In memoriam, childhood

It is not right to make a mockery
of childhood memories.
To take kaleidoscopic dreams
and sort them by size
and discard those that do not fit
their idea of blue.
Blue is not an idea; it is a memory,
My memory.
Of the old lunch box I ate from
all alone, and
that slide in the park I never climbed.
Blue just is,
like I just am, still waiting
for them to see,
That happiness doesn’t come in only
checks or stripes
that one size doesn’t fit us all,
And that’s alright.

Grandfather

I once had to write an essay in school,
and I put together bits and pieces.
From my father’s occasional statements
and my aunt’s ramblings full of appreciation,
and I carefully constructed you.

You, who’d take long walks without telling anyone
when he’d be back, who’d get annoyed at people
who didn’t use logic. You, who sounds so much
like me. You, Grandfather, who loved
my sister, and never even knew me.

It seems unfair that some people should have
stories, and that I should have to make one up.
They say I’m a good storyteller, Grandfather,
did you know? Did you know that there would be
a walk you’d never return from?

Did you know that your wife would teach a child
to converse like you did, and find you in her again?
And years later, your blood would amble along
those very streets, in search of the home
you never came back to.

It makes for a good story, doesn’t it, Grandfather?
Deep down, I think you’d approve.

I am

“I am, I am, I am” , wrote Sylvia.
“I”, fluid de-oxygenated blood in my veins,
when I turn my ears to your song.

Am I my hands, that trace the sequence
Up and down, down, down, up,
As they strum through your hair?

Or am I the warmth in the pit of my soul,
when I don’t have to speak the words
for you to hear them glow in the dark?

Am I the contours of my mind as they morph,
Shrinking and growing with your questions
and my quest for answers that match yours?

I am, yes. But who?

Addiction

It’s funny how he was the one

With the addiction, and yet

I’m the one that has been left

In rehab. Every day they ask me

Questions- How did it happen?

When did it start? Are you fine?

Do you think-

It was him, I scream, not me,

It was he who had the problem

A problem that he chose, time and again,

over me. A problem that chose him,

Like a wand, blasting me aside

In a shower of sparks.

He’s the addict, and yet here I am,

Kicking, Screaming, Crying,

As they send electric surges of normalcy,

Through my nerves. I’m forgetting,

Slowly,steadily the records are blurring.

Maybe, maybe it was me.