Friday, March 7, 2025

Judas Hand

 Landscape in Stormy Weather, 1885 - Vincent van Gogh
 
 
 
Judas Hand
( a 55)
 
March howls its broken promise
to erase the extra decades in your bones;
 
you're spent in bed still feeling
the burn that made the ash.
 
The ghostwind cuts
your lips with a dead man's kiss.
 
You forget hummingbirds are coming
like children cured by the sea
 
and wish you'd never bet
on that judas hand.
 
 
 
 
March 2025
 

 

 
 
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
posted for the Word Garden Word List 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Notes: a poker hand of black aces and eights with a card in the hole is called a dead man's hand, after the hand held by Wild Bill Hickok when he was shot in the back of the head in Deadwood, Dakota Territory 1876. It's also known as the judas hand. Alternatively, a judas hand can be three tens, representing the thirty pieces of silver Judas Iscariot received for betraying Jesus Christ.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Images: Landscape in Stormy Weather 1885 ©Vincent Van Gogh  Public Domain
Display in Deadwood, South Dakota with the dead man's hand (here given as A♠ A♣ 8♠ 8♣ 9♦) Vidor at English Wikipedia.Public Domain

12 comments:


  1. you're spent in bed still feeling
    the burn that made the ash.

    I know this feeling indeed. I can't decide which couplet I love the most: this one, the children cured by the sea, or the final one about the judas hand. In the Last Supper, there is symbolism around the Judas hand as well. You have educated me about the card players' version. Though I was familiar with the term "dead man's hand" and its background, I could not have told you which cards it denoted. As always, you have dealt a winner.

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  2. The lines Shay quotes really struck me, too. Wow. I am always in awe at your writing, Joy.

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  3. I can't say it any better than Shay. This is brilliant poetry. Such power in 55 words.

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    Replies
    1. Thank you, Susie. Sorry I couldn't figure out how to leave a comment on your piece. I loved Twila and her voice, and the clean cut of her understanding.

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  4. The poem reads like the afterlife of the hole in Wild Bill's head, long after the bullet tendered fate to aces 'n' eights. Curious penultimate stanza, I read it as grace comes like a bullet arrived back from the sea which only makes the bet more regrettable. Seasons are lamentable because dead things don't change.

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    1. But of course, neither do the hummingbirds, or the sea. Thanks, B.

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  5. God almighty you must be walking with me and the dogs at 5AM with the wind howling down the Hudson,

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  6. Your words cut to the core, Joy, so much lost that recovery seems impossible.

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  7. 3 freaking am again. and 4, 5, and 6 for me, the baleful red eyed numbers of the bedside clock. that 4th stanza feels like a respite before the twist back at the close. a fine 55 that Galen would have loved.

    oh, btw, the review accepted Stalks as is, finally. yeesh.

    good to see you writing, Joy ~

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    Replies
    1. Thanks, Michael. The respites are few and far between but nice when they show up. Congratulations on the un-messed-with publication. And good to hear from you.

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    2. sorry to have been so absent.

      petrichor here - the heavy rains this morning have somehow released blue sky and towering clouds. I ordered Lilium Casa Blanca for my cousin who keeps a garden, they are supposed to land this Friday. I was curious what you do in March to prep for planting. I do not have a garden at the moment, but do fantasize sometimes about pushing my decidedly black thumb into the dirt nonetheless. growing things don't much care for human idiocy, and I find that refreshing. even hopeful.

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    3. Casa Blanca is one of my favorites. Such a scent from those startlingly white petals. March is seedling starting time here for planting out after Easter. AFA prepping your beds, compost and organic matter and mulch are my trifecta. We shred leaves and bury kitchen scraps. I have even been known to throw my banana peels right on the beds. ;) there is no therapy like the garden.

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"We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, out of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry." ~William Butler Yeats

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