Dicing with the devil

Sliced, spliced, enticed, dishevelled
I diced for thrice the price of my life
With the devil
Stakes, rakes, his takes undefined
Heart quakes for a break with each shake
Hoping for divine
Intervention, all attention, on intention to win
Apprehension with the mention of my pension
Spread thin
Lighting inviting, inciting fair play
Fighting slighting while writing a 
Contract to pay
Frustration, stagnation, damnation to come 
Castration flirtation, 
Elation struck dumb
Locked doors, I roll fours, could be more, wanted higher
On the floor, devil’s score, guarantor 
Of hell-fire
“I win,” with a grin, devil’s skin glows red
Head spins, sinking in, beginning
To dread
“All fives,” devil jived , “for all alive, hard to beat.
You should have strived, derived, deprived my contract
From allowing me to cheat!” 

Grow where you stand

                                                        I
                                                  wipe the
                                              soil  from  my
                                           hands and stand.
                                         Surveying  the land,
                                       there is nothing grand
                                       to see as yet, only the
                                       furrows of dirt still wet
             from the first      drink offered  to  this      infant garden
      bed. Seeds planted   and placed to form    an  as-yet  invisible
lace that will grace this   space with the    blooms from nature’s loom.
  In their  dormant state,   those seeds  contain innate instructions to
   germinate, infiltrate and   dominate   the hand of space where they
     land, growing tall from the     place    they stand. I will walk over
       this patch  each  day  to     scratch  away at the earth making
           sure the berth equals    the worth            of the seeds. In
              time with my feeding   they will   grow to     seedlings,
                         needing         the             soft thudding
                        of water on the soil to   start budding and
                      coiling toward the  sky.   Without asking of
                     why they will climb high    and  try,  even  if  I
                   left them to die. I will sit   in my  garden  for  it
                   to smooth the hardened   edges life  drives into
                   wedges of my soul. The  way a flower takes  its
                   place in the world and       slowly unfurls pearls
                    of beauty curling                 for all to see, stops
                     me questioning                        if what I am, is
                       less than                                          what
                                                         I

                                                         s
                                                         h
                                                         o
                                                         u
                                                         l
                                                         d
                       
                                                         b
                                                         e.

If you're the only one ...

"Am I the only one smelling that?"

If you’re the only one laughing,
Your joke’s probably not funny
If you’re the only one seething,
Try get over it, Honey

If you’re the only one smiling,
Keep smiling, it’ll spread
If you’re the only one breathing,
They’re probably all dead

If you’re the only one dancing,
You should wait ‘til the wake
If you’re the only one burning,
You should jump in the lake

Beneath their beautiful eyes

The room was spinning, fluorescent lights fizzing by in a dizzying blur. He focussed on his mothers eyes as she held him aloft, dancing and twirling across the floor. He knew so little of life, had so little basis for comparison, but he knew the smile beneath those beautiful eyes was happiness. In his mother’s eyes he could see his own laughing face among the whirling reflections of objects in the room. Even with his legs flailing so wildly that the ends of his purple socks were coming loose and even with no control of direction or speed, he felt as though he could not be safer anywhere else in the world. He stared into his mother’s eyes, through them he stared at his own smiling face. She blinked …

Digits and windows

Hold on.

You should watch them more closely.

They will tell you more about me than I am able to articulate. They will tell you more about me than I want you to know. They have the power to touch you. They have to power to hurt you. They have the power to tease you and to please you. They can feed you, heal you, comfort you and sing to you. They identify me in a way that nothing else can. They tell you what music I like. They tell you my mood. They tell you who I am.

And yet …

They are not mentioned when describing me. They are not mentioned when complimenting me. They are not mentioned. The sonnets, odes, songs and ballads written in their honour could be counted on one of them.