November 13th, 2021 - Happy eighty sixth birthday

to my long deceased mom...

Harriet Harris née Kuritsky

 

My mother succumbed to a terminal illness

two score minus three orbitz passed away

no matter she fought tooth and nail

to keep ovarian/uterine cancer at bay

disease metastasized throughout major organs,

hence demise found grim reaper to carry

her Bag of Bones into The Dead Zone -

where Misery loves company

Four Past Midnight

well nigh seventeen

and a half years ago to the day

thus a flash in a bedpan idea flit

thru me mind setting task at hand

to forego bidding on eBay

 

and ruminate how she felt

knowing her end to be near, -

where her psyche did flay

with anger writhing at the injustice

to snatch thee lover of life

her deadened flesh became ashen gray

yet, a recurring memory

replays in my mind,

whereby this ordinarily

sole sunny trooper

blackened hole within her sons' psych

doth feebly booster morale

with a lame duck uttered hay

huzzah, but flashback to last moment

 

I saw mother, yet
merely stood mute in close proximity

within the kitchen of thee predominant

century old mansion stone

built home donned with English ivy

once glorious complex edifice

sans domicile razed

no stone left unturned

remains longer only in me noggin

twittering memories flutter

and tweet like a blue jay

keeping visage intact

the house (formerly known as Glen Elm)

at 324 level road,

 

Collegeville, Pennsylvania -

amazed at my ability to recall an okay

dough key mixed meadow

for with many emotions arising

from where siblings

and me did blessedly play

our oasis, a rural route number 2 -

or rd2 for short a constituent key

per our residence, which like a quay

Tsar seemed light years

removed from civilization,

a remnant tract of idyllic ray

 

dee hance, upon with open space slated

to become outfitted

and transformed into an urban stay

shin for mobile Americans hopscotching

as short term owners of a new home they

never knew what fractious

mother-son trials and tribulation,

now invisibly harbored and enshrined

forever pristine sanctuary

denominated secular way

down deep in thy conscious, which access

to retrieve nada so

 

excellent circumstances of youth

(oftimes meditating while dwelling

upon expansive roof

many an outlook raised)

on par with hop, jump,

or skipping to Uruguay

but nothing can recreate

and make real one again

deconstructed house where dwelt pangs

of pre and post adolescence

no matter I mouth

and soundlessly mutter oy vey

till the cows come home,

 

cuz the days of boyhood,

teenage and emerging adulthood

(matter of fact, this heir -

overstayed his welcome)

accentuated courtesy corrosive

contumely contretemps

thus ambivalent feelings

doth owe way

kin this day of the month

every year the aura, charisma,

and persona delighting like galena zany

persona, thine late mother of pearl

 

and milk of human kindness

yes, this cingular male offspring doth miss

when he gives pause (all faux),

thus aye scrawl this poetic mini opus

knowing full well,

ye will never be cognizant,

but cathartic to press

any black key (on this laptop)

and expunge thru

Times New Roman font size 12

discombobulated words

 

buffeted bitta bing bitta bang

in situ jewel flowing emotions

akin to Rapunzel unfurling long tress

buffeted by the war wren inside mine being

for love unspoken, I confess

and tis thru fatherhood

(which beautiful granddaughters

ye would marvel) despite obloquy

when ye and papa de address

me in harsh terms, but objectionable traits

wove within mein kampf DNA less

 

or more, and angst riddled

body, mind and spirit

rent asunder with emotional duress

essentially encoded within

the twisted sisterly chromosome strands

that wrought Matthew Scott Harris,

now the boss and master

of his own psychological domain,

whereat he closes with mum --

I feel terrible ye got angry and cross!