Get Your Premium Membership

The Perfect Day

Poet's Notes
(Show)

Become a Premium Member and post notes and photos about your poem like Stark Hunter .


From the anthology, Complaining to the Clock, a work in progress.

The Perfect Day I believe I lived the perfect day, the ideal greatest day, A day awash in a sunlit brilliance unseen since the first blink of Eden, A day as buoyant as time standing resolutely still in the cool zephyrs- A rarified floating air, cleanly sterilized by a healing divine fire. I can still smell that perfect, utterly resplendent day in 1966. The sky was brilliant and blue like the face of a vain diamond, Redolent of star blossoms brought to earth by armies of the unseen, Their reaching arms uplifted and waving, with undulations of rosewood. I can still feel the magical freedom of living fast and easy on that perfect day. Laughing like a thankful child under a blue blanket of restored faith in goodness, Drenched in the magnificent serenity of sun-lit air on that perfect day in April. I can still remember like a dime what I did on that perfect pristine day, A day dedicated to life and living, like all the other forgettable imperfect days, Days fraught with sickness and confusion with bleached out emotions laid bare. I opened the window that day, and let in the pure perfect air into my old room. The perfect day came inside and reminded me of the imperfect days to follow. I now hear dying children singing like spasmodic seraphim in the hurling sky, Dancing out-of-control, their strange pirouettes amidst yellow and red mud puddles. This perfect day has seen many shriveled faces in the musty cafes, drinking sadness from a cup, Coming back from doctors appointments, and the usual haunts where many lights flash; “Deciding the day is come to leave the old house, this old street, under this undying sun.” It is time now to tidy things up a bit, as this perfect day succumbs to its sealed climax. I stare into a beveled mirror and see a vast universe of imperfection. Perfect chaos. Perfect imperfections that cannot be perfected by any perfect day, any ideal greatest day. I now see the Perfect day! It is but a wispy memory floating like a ghost cloud, Unseen indeed, by the imperfect straw men and women of this perfect Earth!

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.

Please Login to post a comment

A comment has not been posted for this poem. Encourage a poet by being the first to comment.


Book: Shattered Sighs