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An Imperfect Morning

Imperfection abounds, the evidence is everywhere, misshapen leaves and tree trunks hunched over and almost touching the ground mark the morning - a dog chasing a ball along the beach has a bent tail, the owner a limp. Across the road, a mower that is cutting the grass in the municipal gardens coughs smoke out of a sick cylinder and a seagull that waits at my feet for a scrap is missing a foot. And I and all the people that are here taking in the morning air share an imperfection written in our genes, unseen, benign or a ticking time bomb waiting to explode into disease. Perfection is an ideal that perhaps exists only in our heads, a notion conjured up and given to grace our departed gods. Everything carries the seeds of its own decay, is sentenced to pass away and yet we swear we see it shine through a crack in time, in nature when caught sublime in a moment of transcendent beauty and in the love hiding at the center of ourselves and our art that threatens to break through and illuminate our dark.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2024




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Date: 11/12/2024 9:28:00 PM
Marvelous last stanza, Pal... For some reason, I am reminded of the words of the Narrator in Or Town, Act Three: "We're all waiting, waiting for that something Eternal inside us to come out..." Thank you, Gershon
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/14/2024 5:37:00 PM
Appreciate your visit and leaving such kind words dear Gershon. Do like the quote...has that tension on the line that connects the human condition with an idea of the Divine. Cheers my friend.
Date: 11/11/2024 3:29:00 AM
I like this poem. It is thoughtful and full of patterns. The assonance, visual rhyme, and alliteration are everywhere, with beautiful imperfections in the sound-scape. If the flowers lasted as long as the plastic ones they wouldn't be so lovely. I'm a Christian, so I like that you doubt your doubts, leaving the door ajar. J :) P.S. I always enjoyed using imperfect toys with missing bits at work (speech therapy) because the kids couldn't resist telling me = instant conversation
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/11/2024 4:19:00 AM
Thankyou my dear Jeanette for reading the poem and taking the time to pen such thoughtful comments...very much appreciated. I must confess, I seem inclined to the view of transcendence and the survival of love. Don't think I'll ever escape doubt but it is a ground for exploration and subject matter for poetry. Value your kind words and for noting a few of the attributes of the poem...thankyou. take care, Paul
Date: 11/10/2024 7:24:00 AM
Thanks a lot Paul, now I know what the ticking sound in the background is...but in a "baseball" sense we all pitch a perfect game.....at least once....
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/11/2024 4:11:00 AM
True...although baseball a bit foreign to me...more a perfect innings in cricket....a leftover from the English colonial days. Many thanks John for taking on this one...always valued from a fellow poet whose skills I hold in the highest esteem. Cheers mate.
Date: 11/10/2024 5:51:00 AM
Mortality is imperfection by its very own definition Paul, of course procreation overcomes it to a certain degree, but I have a stubborn persistent feeling that consciousness is the only perfect state possible, oblivion cancels itself out as it cannot be experienced, sorry if I’m skipping over the essence of perfection in your beautifully crafted poem, but I know you will understand what I’m trying to say, cheers David
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/11/2024 4:04:00 AM
Meaty comments David...just love. Inclined to agree with your position on consciousness. Find this area of inquiry fascinating, currently wading through David Hart's All Things are Full of Gods. Pursues interalionship between mind and matter in a non dualstic way. Like you perhaps, my mind never rests in chewing over these weighty concepts. Thanks David for jumping into the poem and offering your pearls...cheers Paul
Date: 11/9/2024 9:38:00 PM
We're born imperfect and never attain perfection. Acceptance for our flaws is what makes us a happy person or one who sees only those flaws. There's a song about a guy who loves a woman because of her perfect imperfections. This line stood out to me, Paul..."Everything carries the seeds of its own decay, is sentenced to pass away."
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/11/2024 3:45:00 AM
Thoughtful comments, as always, Lin and sipped as good coffee. The poem came out of some observations then deepened into contemplation....ending in a sense of possible transcendence, the means to become more. I often go off on these mental journeys...keeps the mind supple. A big thanks for diving in my dear friend. Paul
Date: 11/9/2024 2:54:00 PM
Wow Paul what an interesting poem….l had to read it twice to take it all in. You really make me think and see things differently and always make me feel. We are all imperfect creatures and in imperfection is truth and beauty! The third last stanza made me feel anxious!! You are a clever man my Aussie friend! Debx
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Paul Willason
Date: 11/11/2024 3:38:00 AM
Hi Deb, pleased you found the poem engaging, although sorry the last few words made you feel a little anxious. Meant to convey a sense of hope, a way of transcending imperfection etched. Thankyou so much for giving it your time...treasure your support my dear friend. Take care, Paul

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