My Father The Craftsman

by matthew scott harris
(schwenksville, penna.)

Death of mother hallowed out silence
more painful then buzzing power tool,
aye never again saw,
nor heard industriousness jollity eviced,
contrasted when mourning did rule

wrought immediate cessation
from his strong lance throwing arms,
where artisanal magic did un spool
and ample tears streamed down raw cheeks
enough to fill a pool

uncertain if sparring with depression sprung
via loss of a Coney Island jewel
whose poverty she claimed (shamefully)
most meals comprising thin gruel
rescuing a damsel in distress thence deceased didst fuel

unwonted burded, and forced him to spar
with fear he might lose the duel
left alone in a old mansion
with only fond fading memories utmost cruel.
Suddenly without bedmate and counterpart
one month shy of fifty years, no deity could answer
razor sharp emotional pain cut to the quick
recollecting ballroom dancer

himself as a handsome youth so graceful and suave,
fast as Bill Haley, or comet
and lightly afoot in seventh heaven as a prancer
oh..and ever the debonair, humorous, and loving romancer
where pixie dust sprinkled via an invisible en trancer.
Uterine/ovarian Cancer metastasized
dealing deathblow, and took more than mother away
her rigor mortis terminated love labor lost,
whence second love sans father,
his hands no longer did oh bay,

whose once passion to ply his creative handiwork
heartfelt interest hardened as sun baked clay
where formerly, he spent energy and time
drafting designs and building ornate creations
most every night and day,

which lifelong penchant to draw
(deepseated and etched within his genes)
until profound grief did flay
dealt mortal kombat towards,
whence toiling at basement workbench

colored his world blackish gray
nor would he respond, and only tearful sorrow
exuded upon losing the special maiden, whom he lay
down and begot thyself and two sisters,

during living years sans lightness of being an a may
fly expert designer, creator and builder –
during me chilhood objects like play
house and Flintsone car

(with license plate to boot), beaming with ray
dee ants at products of imagination got wrought,
until grim reaper did slay
purposefulness and will power to remain alive
pronounced sadness witness loss of appetite

and considerable diminishing beefiness obvious
without him getting atop scale for a weigh
but fate smiled upon accursed widowerhood,
and now for quite some time,
a gal took hull hiking to history
and the restaurant at the end
of the galaxy they went – yay!

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