Writing poetry will be a lifetime challenge for me to try and conquer. With Credits in Poetry among other accomplishments I truly respect the gift I have been blessed with. A talent that involves attempts to portray a picture through a sequence of letters in there very special order.
At the tender age of 16 I learned of my first family death, Grandpa Ralph and exactly 1 week later my grandmother Mildred who my mother took in and I was chosen to make sure she got her coffee, breakfast along with her medicine and other meals all day. I had to give up a summer of going swimming and other things that a kid my age wanted to do just to keep here company but I learned something so valuable at the same time and that was, I learned how to crochet, learned about birds, and learned to respect the elderly. To this day I still carry those values even to the point of even walking into a old folks home to just talk to strangers and even if I have to pretend to be their own family member so be it because I would like for someone to do just the same for me even if I didn’t know what was going on.
It was due to a brain tumor that took my grandmother away after Christmas that year and I remember it still ever so well when I woke up to go to work at the family’s bakery and my mom told me what had happened and everything that was to follow. My grandmother was the first of many I had saw lying ever so peaceful. I even gave her a kiss and I could feel that it was a warm one that I gave her.
Death throughout the many years now have taking on a new role. A role that should I believe be more up close and personal. Calling hours I think should be done in the family’s home where the deceased can maybe feel more comfortable being among everything they ever knew and among the ones that they loved and vice versa.
I have always wanted to be remembered centuries to follow my death. It seems the only way to accomplish that is to die either famous or infamous. Like the pope in Rome I to want to be laid out in estate for all to come and pay their respect. Obituaries now on the other hand along with media coverage to me seems, only the important and wealthy get all the coverage. Movies on another note portray a different message that has no comparison to the true facts. Directors, they make you think that it is either something so morbid like Friday the 13th or make you think you have to go out in a blaze of glory like Bonnie and Clyde. Television now has so many programs that entertain people’s most inner fears that you only want it to be more gruesome and gory. Now cartoons, that’s another ball game, children see subliminal messages that, if you die you will come back to life after you’re killed when in true contrast how can that be true.
Arts and literature including paintings, writings and music have a major impact on the subject when it comes to death, The ancient Egyptians’ I think were probably the masters on the subject of embalming. There techniques still to this day can’t be compared to. I am still fascinated to this day on just that. I even wrote Poems speaking of just such procedures and how I’d want it to be done if I had my way with the preserving of myself. With all the music and there sick lyrics your found either wanting to **** or run and hide from the killer.

(CARSr. 4-21-12)

Sitting on the gloss ebony bench of the stand up, I think of you. The shine of the ivory keys reminds me of your smile. Brilliant pearl teeth pulled back to the most stunning smile. Almost always your head tilted slightly to the right.
Placing my hands on the chilled keys, the air conditioner on even in these winter days. I think of your old house with the ever opened door, and the fan making ambient noise in the background. The way I would always joke to my friends that you were very hot, and the shocked look on their face that I used common day slang to describe looks. The laugh I would hold back as only I knew I was describing the seemingly everlasting heat in your house, and the small amount of night clothes you wore because of it.
Looking through sheet music, I fish through the book for a song to play. Frustrated and unable to find any of them interesting, I play random chords. Stringing notes together I hit a single note, and suddenly a song comes to mind. Nameless, I hit D6 again, then again. Like nostalgia slowly my right hand reminisces to the next note, and the next, left hand taking after it. Slowly my hands flood the keys with memories, melodies reminding me of the way you would dance. Each movement linked to the next, as if it were a fluid conversation.
Slowly my eyes begin to fill with tears and I begin to shake. Eyes filling to the brim, I swallow the pain in my throat and allow myself to finish the song. Last notes reminding me of how it had all started. The simplicity in a simple greeting, and the resonate sound of your absence.
Hitting the last chord I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes, and sit at the piano, willing myself, not to give into the emotions I feel. I know better than to express that sort of emotion. It’s utterly useless to express emotional pain. It only takes away and never gives. Optimism is a gift to others. If you express your sadness it will only allow you to get used to showing it. I’ve learned it’s better to hide it.
Hearing my father walking into the hallway, I place my hands on the keys and tilt my head down. Feigning contemplation, and smiling as he passes. He asks if I’m making progress, and forcing a laugh I say yes. So he moves to the door on the other end of the room and leaves for the backyard.
Looking back the keys, I force a grin. Hoping I can smile the pain away. Chest tightening as I reach for the binder of musical theater songs next to the piano. Remembering when I had first bought it to hold a song I planned to learn for you. Opening it, I find the song in side pocket.
“Prologue”

i keep restarting my life,
saying
"this is the new beginning"
when is it the middle?
the end?
when oh when will i be happy enough
with my prolouge that i
don't scrap my efforts and attempt to
restart.
when will i just continue forward?