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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!
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