alternately titled: a literary retrospective when holiday times living hand to mouth in Penn Valley fraught with slim pickings and yours truly felt utterly miserable that nary a delivery from Santa Claus would be forthcoming.

Totally tubular nonfiction yup,
nevertheless I reflect
the year (arbitrarily plucked from misty past)
Santa Claus did not show up
courtesy imagination license
cruel as crippled poet panhandler
a cowboy wannabe holding on for dear life
with both feet held fast courtesy stirrup
tempted to storm of into the sunset
if misery did erupt
rattling his empty cup.

Though blink of time passed rather quick,
I still vividly recollect
midnight passed upon Christmas Eve
(circa December 24th, 2005)
with nary a ** ** ** from jolly Saint Nick,
nor sound of sleigh bells
no reindeer with packages he did not heave
omitting hurling gifts at 1148 Greentree Lane
as some cruel and nasty trick,
which prompted both progent

particularly youngest daughter did grieve
great disappointment absent merriment,
and surprises he would ordinarily flick,
whereby mystical magical tour would
burst with brilliance
like Jack Nimble's candlestick
spurred affirmation
analogous to brick
slamming into me noggin
in his presence to believe.

Rudolph, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer,
*****, Comet, Cupid and Blitzen
ordinarily light up anticipation,
instigating ear to ear grin
(especially provoking clattering hooves)
courtesy, exponentially, and factorially
heightened expectation generated,
viz foray into dark night sky
becoming brightest visible object
creating an audible, yet pleasant din

gracefully amazing this hypothetical papa,
would ordinarily deliver merriment well nigh
accept he forgot one important stop
perhaps trouble with cloven hoofed creatures
hmm... maybe lack of of feedstock
found precious priceless lass
with downcast chin,
and teardrops falling
heavily from each eye
inducing sharp pains

within this then mister meister mom
once a year self anointed secret santa
analogous feeling skin
pierced with sharp pin
most times one generally
happy go lucky guy,
whose heavy sinking heart
professing love (mine) could not win
reverberated hollow grief
as if Cupid's paramour made of tin.

I tried with futility to assuage melancholy
when Shayna Punim
(Yiddish פּנים ponem, from Hebrew פָּנִים panim)
(endearment for pretty face),
she did melancholically ask why
her mood cast dark shadows
across edge of night
illuminating the outer limits
of the twilight zone
(evoking artificial intelligent
graphic generated augmented
computer special effect)
as webbed, wide world

within outer limits of twilight zone did spin
along axis in gulf of infinite space
with lighting speed, he would punctually fly
no explanation suitable i.e.
from Kris Kringle pinch hitter
(alias yours truly),
since no where seen heft sack
of goodies makes supreme father pitiful sight
off his pedestal like
force of gravity impossible to defy
Humpty Dumpty myth I did belie.

While out Christmas shopping at Mall Of America with Our Spanky Gang of Little Rascals, who should we bump into but, Scrooge, Fezziwig, Fred, Bob Cratchit, Mrs. Cratchit,Tiny Tim, Jacob Marley main fictitious characters drawn upon under belly, of real life mid eighteen hundreds lowliest British (thermal unit) poverty stricken caste. Das scribe sketched out their soul full collective misfortune, without virtue, but plenti via a vice, which storied lives depicted (i.e. being penniless, dime a dozen, a day late, and dollar short penury) courtesy, sans prolific imagination of Charles Dickens “ Christmas Story”. They unexpectedly, uninhibitedly and unwittingly broke the binding loose after being bound within whirled wide web of make believe close to two hundred years. Freed from the paginated constraints (analogous to a prisoner, who broke free after long confinement to solitary confinement, when initially handed down life sentence for terroristic sabotage resulting in deaths per scores of innocent people), an utter lack of social graces immediately, plainly, and shockingly exhibited by various aggressive behavior. Crowd (then ground) control to Major Tom couched via heavy duty security details appeared helpless. The muddling, middling, maddening motley crue swarmed, rampaged, and quashed an attempt by the Police (who crafted a spurious Sting operation predicated on the baddest Beastie Boys Culture Club, who excelled at being Foo Fighters), which immediately appeared ineffective against a handful of raggedy, pesky, and nasty Marxist/Leninist lumpenproletariats. Helter skelter, mayhem and bedlam found these hoodlums, hooligans, hooting imps a indistinct English dialect. Even Tiny Tim showed braggadocio defying his lame physical state. Scrooge attested to be in seventh heaven, or the closest he would get. Despite total ignorance apportioned these anachronistic figments gross, heedless, insubordinate jubilant kooky lust (made manifest marrying narcissism ogling pricey quirky random  tchotchkes. Any civility escaped filthy hands hoisting incredibly jealous mannikins. Sir real quite peculiar phenomena overtook natural mundane lives. The growing horde of astonished onlookers (under a sheltering sky) made haste unsure if the ghost of Marley will scare away oblivious buyers (eyeing various and sundry widgets, trinkets, thingamabobs, knickknacks gimcracks, gewgaws, fribbery, bibelots baubles) where (timid) Tiny Tim (who tip toed thru the Tulips) frightened aggressive, purveyors of said merchandise. Insult against ideology, modernity, reality took a giant leap, who of all people, but The Merchant of Venice made a cameo appearance issuing forth asper a tempest in a teapot, a dome mass scandal, and danced the night away with the Ghost of Christmas Past, where the hallowed purposelessness purchasing presents per perps, squirts, twerps, et cetera essentially the intended  thread to weave warped  wonderment of mine, but (dippity and Scoobie) doo to a very bad hair day, my ability to communicate in a clear concise manner compromised sprung extremely flat limp follicles that usually puff up on the head (as big as a Soundcloud) of this GoDaddy, who will help fend off feisty Goo Goo Dolls.

After a hiatus of countless years
plus an additional
almost three months
since a major makeover,
(I experienced the magic
wrought courtesy
a bonafide big hearted
beautician at Salon Nova
located in beautiful
downtown Limerick, Pennsylvania

to render my straggly long hair
cut about twelve inches shorter),
whereby a mensch looked back at me,
a gorgeous reflection mirror reflection
yours truly returned to the mecca
Thomas Paine would feel right at home,
and surprisingly enough
a small number of attendees
at said name sake Unitarian Fellowship
nevertheless recognized me,

(and remembered my late mother
Harriet Harris,who passed away
twenty years ago come May 5th, 2025)
ushering yours truly courtesy older,
yet nevertheless familiar faces
while jesters tumbled and unrolled figurative
Scottish Tartan welcome mat
and provided a warm welcome.

As a small boy
parents of ours
(mine two siblings
included then and now,
an older and younger sister)
attended the Main Line Unitarian Church,
(a general hunch we regularly
made our appearance
at aforementioned site
during late 1960's early 1970's)
816 S Valley Forge Road, Devon, PA 19333,
when the then minister Mason McGinnis
facilitated the program.

Skads of decades,
née scores of years elapsed
since boyhood found me heading
(more accurately prodded),
thence shuttled to age appropriate classroom,
albeit informally structured learning environment.

Chronologically doddering oldest people
(such as fathers, mothers,
gray haired grandparents...)
plus young adults
bid their charges goodbye, albeit temporarily
as their younger kin got gently routed
to one out of quite numerous
ample size preschool/nursery room.

Infants, babies, young kids
i.e. most easily antsy, distracted, oblivious,
when days of our live young and restless
(unbeknownst to those recipients)
got their inchoate intellect sparked.

Their coerced, coddled (molly),
and coaxed... reluctance rewarded
(aside from with sweet treat)
courtesy lofty, mighty, nifty...
young rabbit ears raptly attuned
(most like a couple seconds maximum at most)
feigning listening at (iterated above)
Minister Mason McGinnis
who always gave rousing sermon.

If not him, perhaps a previously
scheduled guest speaker
enlightened, enhanced, enchanted... audience.

Nonetheless upon attaining mine prepubescence,
or thereabouts, (and most definitely
when yours truly crossed his horrendous,
perilous tumultuous wretched pubescent Rubicon
marking naturally ordained metamorphosis),
they abruptly ceased mandating
what both parents considered
(as well this middle aged son
recognized in retrospect –
cuz hindsight of mine always 20/20),
a golden opportunity to mingle,
and perhaps even (horrific as this reads)
befriend shy lads similar to yours truly.

I felt quite at home being attended, pacified,
pampered, and pulled up by bootstraps.

Without warning this baby boomer
invariably, suddenly felt shell shocked
and zapped courtesy post traumatic stress disorder
incurred while in utero.

Suddenly out of the blue,
paralyzing horror found this AARP eligible cardholder
aghast with fright as if scary
boogie woogie bugle boy monster mash
(with cooties) prowled premises on the lurch
to spring summat ploy.

Nightmarish visitations
while finding my religion
(crept along the edge of night
regarding dark shadows
from outer limits of twilight zone)
extolling virtues regarding return of native son
also witnessed me
being precariously hoisted,
and (analogous to dangling modifier)
suspended me in mid air by my own petard.

Basking in a supine position
with eyes wide shut
while the space heater churns out
fast moving molecules of heat
solitudinarian drowsy thinker fêted
by miniature fantasy
of tropical island paradise
accompanying and populating slumber
courtesy flickering, mesmerizing,
undulating barenaked native nymphs

tricked out as miniscule floaters
drifting across field of vision
striking atavistic memories,
where yours truly revels
within toasty warm bedroom
succumbing into deep sleep
resurrecting dormant primal hallucinations
redolent of Neanderthal forebears,
who huddled around the hearth
lo and behold discovery

evident after eldest sister of Harris tribe,
videre licet raw bits of genetic material
submitted saliva specimen
to 23andMe
since shut down by the FDA
because of the said
company's aggressive marketing
and refusal to resolve
outstanding data issues.

Impossible mission to stay awake
and fend off feeling sleepy
analogous to being drugged
not even long enough
to attend a yawning festival,
thus once upon a time
approximately half life
of Matthew Harris ago
indefatigable body of mine
weathered blistering fatigue
with endurance to dance the night away,
where lively contra dance music
played onstage and participants
tirelessly whooped up with energetic glee
experienced the equivalent headiness
linkedin with physical *******.

Now as a sexagenarian to boot,
who recently underwent a makeover
former trademark characteristic
of baby boomer no longer sports
talking head being hirsute
subsequently analogous to Samson
powerfulness of body,
no greater than a newt
while I lay me down to sleep
cerebral cogs and wheels troubleshoot
envisioning yours truly (me)
reincarnated donning myself

wearing a broad-shouldered drape jacket,
balloon-leg trousers,
and, sometimes, a flamboyant hat
decked out sporting,
what came to be recognized as zoot suit
generally worn by the following:
white Americans, police officers,
and U.S. Soldiers, the suits
became a symbol of excess,
anti-patriotism, and
anti-American sentiment,
as well as gang affiliation.

I get tired of being tired
hence ask the missus to make high test coffee,
which jolt of caffeine finds me wired
but back in the day
I acquired a gold card
patronizing General Nutrition Center
and bought one product in particular,
which affected me with outcome I desired.

And thus I crafted sub verse,
whereby yours truly conceives
poem titled Guarana Mo by Jeeves.

Most of the following (fictitious)
quintessential balderdash
ranks as sorry excuse for originality, writ
nevertheless mishmash qualifies
according to humble opinion of mine
reasonable rhyme for mediocrity,
benignly, essentially, and honestly to wit
to test skill at heart felt fabrication like me,
thus exempting bing considered, judged,

and labeled tubby unfit
wall henna burst of
playful tulles toy warren peace,
bawling contrived sketched
piddling potchking pusillanimous
Monty Python's Flying Circus twit,
this once upon a time pablum child,
aye practically spit
out (from inxs of carrot juice),

now dost daringly be hove
brave reeder to comprehend
as great literary endeavor
by this hare reed rabbit,
head, (non adult tryst) pit,
nor posthumous fame, worm ma obit
chew wary verbosely probably re:nouns,
abominable attempt as Unitarian
worthy reading material

so great English lit,
and moost unlikely tuff hind,
nor e'en garner this hare reed
ole Union Jack of a one hit
wonder poetic laureate,
nonetheless this (o'
waa hare did me bunny go),
perhaps to Britain endeavoring merely
to join United Kingdom.

Now let yours truly whoop
focus to address main intent,
(sans for quick pick me up)
and nary drop of coffee,
nope not even one molecule
to fill thimbleful sized cup
I reach for bottle of Guarana,
(one serving of
coffee per capsule)

fo' this aging pup,
who attests that caffeine
(liquid and/or
encapsulated), the sole vice
(except for barbiturates, *******,
"FAKE" opioid, et cetera),
which overdose nearly found me
nearly a grateful dead – thrice
occasions, where circumstances

of mouse self
(Stuart Little reincarnate -
with an insatiable craving for cheese
laced with Guarana, Paullinia cupana,
a climbing plant in the maple family),
which bean sized seeds
affordable at an acceptable price
many times larger than puffed rice.

assassinated at 10:50 PM,
on December 8, 1980
forty four years later to date
outside The Dakota Apartment,
(also known as the Dakota Apartments),
located at 1 West 72nd Street
in New York City, U.S.

After Mark David Chapman
unloaded five bullets in the back
with a .38 special revolver,
that son of a gun got his quarryman
and became eligible for parole
in 2000 after serving only 20 years
since said murderer felled legend:
he pulled the trigger of his firearm
at point blank range
brutally killing the most successful
singer/songwriter in history,

(whose collaboration with Paul McCartney)
bestowed double fantasy
and rendered instant karma
echoing his oft repeated refrain
across the universe
for the benefit of Mister Kite
"All we are saying is give peace a chance,"
a lyric from the song
"Give Peace a Chance"
by the late John Lennon and Yoko Ono,
which song when released in 1969

became an anthem
for the anti-war movement,
nevertheless even after
exactly three score years
since the Fab Four,
became famous in 1964
after their appearance
on The Ed Sullivan Show,
which elapsed time
seems like yesterday
to this day tripper (me)
who happened to be
just a beastie boy.

Upon hearing in utter disbelief over the telly
On December 8, 1980,
the breaking news videre licet
regarding the ******
of John Lennon, a member of the Beatles,
outside his New York City apartment building,
I felt numb standing stock still
in the kitchen
(within childhood home of mine)
at 324 Level Road,
and nearly found myself asphyxiating
as if trapped within a yellow submarine
buried within briny deep
courtesy stone(d) temple pilot.

Yours truly stormed out of the house
analogous to a stormtrooper
heading into the thick of battle
experienced being dazed and confused
espying a Led Zeppelin
in the front yard
after getting a closer look
I quickly realized parked guests
came from an alien nation,
which immediately prompted me
to avail myself to be abducted
courtesy unidentified anomalous phenomena

bidding goodbye to father and mother
quietly pleading... dear prudence
escaping the helter skelter amidst humanity
here, there and everywhere
wistfully envisioning a utopia
like dreamers do
able, eager, ready and willing
to embark upon a magical mystery tour
this fool on the hill,
a veritable nowhere man

feeling like nobody's child
psyching myself to be free as a bird
yearning to adopt fearlessness
after froggy went a courtin
jump/kick starting
far out and groovy kismet
to become a paperback writer
renown on par with aforementioned
famous British balladeer
but before taking fateful step

into dark shadows
hiding the outer limits
of the twilight zone,
I dashed off a short note
to family and friends,
and subsequently flagged down letterman
also asking please mister postman
to inform kith and kin
NOT to summon search party,
cuz yours truly hopes to frolic
amidst strawberry fields forever.

who suffered cuts by a thousand knives.

Even as old (dish) married
(spooning) curmudgeon,
who receives social security disability
linkedin with social anxiety)
chose the fork less traveled
aye pucker with sunken cheeks,
(especially without dentures)
and raspily suction toothless mouth
drawing reminiscent guffaws affecting
attempt impersonating plumber

(think suctioning and unclogging toilet)
please support your local ******
back in the day one
long haired pencil neck geeks palled
around with another
hirsute nerd - Roger Kummerer,
(who both of us graduated Methacton
High School class of 1977),
and yours truly readily
admitting, alluding, and attesting

without shadow of doubt
representing the dumber
than rocks of said beastie boys
bandits, donning particolored pachyderm
gabardine garb getup trumpeting,
especially as Mummer
on each New Year's Day
with bare *** tuchus
excellently imitating courtesy said orifice
(as chief motormouth) sound
of combo motorboat hummer.

Ah... the joys of amazingly aging gracefully
happily recalling never being
beat into ****** pulp dully
imagining dimming sense and sensibility
before (appearing gratefully dead)
lifeless body dumped into gully,
nevertheless all the while fully
maintaining conscious, and forcefully
summoning forth latent powers gleefully
choking living daylights masterfully

delivering just desserts upon Tom Viglione,
whose plaintive laments truthfully
resonate as blessed music
to ears unaccustomed hearing pitifully
sounding long overdue comeuppance
forever disbelieving wrongfully
perpetrated injustice
witnessed impossible mission
fueling an ordinarily meek lad
only in his dreams, he envisions zestfully.

Pugnacious thuggish hooligans...
although decades passed
(into the black hole sink
of space/time continuum)
long since elapsed, whereby hoodlums
jockeyed to rain upon the head
of yours truly,
who weathered figurative brickbats
by remaining analogous
to a deaf-mute person

one after another verbal blow
threatening introverted diminutive boy
who, no surprise did eventually,
albeit (stuntedly) grow
(as an aside resembled anorexic
Santa Claus **... **... **...)
still wracked, impacted, affected...,
this punster, he haint Joe
King, nor the Riddler, but upholds
valuable humor less or mo'

feebly, lamely, and quirkily aspires toward po'
whit tree linkedin with infusing,
(no matter ex post facto)
freeing mine unsung hero,
and perchance if I threw a judicious punch
(rearranging the face of thugs)
subsequently winning the respect
towards those beastie boys,
who would know better next time,
when they come back to town
than to tangle with the likes of me.

Amidst the **** sapien species
one anonymous baby birthed:
I recount one little known piece of news
which one young married couple did enthuse,
profusely doting on their first progeny.

Amelie Beth Harris
as imagined being born
courtesy her only brother
(thirteen plus months her junior)
with one final hefty contraction
her crown ****** out the birth canal
and she busted out all over
into the glare of bright lights
of said planned industrial city,
and birthplace
of American Industrial Revolution
and for its role in the silk industry.

Paterson originally formed
as a township from portions
of Acquackanonk Township
on April 11, 1831,
while the area
was still part of Essex County.

One hundred ninety three years
seven months and nineteen days later
touted persona grata
became the first born progeny
of Boyce Brandon Harris
and Harriet Harris,
which father and mother,
would soon relocate to
Cincinnati, Ohio where the author
of these words would be born.

As befits the eldest
lavish attention
bestowed upon said lovely baby girl,
whose parents pleasantly surprised
marveled at her verbosity
(to talk up a blue streak)
and even to this day
can sustain a dialogue,
though (to be honest
without intending to be critical),
she tends to strongly hint the crux
of the matter
long after listeners
intimate verbal objective,
nevertheless pretend
to be pleasantly surprised.

She kept her bedroom neat as a pin,
(which expression "neat as a pin"
an analogy that compares a thing,
or manner of maintaining a living space
to a pin being used)
no matter neither our father nor mother
easily mistaken for keeping house
in apple pie order,
(no matter domestic employee
Missus Kunkle's futile efforts
to tidy up once a week off times
and unknowingly committing
a serious offense for moving items

in Amelie's bedroom and dusting thereof)
and how could they with a few big dogs,
plus quite a few cats
to sew something up and make it neat),
and matter of fact I envied my "big sister,"
cuz she happened
to be exceptionally meticulous
taking notes for each respective class lessons,
and drew pertinent relevant diagrams
versus class notes that yours truly (me)
scribbled that resembled chicken scratch,
my apology for any unintended slight
toward Gallus gallus domesticus.

Her exemplary organizational skills
exhibited courtesy notebook
that sported color coded tabs
for each subject peppered
with an artistic flair (second to none -
the best or unmatched, and;
essentially establishing the phrase
as a way to express something
being superior to all others.

H-A-P-P-Y   B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y!