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

Often these days

(closing in on the eighth

anniversary of eighth orbit
around mister sun),
the following genuine sentiment
Matthew Scott Harris
doth wish to share
how one and only son,
remembers his mother

cuz about eighteen years

after mother succumbed

courtesy of terminal illness

he updates yearly a poem initially crafted
when she passed away.

I still reckon eyes how yours truly

analogous to Atlas -

shrugged off proffering

tender loving care

within whose womb,
one zygote underwent gestation

this sole male offspring born,

thus subsequently after her demise,

yours truly shouldered himself with self scorn.

He clearly recounts

as if her death occurred yesterday...,

when all mine troubles
(emotional, financial, and physical)
moost definitely
no more farther away

then present moment.

Tempus fugit popular worded couplet

or imagine an hourglass

where fine granules

analogous to last remaining
grains representing sands of time

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

just prior when coroner decreed death,

yet an opportunity prevailed,

wherein said self (me) chose

NOT to stand vigil at deathbed

of she who begat

an older and younger daughter

(mine sibling sisters).

Last breath(s) expelled while mama

tethered to machines,

one or more helped diminish
agonizing, depressing, and writhing

pain and discomfort

figuratively and literally

wracked and pinioned once fitness

and health conscious, flirtatious
industrious, tenacious, and vivacious body,

dinged by a former carcinoma

eradicated courtesy regimen of
chemotherapy and radiation,

which latter malignant terminal illness

(no joke) riddled a former robust

Arthur Murray ballroom dance instructor

(think approximately sixty eight years past),

whose coy and coquettish 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

out of misery (a veritable battleground)

where she did silently rage 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 when mama alive)
preparatory to cremation process.

Rather... suppressed resentment

exhibited itself at 1148 Greentree Lane
(partial listed abode -

Matthew Scott Harris,

where family of mine then resided)

by mister recalcitrant,

felt ambivalent carte blanche blasé affection

regarding once young bride,

(who metaphorically

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 me boyhood home
once located upon

six plus wooded acres;
324 Level Road
constituted the whittled down
once sprawling Leiper Estate,
which encompassed about

one hundred plus acre wood
home to Winnie the Pooh.

Both thee aforementioned

supposed biological guardians

railed, screamed, tormented
(albeit verbally traumatized)

yours truly, upon attaining

mine eighteenth birthday,

when great expectations greatly exacerbating

emotionally hard times,

which ill suited poet de jure

experienced, brickbats rained
akin to fountainhead spewing
painful pelting piercing

poisonous pummels

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 me
every holy moly molecule.

Mine atomized corporeal being

manifesting itself as deprivation

to embrace dear mama

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

and the younger staked out

modest digs within Bend, Oregon,

meanwhile thee grim reaper
did patiently soon scythe

heading back to his old curiosity shop,

a rather bleak house, I now conclude.