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Francie Lynch Mar 2016
Elections
And euchre,
Chance and chaos.
Elect to make it trump,
On a hope and a prayer
Your partner tricks,
Getting tricks,
You're in a game
With one
Who's guiled
On tricks.
A great card game.
Mada Jan 2011
The scars I bore before that day were nothing of comparison.

Though they could not be seen, they were surly felt by all. You were gone, and it was up to me to deal.

So I just sat, hoping that maybe, if I tried hard enough, I'd be able to forget.

But as the clock thundered in my ears, I had to make a decision: lay down my heart, or keep it my hand and trust the person in front of me, hoping that their trick would be the one that helped me win at something, since I had already lost the ultimate prize...
Sam Oct 2016
The game.
All about playing the cards right,
one slip up, and you could bring your team down.
You could lose the game.
To play the cards, takes time and patience.
You will renege,
You will take your partner's trick.
It's a learning process,
never gotten on the first try.
Never give up, because in the end,
You will be dealt a lay down loner.
Ottar Feb 2015
Social breaks and cultural ridges,
Double takes and building bridges,

Seems like ages, for twenty four hour wages,
Boys to men in uniforms, training in stages,

To be soldiers, first, Engineers, second,
Every province shares, before The Reckoning,

Hands calloused, hearts as well, hands hold a couple o' beers,
Which will rouse, the parts, when the day is done, with cheers!

Thing, an exercise called a bridge gallop, where
For two weeks and twenty two hours a day we share,

A work ethic to assemble and strip bridges built,
Practice for the real deal, with a unified will,

We all know when some one else is not lift-
ing their load, brothers in arms not using theirs,

But we built bridges, long day into night
we played Euchre, in the down time,
Short night into day, smoky rooms and beers,
In play, we called empty brown beer bottles,

Dead soldiers,

We became a unit, unified, by our trade,
Jack of all trades, master of none,

All of us were from Canada's various parts,
Building bridges, in the light, in the dark.

Assembling parts, to make a whole, bridge,
From bank seat, to bank seat,
It took many bridges, for Canada to meet,
The soldiers and Engineers, UBIQUE.
What I call The Reckoning is the first Gulf War
Bank Seat, definition - Each end of the bridge must sit on a bank seat of solid ground.
Unique Latin for Everywhere, motto of the Canadian Engineers
'Talk of pluck!' pursued the Sailor,
Set at euchre on his elbow,
'I was on the wharf at Charleston,
Just ashore from off the runner.

'It was grey and ***** weather,
And I heard a drum go rolling,
Rub-a-dubbing in the distance,
Awful dour-like and defiant.

'In and out among the cotton,
Mud, and chains, and stores, and anchors,
Tramped a squad of battered scarecrows--
Poor old Dixie's bottom dollar!

'Some had shoes, but all had rifles,
Them that wasn't bald was beardless,
And the drum was rolling Dixie,
And they stepped to it like men, sir!

'Rags and tatters, belts and bayonets,
On they swung, the drum a-rolling,
Mum and sour.  It looked like fighting,
And they meant it too, by thunder!'
Looking over my mom’s shoulder
while she sat in her chair
with her Toshiba laptop, and
a hummingbird’s beak
was nestled in sugar water
outside the living room window.

Engaged in her game of “Buck Euchre”
while I massaged her stiff neck
with my tired fingers, she
messaged her opponents
“You guys will be lucky to
take one ‘trick’ this round
with the hand I got.”

Her brisk tapping of the keyboard
seemed nearly in sync
with the fierce flickering of
the hummingbird’s wings.

I wondered what it’d be like
if my mom had energy
like a hummingbird everyday—
upbeat and alert,
But I knew that wish was
out of reach. Chemo kept her
house-ridden;
either in her bed or a seat.

“Yes! Ha! Ha! suckers,” my
mom shouted,
“Ben, there’s no way they will beat me.”
I smiled and said,
“You show ‘em, Mom.”
Tate Morgan May 2014
I had a great, great, grandmother
still alive when I was a child
She was my grandpas, grandmother
even then she was a bit wild
Born in eighteen seventy eight
on a buckboard in Missouri
She had come a long way by then
she was fit and full of fury

We played cards everyday with her
beating her nearly made her weep
"Poopie, kacky, nanny" she'd say
"looks like it's time for you to sleep"
She'd wake me nearly every night
she returned from playing bingo
I'd play with her, games of euchre
sports of chance and foreign lingo

She would walk wherever she went
eat apples, including the core
Cuss and drink, then give me a wink
as she pulled the cards from her drawer
At times she would regress somewhat
"grandpa quit me in thirty four
Thought me uptight, he wasn't right
wouldn't run *** with me no more"

Her first picture was a tin type
"I was a looker in my day
I turned heads in the finest spreads
back then, I always got my way"
She witnessed many inventions
electric, lights to cars and trains
the first to own, a telephone
where she'd talk through the morning rains

At ninety she and I would watch
as three men circled round the moon
"We'll be on Mars, and then the stars
if I don't kick off pretty soon"
She lived to see her kids away
making sure they were buried right
"Yep" she'd say "I put them away
tucked em in for the winters night"

Once when we were playing football
and the game was getting quite tense
She'd sauntered by, looking quite spry
  I knocked her down, along the fence
She got up and kicked me senseless
too many bananas and beer
"Now you know, how to take a blow
don't ever show them any fear"

Granny was an institution
a relic of our bygone days
Laughter and tears, poured from her years
her sometimes odd and senile ways
She had outlived all her children
and a couple of grand-kids too
War nor drought, could put her light out
the toughest broad I ever knew

Tate
Our roots are almost always interesting. I think in my case I loved the roots to my great great grandmother. She was an institution. Older than Methuselah. I thought she was sister to father time. But she always seemed to take a liking to me.
Kayla Knight Oct 2010
Thank you.*

Such abused words.

Too often they are a lie.
Lists of names barely remembered,
slurred together in a hasty speech,
a meaningless slip of arrogance.

I had no audience,
no beautiful faces
like drowning lights,
yellow eyes in a smoky room.
Fearful and cold,
I wrote them alone,
birthed in my mind
by desperation and giddiness,
those flighty muses.

But you were there,
my euchre girls
and boating boys,
and I held you
tightly to my chest.

I release them now
my handful of
teardrop butterflies,

And they fly home to you.
© 2010 by Kayla Knight
Terrin Leigh Dec 2014
It didn't seem real
It was like he had only gone fishing
Of course, that was only a dismal hope
a faint glimmer of me wishing

I'll miss him dearly
Won't get to see him biyearly
playing games - cards and such
golf, euchre, slapjack, and sequence

No more am I able to hug his round belly
or give a kiss on his sandpaper cheeks
But no more will he ache or shake
Oh, what a glorious day!

My heart hurts for my grandmother's loss
The house feels empty without his jolly, old laugh
But there we left her,
playing a lonely game of solitaire

Yet, his memory lives on through me
I can tell of his love for our country
Eagles, flags, and family
These were his pride and joy

I loved him so much
I really did
But I can live in peace
Knowing he's waiting for me
with Jesus
for my Grandpa Creese
Francie Lynch Dec 2017
Tears and Blisters,
Co-conspirators,
Connected in body and spirit;
As only twin sisters can know.
Their attachments grow;
From first beat and breath,
Then blanket-warm *******,
Searching with eyes,
Reaching with smiles.

A double stroller sets their stage:
Two of these and those for every age.
One sitting, one pushing
The swing on the tree;
One feeling, one sensing
What either one sees.
One pitching, one catching,
Which one doesn't matter;
No visible signals to out the batter.
Like sparring partners in the ring,
Tin cans or mittens joined by string,
Or watching backs like tandeming.

Enigmatic in fact or fiction,
Like the Rosetta for hieroglyphics;
Communicating cryptograms.
The embodiment of the Venn diagram.

The mirror image can be deceptive,
Right seems left when reflected;
Unique and semi-mystical,
As snowflakes or ice crystals;
Yet tight as rings round trees.
Our tears and blisters,
Though twin sisters,
Will divulge individuality.

          (And I'll be round to play some doubles,
           You on one side // and me with your mother.
           Euchre, crib, tennis, golf;
           Or whatever you choose.
           The gloves are off.
)
"Tears and blisters" is a cockney phrase for "sisters."
Identical twins on the way.
Lucas Scott Jan 2020
Laying among the brown and green and red
its glassy eyes, faint and unfocused
against heavy breathing

Great job, my father’s knife unsheathes
he pats me on the back, hard and so loud
I must lean on my crossbow

We carry it back to his truck
a heavy mess, and it stinks
we work together

He tells me about his friends
the people he spends all his time with
how they all play Euchre

I ask how to play.  What is trump?
He laughs. The weight shifts
I’ve asked this so many times before

With a wet thud, we throw it in his truck bed
it hides beneath a tattered light blue tarp
fastened with frayed bungee cords

Driving, he talks about his softball team again
and in his cracked rearview mirror
the tarp lifts slightly, and I see its fat tongue

My head turns. The tears are too warm
I fall into my hands, cheeks swollen
my father focuses on the road, hands gripping the wheel
K-ROB May 2020
How do you sum up a summer of fun?!
We lost a few brain cells and got a bit dumb
Taking the impala on a late night creep ride
Pull up to the stoplights and, "OH ****", it died!
We discovered a bridge, and a few unknown roads
We met a few people, some came and some went,
Some because scandalous, and others, we got spent
What's with the hot fro boys, this I don't know...
We both had our thing, but they just had to go.
Hemp was the junk; we learned the tricks of the trade,
strangers, teachers, friends, everyone got one made.
How cool are we, we had Party hats?!
We ate at Tiki a lot, and went to Chicago to dance.
What can I say, you got me to drink.
I had a good time, but was dysfunctional... I think.
From "*** with Sally" to the lifeguard chair
Where did we come up with this ****, it just isn't fair
How many times did we play euchre?  Too many 2 count
I just gave Kristy all 4 bowers, hope no one finds out!
How awesome are you, to have a barn party birthday 4 me?!
It was a good time, I could barely see.
We listened to Tom Petty, about a million times.
We also got down to the "u know u ghetto" rhymes.
It seems sad that summer ended so fast.
But don't worry my friend,
By the time you finally get this poem, summer will be back!!!
written by one of my best friends from high school/ college years -Lindsay and Brianna alternated weekends to come see me my sophomore year of college at ISU- thinking of good music, good times, good places, good vibes
Rob Cohen Dec 2020
"Here the crow starves, here the patient stag
Breeds for the rifle…"

I.
With Tongues Cut Out

The knife is mightier than the pen
when the writing on the wall spells out
'hands in manacles
and feet in shackles for innocent writers'
while gangs run the empty streets
leading to overflowing morgues.

Banner shadow play falls over jesters
hanging from puppet strings
at the hands of trigger-happy
self-appointed kings
who write horror scripts
recited by the comedy production
at the united nations of starvation.

Clinics filled with prophets
who flew ignored warning signs
in the darkness of algorithm skies  
designed by gimmicks of  
clicks billed for profits.

Rouge vermillon flags and berets
form a red sea of people
with a full hand of joker cards in a game euchre.
They shuffle rival tables
for first draft deals
fallen from conveyor belts
serving meals of shiny plastic fruit.  

Blue birds plagiarize
and sing the olive branch song
while flying over white nights into a landslide
crash-landing from heights
signed on the first
exploding in tunnel-vision shouting
from left to right
  diverged and reversed.

  II.
Special Needs of the Entitled

Orange jackets dressed in disguise
as multicolored coats
in the town of naked emperors
on their knees
at the foot of a hollow throne.

Fifteen minutes of spotlight
is sold at crossroads
for souls
trapped under mouse mind control
damaged and caged
in happy-ever-after city.

Blue ticks bite through bright lit screens
pulling the strings of wallflower fever
in an echo chamber of partisan screams.

A falling feather in the arctic summer
rises on a pendulum weighed down
by a pinch of salt of the earth
sprinkled with spoons of weightless self-worth
and the nerve to disturb the universe.

   III.
Self Defense Classes  

Purple bags fall in the hands of pupils
seeking dilated nights
with sprinting minds behind wide eyes
in a race of blinkered horses
on a course inside a skull shaped coop
with lanes drawn in sandy lines.

Spiked seats on concrete floor stations
hide behind broken latch doors
in bathroom stall conference rooms
drip
           drop
                        dead
for the water of life is poison
and the medicine is venom.
Your daily dose of choices
lie between the bottom of a bottle
or staring down a barrel
(though red and blue
                                       are but two)
  
A recent review
for 'the last voice of reason' read:
/
too depressed to be iconic
too cynical to be ironic.

    IV.
The Way, the Truth & the Death

Stained glass distorts the view
through cathedral windows,
painting a rainbow over drowning floods
and warping the picture seen from pews.

Thorny-stemmed yellow roses
lie spread across sallow sanatoriums  
at the feet of newfangled sunset beds
    while some envy the dead.

The first visit tore the world apart
with unholy crusades and war.
The second coming will end it all
                        first with whimpers
  then the second big bang.
Noël pour l'or // Mort de Dieu (Unfinished Poem)
Chuck Kean Mar 18
In The Color Of Night

       Life that was once of family and
Love filled with times of togetherness
Long gone and forgotten lost in the
Shadows of darkness and loneliness

Family picnics and reunions and
Birthday parties are now just memories
Euchre tournaments and Christmas
Parties are in vaults of past centuries

No one ever calls but may send a random
Or rare text Separated by generations gap
Lost are the ones that were the glue
The Elders left behind didn’t adapt

Technically still bonded by blood
But it’s the only way we’re connected
Now we’re just people we once knew
And more like strangers rejected

The only time we’re together is when
One of us dies and walks into the light
When everyone cries around a casket
All dressed In The Color Of Night

Written By:Charles Kean
03/18/2024
Received in a text
Hi.
Funeral info is for next week 10 am on Tuesday and calling hours Monday 4-7. At Schoedinger in Gahanna

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