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Happy 81st birthday – to my long deceased mom
- Posted by: matthew harris
- Created: November 13, 2016
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My mother succumbed to a terminal illness
and passed away
no matter she fought tooth and nail
to keep ovarian/uterine cancer at bay
disease metastasized throughout major organs,
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hence demise found grim reaper to carry
her into the dead zone -
eleven and a half years ago to the day
thus a flash in a bed pan idea flit
thru me mind setting task at hand to forego bidding on e-bay
and ruminate how she felt
knowing her end to be near -
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where her psyche did flay
with anger writhing at the injustice
to snatch thee lover of live to become ashen gray
yet, a recurring memory replays in my mind,
whereby this sole sun did booster morale with a hay
huzzah, but stood mute in close proximity
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within the kitchen of thee predominant
century old mansion stone built home donned with ivy
razed, though complex edifice sans domicile
no longer remains, only in mid noggin
twittering memories flutter like a blue jay
keeping intact the house at 324 level road,
Collegeville, Pennsylvania -
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amazed at my ability to recall an okay
dough key mixed 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 of 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 hop scotching
as short term owners of a new home they
never knew what cherished mother-son trials and tribulation,
now harbored an enshrined pristine sanctuary secular way
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
down deep in thy conscious, which access
to retrieve nada so excel lent circumstances of youth
(sans dwelling upon expansive roof many an outlook raised)
on par with hop, jump, or skipping to Uruguay
but noting can recreate and make real one again
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
deconstructed house where dwelt pangs
of pre and post adolescence
no matter i mouth and soundlessly mutter oye vay
till the cows come home,
cuz the days of boyhood, teenage and adult hood
(matt er of fact, this heir over staid his welcome) 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
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
a key (on this macbook) and expunge res
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 grand daughters
ye would marvel) despite obloquy when ye and papa de address
me in harsh terms, but objectionable traits
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
wove within mein kempf DNA less
or more, and angst riddled body, mind and sprit
rent asunder with emotional duress
essentially encoded within the twisted sisterly 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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