Mother dearest Harriet Harris, née Kuritsky gave up the ghost ~ May 4th, 2004


Often these days

(early May 2021)
the following genuine sentiment
Matthew Scott Harris
doth wish to share one son,

cuz seventeen years after mother succumbed

courtesy of terminal illness.


I still reckon how yours truly

shrugged off proffering

tender loving care

when grim reaper in close proximity

to mama supine and nearly lifeless

within whose womb,

this sole son born,

thus shouldered with self scorn.


He clearly recounts

as if her death occurred yesterday...,

(when all mine troubles
moost definitely not far away)

last remaining grains sands of time.

Imagine an hourglass

where fine granules

trickle from one to another
(upper to lower) bulb chamber

just prior when coroner decrees death,

yet an opportunity prevailed


wherein said self (me) chose

NOT to stand vigil at deathbed

of she begat

an older and younger daughter

(mine sibling sisters).


Last breath(s) expelled while mama

tethered to machines,

(thwarting heroic measures)

one or more helped diminish
agonizing, depressing, and writhing

pain and discomfort

racked once fitness

and health conscious
industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,

which malignant terminal illness

(no joke) riddled a former robust

Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor

(think approximately seventy years past),

whose flirtatious demeanor

instantaneously caught fancy of handsome
twenty something papa at his prime.

Before rigor mortis quickly

stole precious lifeblood, and

final minutes ticked away until

countdown to... realm of absent consciousness

scant moments before subtle transition

slipped our beloved mother into deadzone...,

neither final adieu, caress, grief...,

nor poem written...

never communicated to deceased,

not an iota of sorrowful lament

bequeathed, prevailed, relinquished...

over lifeless body (mommy dearest)

relegated limp suddenly cold stone body,

where morgue aged corpse

kept in cold storage

(despite aversion to frigid air
exhibited by mama)
preparatory to cremation process.


Rather... suppressed resentment

exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane
(partial listed abode -

Matthew Scott Harris,

plus his family resided)

by mister recalcitrant,

felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection


regarding once young bride,

(who smothered cingular heir insync

with dada i.e. Boyce Brandon Harris),

cuz he (yours truly overstayed

livingsocial under same roof as parents,

which happenstance situated at 324 Level Road.


Both thee aforementioned

supposed biological guardians

railed, screamed, tormented (albeit verbally)

yours truly, upon mine eighteenth birthday,

when great expectations greatly exacerbating

emotionally hard times,

which ill suited poet de jure

experienced, brickbats rained

down upon these

(considerably mooch younger) lovely bones

whose anger (mine) smoldered

linkedin to constant epithets of expletives

out the mouths of those who begat me,

subsequently their livid with rage

tsunami festered within every

holy (Molly Q. L.) molecule


within mine atomized corporeal being

manifesting itself as deprivation

to embrace dear mama

attended at hospital with
both non twisted sisters;
one hailed from Woodbury, New Jersey

and the younger staked out

modest home within Bend, Oregon,

meanwhile thee grim reaper
did patiently scythe soon

heading back to his old curiosity shop,

a rather bleak house housing our mutual friend,

I now conclude.



  • L. B. Mek

    'within whose womb,
    this sole son born,
    thus shouldered *numb*
    with self scorn.'
    (sorry for messing with your wonderful words dear poet)
    thanks for a sharing such, an unflinchingly transparent self portrait
    (I'm sorry for your loss, we each handle
    the shock of trauma in different ways
    no such thing as 'the' right way, at least in my eyes)

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.