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imperfect

Let me state unequivocally that if you were hoping to read something perfect, sorry, not gonna happen.  I write to my own beat, an irregular rhythm that doesn't follow rules, it simply flows and pulses and is.  That doesn't excuse accidental mistakes of spelling, punctuation or grammar.  But my perception of those things may differ from yours too and besides that, nothing is perfect.  Ever.  So the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can stop expecting it and being disappointed by life and the people in yours.  Whether friends, relatives, significant others, neighbors (oh yeah, neighbors are prone to not being perfect).  Pets, celebrities, heroes, politicians (politicians will say what you want to hear, and paint a rosy picture of a perfect world, so of course they will let you down — but those who achieve something notable are the ones to remember).

Personally, I demand imperfection!  It saves me a lot of time and trouble.  Trying to be perfect in an imperfect world is like swimming against a tsunami.  You really shouldn't try that!

Give in to the slightly off.  See the beauty in the asymmetric and quirky elements around us.  If everything looked the same and unextraordinary, think how dull the world would be.  There must be madness, must be corruption, must be treason, must be canyons, must be volcanoes, must be bad weather, and must be monsters.

No matter how perfect a person may seem, there will always be tiny (or glaring) defects and wrinkles that bring to light the fact he or she is merely human.  Not that I'm saying we shouldn't strive to be as close to perfect as possible, to improve ourselves and seek to do better when we fail or falter.  I'm just saying that we shouldn't sweat small stuff or refuse to inflexibly forgive.  Sometimes to forgive is to love and we shouldn't blame others for our own flaws or lack of understanding, for the inability to listen or give compassion.  We shouldn't consider mistakes unforgivable without considering first the heart and mind, along with the circumstances and prevailing winds that drove this individual to commit an error of whatever proportions.  Within reason, we should do our best to not give up on someone we love.

That which defines us is rarely our total sum, but rather some of our most outstanding features.  And then there's our own perception of ourselves, the way we imagine we are.  This can deviate dramatically from the way others view us.  It can tilt and shift and grow as we cut ourselves slack, or realize that what we think is bad might seem pretty darn good or not half so bad to somebody else.  Like those minor imperfections we blow out of proportion that don't matter to anyone but us, and perhaps a gaggle of people whose opinions don't really count.

Yet we may form habits that are not so good and need to be given up, sacrificed or abandoned because it isn't who we are anymore . . . isn't healthy or wise, rational or proper.  Maybe it hurts those we care about deepest and least wish to harm.  The ones who are close enough to be the most injured, the most affected by reckless or compulsive acts.

It can be difficult to improve.  Sometimes we just need somebody to believe in us to make us try harder.  Somebody to serve as a moral compass, a Jiminy Cricket, an angel on our shoulder.  Whether reflected in the glaring light of scorn or gazing from the lenses of our introspective looking-glasses, we may excuse and justify lapses in judgement as easily as to criticize ourselves and others.  Don't give in to the Dark Side.  Be yourself, as long as you can live with who you are.

Sure, we expect products we buy to meet certain standards.  We expect people to behave within limits.  We impose restrictions and regulations in an effort to achieve a sense of justice and peace and stability in an unjust and chaotic and unstable world.  Some causes are worth fighting for and we have to try.  We have to keep trying.  We can never give up the battle.  As we can never stop aiming to do better, be better, live better, and find "happiness".

We can be happy in an imperfect world.  Not every second.  Not every day all day.  But for moments, and sometimes immense measures.  We can find joy.  And peace.  And hope.  Whether it's inside ourselves or shared with others.  Whether it's fair or unbalanced or complicatedly uncommon.  We need to accept and adjust to an offbeat tempo, to the highs and lows and topsy-turvies, while remaining true to our hearts.  Not perfect.  Not plastic.  Not without problems and suffering and knots and blunders.  Just human.  And trying our best to stay that way.

 

 

    imperfect

 

A stray inkle-think assembled

Out of the froth of one surly eve

And flutter-flappent through the street

Would land upon a peeve

A chicken crowed she had laid an egg

How the coop did whoop and celebrate

On this day was born a marvelous thing

For the shell would glitter and vibrate

What could be inside?  Were the hens aflutter!

They clucked and cackled and surmised

Nothing too outlandish for their guesses

But in the end, all would be surprised . . .

What should hatch and wiggle from the egg

Was the queerest creepiest abnormalty

So imperfect that they thought it evil

And named the creature Frickassee

The poor demon spawn had many peepers

A spider smirk and bumpy skin

It growled and puled and flapped bald wingtips

On ostrich legs most tall and thin

Featherless, its mottled flesh

Would crawl as if a mass of bugs

Uncute it was, and twice as ugly

The chickadee had lips like slugs

Well, nothing strange can be accepted

Without some fuss and a price to pay

Being treated as an abomination

The inferior critter stomped away

To travel endless trails of searching

For other oddness and different strokes

While the hen who laid the unnatural egg

Would become the butt of chicken jokes

At last in a slanting and distant village

Of moose-horned goats and alpen sheep

Sad Frickassee must meet his doom

From a pitchfork posse without a bleep

The mob cooked him up and ate him gladly

And Frickassee did they call their meal

Wanting more, they would seek the poultry-geist

But complete imperfections are never real.

 

 

    the sight for sore eyes

 

There are sights to behold around the world

Both wonders and atrocities

The vast, amazing, and incomparable

The horrors of wars and poverties

In none of my morbid predilections

Have I ever doubted what I could view

Until one day my eyes opened wider

And everything suddenly seemed brand new

I gazed around in startled glory

Enthralled by a vibrance never seen

Shades ne'er so black in stunning contrast

To the brilliant tones of this newfound sheen

How I danced and skipped, sang a merry tune

Feeling young again and so alive

It was like the world had been recreated

And I from a dark sleep must revive

Yet it seemed too good, too beautiful

That I had to ask, Could this truly be?

I know nothing's perfect, I expect the worst

For my luck is fraught by misery

Would the vision last or fade to gray?

Could a dream survive in my waking hours?

Now my hopes and heart had been uplifted

So I made a wish to the higher powers

That I could believe in this miracle setting

And not wake to find it all in vain

A shattered myth, a scattered memory

Of something treasured just cheap and plain

When the landscape wavered as if to dissolve

I expected a barren wasteland behind

A flimsy veil masking harsh terrain

And gone what had taken a lifetime to find

Then I turned around and there it was

Solid and shimmering, not a mere dream

Yet fallible too, a bit dimmer at times

But a better life waited for all it could seem

Dare I trust in this splendor to resist my fears?

It takes time and courage, some compromise

To embrace on faith an uncharted journey

Through the spirit and soul of a sight for sore eyes.

 

 

    whimsical

 

What have you when there isn't anything left —

A blackholish void in which all is consumed?

I bet it would swallow itself in the end

And nothing would have nothing whatsoever to do!

 

In the absence of everything I'd be rather bored

So I hope it won't happen anytime soon

I prefer to ramble about something or other

And may wax a bit whimsical, a daffy loon

 

It's my habit to blab it what pops in my head

Be it incomprehensible spillious gab

Out it must come or my brain would quite rupture

Flinging out thoughts like a nuclear confab

 

So listen to me or avoid me like plague

If there isn't a choice then there's no hope for you

I'll warn you to cover your ears and escape

Lest my whimsical nature should infectuate you

 

Yes, run while there's time unless it's too late

At which point you will soon be a babbling fool

I will spread through your veins until you're addicted

The last stage is madness and there may be some drool

 

How I pity your plight should you be so unlucky

It's a tragic loss to wind up like me

Unable to speak without sounding silly

There's no cure, no hope for the whim malady.

 

 

    out of sorts

 

Once upon a monster

I stubbed my toe in fear

And there before my very eyes

Did everything glow sheer

By alabaster moonshine

And scintillatious fog

The dead did rise with creakish clamor

Fit to tie a hog

I'd never have imagined

Nor even been as daunted

If not for clammy palms of corpses

Slapping me so haunted

When from a tombish corner

Did separate a Goth

The type of which could steal you blind

A frigid behemoth

His graven visage furrowed

A million wrinkles churning

While mist arose like steam and smoke

And set my soul to burning

I'll never be the same

Nor ever less afrighted

As if dubbed Scaredy Skittish Daredy

And by a banshee nighted

It left me out of sorts

And certainly disgruntled

For from the cloak of pithy murk

Would slither Fear confrontled

A dank perditious scamper

Of many dainty feet

The tiptoed trepid tootsies tapped

A bold staccato beat

As petrified I stood

Within my gloom and doomish thrall

Exacerbated by

An angry warbler's piercing call

Hair prickled on my nape

A tingle jangled up my spine

And ever would I hope

To grab a stick and etch a line

Until the ground arose

A cloud of whorling dust and sand

Ungainly in its depth

Enveloping my second hand

But here my tale concludes

As I was drawn into the gullet

Of my greatest terror, flying dirt

And from there I'll have to mull it.

Authors: 
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Lori R. Lopez

Rafael Lopez

Noel Lopez