than to say this,
He missed his Nibs twice,
had three lousy nineteen hands
and I stole his crib
more times than he wished.
Not that it mattered any,
he still crossed skunk line.

So we sit now quiet
waiting for fresh coffee brewing
and wonder if he will
try again to cheat me
and suffer a terrible price
as I told him before:
"Deal off the bottom, Satan
and I start taking muggings."

A Friendly Game of Crib with the Adversary - A poem of Cribbage and Metaphysics

Old Scratch came around
looking for a soul
but only found me
and that cribage board,
shuffling cards in boredom.

So the Devil smiles,
taking the facing seat
and says: "Deal, mortal."
grinning as he adds
"Your soul for losing."

I give him nothing
but a smug grin
looking to ask why
only to strangely find
tears on his face.

"I gotta meet quota"
he admits in chagrin
as I deal cards
"But days like these,
the Other Side wins."

As he lifts up
his cards to play
I break his heart.
"No bets today, Scratch.
But coffee's on me."

We played as viscious
as any other time
when bets were made,
but without the cheating
and muggings of old.

Its sad when folks are down on their luck
And old Adversaries come to commiserate over bad times
But over the board you form a bond true,
that is not shownb the pegs' final positions.

When he finally left
I watched his back
curved and slumped over,
and had to sigh
as he walked away.

If it's this bad
that Satan feels beaten
by the sagging economy,
the why do I
not smile in joy?

Or is it this:
that over our games
as he tried stealing
my immortal soul away
we each earned respect?

Besides, I only won this time by getting in a fifteen-two
before having to tell him "Go" for one-twenty-one.

Perils of the Board / Cards Against Me - yet another Cribbage poem (s) (see a pattern here?)

I went to all that trouble to load the crib,
had a five and a jack tossed in,
and the good five came up,
making it the right jack.
I turned over the cards you tossed in
and the first one made my heart race.
Another five, oh baby, please please please.
And I flipped over a dang six.
If I wanted a six of anything,
it would be six beers while in bed.
Blast. There went another chance at the high hand.
All I got now was a lousy fifteen-8,
six for the nickels, and one for his nibs.
Still leaves me behind the line, and eating a skunk,
even though I count first next hand.

--------

Right from the cut for deal,
Things went wrong somehow.
I drew a deuce and knew that Lady Luck had walked.
You had a king, higher than me by far.
The deal was garbage, I remember asking who dealt it,
and tossed you an eight-seven to avoid breaking
a double run just down the count, 4-5-5-6.
Damned if an hourglass didn't come up,
and you tossed your won pair of sev's.
You pegged on me hard, from the first hand on,
And it was like your cards were on fire.
I got two nineteen hands,
but you had runs and fifteens to spare.
Even a flush once.


You took the corner fast,
three hands and two cribs,
and I still wasn't there,
while you were half way from the corner
to double skunk bend.
The cards turned after that,
for a little while anyway, just enough
for me to make it past the two stinkers,
and close to dozen holes back
You had junky hands, but still could do me in
as I was so rattled you mugged me twice.
Back stretch was going fast,
you again pulled away, 24 in a double double run
and a crib worth seventeen, with faces and a five,
Right jack in the hand, never missing a count.
while I ate your dust with lousy pairs
and once a six hole hand for fifteen four
and the twain of nines by way of a six.
　

God's Cribbage Board - another cribbage poem

Its like its all some game
that God and Satan play
with me as third hand
on this strange board.

Where the holes lead
up or down marking
the fate of my soul
as we play each hand.

I peg again on a nineteen hand, desperate to make something of nothing
and in the end still wind up facing the corner called skunk counting last.

What if each hand really counted
mattered to my tattered soul's state
does God score you down for muggin's
or just forgive you for making the try?

What are in those five cards dealt
and who do I play against each time?
Yet it matters not as I grab them up
and try to make somehting of them.

Do we play on a simple double lap board, with each game mattering for all
or is this another in a series match on the Scoremaster of a caring Diety?

Two fours, a six, a Jack and a seven
what to throw to God's crib?
Or did the dark one deal this hand
I have lost track of things again.

No matter what I choose to do
somehow it will go wrong on the cut
and while there is four free to take
should I toss the seven and gamble?

Choices are made, cards set aside, and then the peg war begins
to decide the fate of my eternal soul, or at least the way the day will go.

With the cut, it all plays out
five of hearts makes a show
and gives me hope it not in vain
as I play the seven, six and fours.

Gambler's luck, touch of fate
I turned a small hand to enough
to round that corner as I counted
fifteen six, and ten for the double run.

Not this game boys, you still have yet to skunk me this decade
as I play with a vengeance to show you both, I am still myself.

-D. A. Neely 12/23/2010

Ol' Scratch tossed me a High Hand and lost - a cribbage poem

Cut for the deal with shaking hand
Fate tossed the low card to me
so he shuffled the cards slow
grinning wide to show the teeth
sharpened to points and long fangs
his forked tongue tracing their lines
as he smiled and made the challenge
"First Corner costs a soul".

I could not back out having already agreed
to a game for the terms of first dealer's choice
so I gritted my teeth, and waited calmly
as he dealt six placards face down
each sliding before me with icy chill
yet when I picked them up for the hand
two to toss stood out so fast and sure
I almost questioned my sanity.

Tossing them with a grin into his crib
I asked for Lady Luck or the Saints
to bless my chance of the moment
and blast me to the sky if they didn't
as the five of clubs Ol' Scratch turned over
I led with a fiver, he dropped a knave
to peg first for the fifteen smiling wickedly
until I dropped the Right Jack down my two.

He played an ace next thinking I held faces
only to watch me reset the clock
sinking another five to make thirty-one
as fear took his face wonder if I had it.
His lead was ten bloody hearts
so I dropped the five to his dismay
and he frowned dropping the four
knowing I was around the corner.

So here is my advice if you care to take it.
If the Devil comes round to play Cribbage
Don't bet your soul, for that High Hand is rare
and he hates letting folks free of the flames of Hell.