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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required 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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