Family quarrels are bitter things. They don't go according to any rules. They're not like aches or wounds, they're more like splits in the skin that won't heal because there's not enough material.
F. Scott Fitzgerald

---

I keep you in a book,
Tucked away in the top drawer
of my night stand
I flip through
from time to time
when I can't sleep
when I can't read
when the words don't come
as quickly as the morning does

You're a grain of rice.
Now you have a face.
A hospital bracelet
Boy, 7/27/2011, 10:15am
Folded up in a plastic sleeve
You're dressed like Santa
For your first Christmas

We have the same smile

In this one I'm leaning forward
and your arms and legs
dangle in the air
We were at the park
You loved the flowers and bushes,
the butterflies and birds that
scattered as I pushed you along
The path

The book isn't full,
A plaid patterned
sticky note
shaped like a heart reads
"More to come soon."

Night after night,
book after book,
Crumpled page after crumpled page,

the morning comes.

Going back to memory lane
Holding the picture to see what I experienced, good or not
Dusting away my dusty, rusty memories
Smiling, frowning down that long windy road of mine
Realizing you can't go back to that moment
Realizing that next time. . .
You'll keep it, capture it and treasure it
And you'll realize how much that memory had meant once you go back to memory land once again

They say to have a writer
Fall in love with you
So you will never die.
But I say
Seize the love of a musician.
Someone to write you
Into colors in the air
And star-****** behind the eyelids
Of any who will listen
To the tale of you that they wrote.

Musicians, like writers,
Bring light through a fog
With their love-speak and poems.
But music-makers
Can create flowers in winter
And warmth without fire.
Their melodies dance
Over the swish of grass blades
And between the tooth-gaps of children
Whose fingers are sticky
With sweet popsicle juice
While an oil-painted scene
Is painted in your mind.

So be cherished my a musician
And hear yourself forever;
Be sung by a hundred different voices,
Danced by fairies and pretty young girls,
Costumed in dissonance,
Etched into souls.
For you can never really die
When you echo forever in the cavern
Of a good song.

When you left us
You left me your laptop
Your laptop was like your life
When you had one

With it you Left me
Poems
Music
Pictures
Your highscores on The preprogrammed games
Secrets
&
Memories

But
They're not you
and you left
and what happens when I've
memorized
all the poems
the pictures
and
The highscores are beat
The secrets are irrelevant
The memories have faded
Along with the Thought of You
and your Future

Looking back at old pictures.
Because who wouldn't want to go back to being the once so strong and confident being they used to be.
Because I know I would.

A.C

A picture conveys a thousand words,
But fails to describe your golden glow,
the voice of angels  that I have heard,
and the many sides that you don't show.

For in every frame it may well capture,
your chestnut hair, and deep brown eyes,
yet still it can't express the rapture,
of the beauty that you keep inside.

What difference makes an album or two,
if the world cannot appreciate
the bonds between a me - and you,
my better half, and  a true soul-mate.

Lights on, search lights on to find what I need.

Look, look even in a book,
Not there wont you have a look.

Lost but not found taken by sum crook,
When it was what it was I often took a look.
                                                           ­                               My eyes filled with tears memories,

Passed thru hand an hand the picture of you was what they took.