Ages ago bygone childhood delighted
especially Florida (sunkist) grandpa
Harris (Aaron) indulged jais nais sais quois
kibitizing lovingly, mirthfully
naturally offering pleasing qualities,
rendering slender tanned
under venerated wristwatch (analog),
x2c yielded zealousness.

Thee paternal grandfather oft times visited our rural abode
at that time one sturdy estate
(originally called Glen Elm) wildlife crowed
within the plush wooded tract (slated, parceled,
and mapped) to explode
with cookie cutter lookalike slapdashed,
shoddy tinderboxes (vinyl city) growed
on formerly untamed, uber virgin woods,
perhaps early boondocks getaway hoed
and plowed, but indomitable (once abandoned)

nature relished reversed grape seeded tracery igloed
yet 'pon reflection, I ponder how early occupation knowed
no habitat foresaw wreckage
when decision via wealthy Leipers,
(wealthy owners of The Bell and Clapper)
unanimously crafted mode

das operandi to build stately sturdily summer country villa,
gracefully aging since construction completed (circa early 1900's)
which residence whittled down to 324 Level Road -
demesne comprising about a half dozen acres
eventually acquired by Boyce Harris - intelligence showed
February 28th 1968 – san mort gauge upon his shoulders towed
a near singlehanded undertaking to create thee abode
whence majority of thine lviii years spent,
now crafted in poetic code

originally my intent to expound on memories
when paternal grandfather via pub lick transit he erode
out to said residence, and averse to expand horizons
asthma late mum didst goad
him (in vain) to commingle, find intelligent links
analogous to electronic signals communicating ip node
but this towheaded grandson,
merely excited when me daddy's papa

came to this figurative antipode,
where pegged back in time
when this elderly regal family member
only a half decades shy,
whence benchmarked by horse drawn carriages rode
but more to the point, twas how eager
to toy with the wristwatch (analog)
which chained metal links wore a temporary imprint
upon his aged skin – dog

head lee remaining even departure time arrive
for favorite boyhood relative,
which when a kid also gleeful at occasions
treasuring older folk gave me a frog game,
tiled toy (sliding puzzle) that required dexterity
moving pieces fastly secured,
which when complete always left me agog
and this, that or some other gewgaw, souvinir, trinket
(plus a bit of chump change given to me)

spurred me late mum to spark me mental cog
to say “good morning”, “good afternoon”,
“goodnight”, or when eggnog
proffered to this most senior chronological guest,
who sat at the head of table,
or blankly watching television like a bump on a log
while chided, forced, induced...
to parlay social graces from this mere pollywog
who (much as delight arose fussing
with trappings worn loss on atrophied flesh)
a skittishness found me averse to follow orders
as if I happened to be a petsmart dog.



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niche2nook2numb's picture

eons back before this middle aged baby boomer traveling at warp speed into mortality, there flourished a contemplative, furtive, and intuitive boy. he perked up with excitement at the prospects when his paternal grandfather came to visit, though less than flattering comments (oft times critques) voluntarily volleyed at idiosyncrasies of an average kid. no matter, he still looked forward to Aaron Harris spending time at the family dining room table, where an inexplicable fascination with the ticking timepiece kept boyish intrique spellbound while his meal got cold.

matthew scott harris

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