Another old poem

Seemingly
We have planted seeds
As your steady hand packs
My wavering one slips
And spills the seeds
Handfuls of seeds
That would have bloomed colorfully
But it appears
The seeds have been devoured
By the tiny black insects that crawl the earth
Foolishly I spilled the seeds
And fed these pests to their indulgence
Fed them until they tauntingly died
with the seeds still in their bodies.

Here's something I was and am still Proud of..

Tricks up your sleeve
Smiling kings and queens
Never reach my pair
Smirking and silent
The king unsheathes his sword
And gently slides it on my flesh
Thick wet blood
Is borne from my pair
Veins bleed down my face
As I close my eyes and regret
The cards I laid on the table.

Something Old

White butterflies turn
lavender as they
Pass through its shade where
gently seems to sway
The phantom of my little
daughter's swing.

All colors made me happy: even gray.
My eyes were such that they
took photographs. Whenever I'd permit,
Or, with a silent shiver, order it.