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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.
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