I left the house in such a frantic state,
I searched for my keys—good heavens, what a blunder!
In the refrigerator, next to the parsley plate,
they were resting there, with a will of frosty thunder.
Then to my neighbor, with a cheerful greet,
I called her “Martha,” and she’s “Sue,” oh dear me!
She offered a smile, not entirely sweet.
“Don't you worry,” she said, “that's just how life can be.”
A little stumble, pure chaotic glee.

I was telling tales of our summer at the bay,
swearing that it rained for the entire week.
My brother, with a smirk in a peculiar way,
said: “It was radiant sun, is your memory weak?”
The recipe for the cake, was it from dear Ana,
or a blog I once read by a lady named Lorraine?
The story of the ghost, in that grand manner,
was it Grandpa's tale, or Auntie's, that old dame?
Memory plays its games, so proudly vain.

^{Courtesy of Leonardo.ai}

As a child, I could have sworn I learned to fly
on a backyard swing that soared into the blue.
My mother laughs: “You've always aimed so high,
the swing was rather low, what a wild to-do!”
The color of that car, was it purple or deep navy?
I say it was red, my father disagrees.
The details start to fade, a meadow wavy,
sown with forgotten things that grow and bring no ease.
And so our biography is woven with these.

In the midst of a chat, with eloquent and grand flair,
I meant to quote a sage of great renown,
but from my lips, a stumble filled the air,
“Aristophanes,” I said for “Socrates,” what a clown!
The perfect word, I felt its presence near,
it danced around my tongue, but wouldn't show its name.
That famous actress, held in such high cheer…
Ugh! It slipped away again, to my deep shame.
My mind's a messy drawer where all things hide from fame.

I was firmly convinced that I had paid the bill,
I even recalled the line, the counter, and the wait.
But the notice arrived, a truly bitter pill:
“Your account is overdue, a simple, unpaid state.”
Perhaps I dreamed it all, a wishful, lofty art,
to owe nothing at all, what a marvelous spree!
My mind invented a memory, right from the start,
a fulfilled duty that was never meant to be.
A false memory that now just tickles me.

And so are these stumbles, these small, gentle slips,
that decorate the pathway of our recollection.
Altered stories, names that leave our lips,
a dance of data, with delayed connection.
We are not archives, nor precise designs,
but living canvases that paint what we agree
was real, and what the soul blesses and enshrines.
A mischievous wink, a sane forgetfulness, you see,
that makes us human, in this grand symphony.

/Soloescribe initiative #26: Memory stumbles.

^{Cover of the initiative.}

A Community proposal

CREDITS:

---

🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆****🔆

Dedicated to all those poets who contribute, day by day, to make our planet a better world.