NaPM April 13th 2019
Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month. 

NaPM April 13th, 2019

Topic: A poem concerning relationships between/among members of a suit of playing cards - King, Queen, Jack, and the numbers

Form: any

Line Requirement:  8 lines or more.
The Soufflé isn’t the soufflé; the soufflé is the recipe. --Clara 
The Game

Queen of hearts, your odor still on my fingers
morning after; I'd like to believe
that makes me the king,
gladly accepting that sword to my brain
just to lie atop of you,
dealer's hand not strong enough
to seperate us- the queen of spades
that bitch I dated in college,
who lied about being pregnant
after I left her; the jack of diamonds,
our neighbor you avoid, who sells drugs,
yet helped change my flat tire last year,
but the truth is, we're just the low cards.
I'm a two who refuses to dream of threes,
you're a four pretending to be an eight by day,
only to have a box hidden under a twin bed,
where there's tarnished jewelry
your mother was supposed to be buried in,
and the truth is, I love the way it looks on you.

Any suggestions for a better title?

Time is the best editor.
We Match Up Well

We don’t array in portrait, 
trick well, or show in finery– 
resplendent design, multiple colors 
display, facial hair fashioned
and eyes of knaves.

They never say, but in whispered
chambers exchanges, Queens to Jacks,
Aces to Queens, knowing there must be
a certain fall – though three Kings they be, 
they know they’ll be on bended knee – 
to us fours of four, and fours of three.
Jack’s Play

Jack’s got no sister
and no brother, either–
such a little family, just King and Queen
and him, Crown Prince
(others pointless numbers,
even Ace, dependable Earl Marshal,
still not royalty).

But Jack’s plans are set:
Ace falls, victoriously dead;
Dad dies of age and stuffiness,
Mom’s Regency succumbs to rumored madness–
and it’s done!

King Jack will make his court
pinochle royalty: two queens,
two jacks (one Jacqueline).
An extra Ace is handy, though
a second King (pretender!) threatens awkwardness.
Then no further worry
of some outsider deuce deposing all
just because his suit’s
been elected Trumps.
feedback award Non-practicing atheist
these are getting harder. i'm struggling with this one.

All in.

They're suited all in bloody red or black;
are double glazed with two fine eyes 'cept three.
The suicidal King of Hearts and Jacks,
though only two from hearts and spades can be
the one eyed knaves; these cards have got no stones.
Aces also known as Aces high.
Hickock's hand had two, both black-monotone
with eights the same; he never said goodbye.

Don't gamble on a deadman's hand like Bill
or when the shooting starts and start it will.
You'll lose the joy of betting and the thrill
of winning pots of chips and end up chill.
best not to sit and play, just save your breath
like cancer poker sends some to their death.
Queen looked at her number two,
Her ace in the hole so to speak,
Forget that bitch what's she to scale
I'm way beyond your number 10
She has 666 stapled to her forehead.
Threes a crowd though said the king
To his jack when he learned his wifes tricks.
Paid 900 crown to cook the whole crowd.
And ate them with his seven dogs.
High fives to his new mistress as he kicks the joker
Peanut butter honey banana sandwiches
The king's top man's still in some distant country,
maybe charming his rival's wife, the queen of hearts,
and all he's left's a jack, a knave, a page---

would be a beggar if left unemployed,
a lifeless criminal if left unwatched,
a boy if left unreared---

and a whole host of peers, advisors, servants
he remembers by number, not by name.

Oh where is the king's top man? when will he send his next report?
the queen is not as good at playing bedside chess,
the jack's too coarse, the numbers are a scandal.

The king's stare gravens. He raises his sword.
The message was lost, he's sure: the wait will be twice as long
and the poor knight, waiting too, will feel as forlorn,

he's sure. And yet he raises his sword.

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