A LIfe In Haibun (ii)

Having started with my first memory, I assumed that I would move on to the next. I faced a dilemma. I was not sure whether the memory I had was from actual recollection or from recollection of hearing the story from my mother, who frequently retold family mythology. This was mostly because one or other of us four siblings wanted to hear how another – more often than not me – got into trouble. Then everyone would laugh, though I very much doubt my parents did at the time.

Unreliable memories, as Clive James almost titled his autobiographical series. Talking this over with my sibs, on the most hilarious occasion over a couple of drinks after my Father’s funeral, they have quite varying accounts of the same family events; events where we were all present.

This is not an unusual or unknown phenomenon. In fact, it is the norm, as any Policeman or Detective will tell you. No two witnesses give the same description of a person or event. Unless they are conspirators, maybe.
So I am not going to run this in strict chronological order. My memory is far too shabby at this advanced age anyway. No apology for any confusion caused, it will only mirror my own.

numbers
in order
not my life

Proverbs

Curiosity thrilled the cat
Too many cooks make daytime TV
A stitch in time makes space travel possible
People who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones
Many hands make a full house
He who laughs last, didn’t get it.

The wonder of words

I sigh to the sounds of
Ten thousand troubadours
A panoply of poets
A chorus of cryers

I wade through the waters of
The red raging rivers
The olive green oceans
The cyerulean seven seas

I wait for the wounding words of
Late lovers leaving
Finding forgotten friends
Five frustrated fakers

I look for recovery from
Three lines of perfection
The lines of a drop recrafted
The colours that no-one else notices

I wonder at words that are never enough.