Sammie

“My ideal was contained within the word beauty, so difficult to define despite all the evidence of our senses. I felt responsible for sustaining and increasing the beauty of the world. I wanted the cities to be splendid, spacious and airy, their streets sprayed with clean water, their inhabitants all human beings whose bodies were neither degraded by marks of misery and servitude nor bloated by vulgar riches; I desired that the schoolboys should recite correctly some useful lessons; that the women presiding in their households should move with maternal dignity, expressing both vigor and calm; that the gymnasiums should be used by youths not unversed in arts and in sports; that the orchards should bear the finest fruits and the fields the richest harvests. I desired that the might and majesty of the Roman Peace should extend to all, insensibly present like the music of the revolving skies; that the most humble traveller might wander from one country, or one continent, to another without vexatious formalities, and without danger, assured everywhere of a minimum of legal protection and culture; that our soldiers should continue their eternal pyrrhic dance on the frontiers; that everything should go smoothly, whether workshops or temples; that the sea should be furrowed by brave ships, and the roads resounding to frequent carriages; that, in a world well ordered, the philosophers should have their place, and the dancers also. This ideal, modest on the whole, would be often enough approached if men would devote to it one part of the energy which they expend on stupid or cruel activities; great good fortune has allowed me a partial realization of my aims during the last quarter of a century. Arrian of Nicomedia, one of the best minds of our time, likes to recall to me the beautiful lines of ancient Terpander, defining in three words the Spartan ideal (that perfect mode of life to which Lacedaemon aspired without ever attaining it): Strength, Justice, the Muses. Strength was the basis, discipline without which there is no beauty, and firmness without which there is no justice. Justice was the balance of the parts, that whole so harmoniously composed which no excess should be permitted to endanger. Strength and justice together were but one instrument, well tuned, in the hands of the Muses. All forms of dire poverty and brutality were things to forbid as insults to the fair body of mankind, every injustice a false note to avoid in the harmony of the spheres.”
― Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian

“Children are God's way of saving us. They give us a second chance at getting it right.”
― Nancy Arroyo Ruffin, Letters to My Daughter: A collection of short stories and poems about Love, Pride, and Identity

“It's sad that in a world of billions, people can still feel isolated and alone. Sometimes all it takes to brighten up someone's day is a smile or kind word, or the generous actions of a complete stranger. Small things, the tiny details, these are the things that matter in life — the little glint in the eye, curve of a lip, nod of a head, wave of a hand — such minuscule movements have huge ripple effects.”
― Shaun Hick

“A morning-flowered dalliance
demured and dulcet-sweet
with ebullience and efflorescence
admiring, cozy cottages
and elixirs of eloquence
lie waiting at our feet -

We'll dance through fetching pleasantries
as we walk ephemeral roads
evocative epiphanies
ethereal, though we know
our hearts are linked with gossamer
halcyon our day
a harbinger of pretty things
infused with whispers longing still
and gamboling in sultry ways
to feelings, all ineffable
screaming with insouciance
masking labyrinthine paths

where, in our nonchalance, we walk
through the lilt of love’s new morning rays.

Mellifluous murmurings
from a babbling brook
that soothes our heated passion-songs
and panoplies perplexed with thought
of shadows carried off with clouds
in stormy summer rains…

My dear, and that I can call you 'dear'
after ripples turned to crashing waves
after pyrrhic wins, emotions drained
we find our palace sunned and rayed
with quintessential moments lit
with wildflower lanterns arrayed
on verandahs lush with mutual love,
the softest love – our preferred décor

of life's lilly-blossom gate

in white-fenced serendipity…

Twilight sunlit heavens cross

our gardens, graced with perseverance,
bliss, and thee, and thou, so splendid, delicate
as a morning dove of charm and mirth –
at least with me; our misty mornings
glide through air...


So with whippoorwill’d sweet poetry -
of moonstones, triumphs, wonder-woven
in chandliers of winglet cherubs
wrought with time immemorial,
crafted with innocence, stowed away
and brought to light upon our day
in hallelujah tapestries
of ocean-windswept galleries
in breaths of ballet kisses, light,
skipping to the breakfast room
cascading chrysalis's love
in diaphanous imaginings
delightful, fleeting, celestial-viewed
as in our eyes which come to rest
evocative, exuberant
on one another’s moon-stowed dreams
idyllic, in quiescent ways,
peaceful in their radiance
resplendent with a myriad of thought

soothing muse, rhapsodic song
until the somnolence of night
spreads out again its shaded truss
of luminescent fantasies
waiting to be loved by us…

Oh, love! Your sincerest pardons begged!
I’ve gone too long, I’ve rambled, dear,
and on and on and on and on -
as if our hours were endless here…

A morning toast, with orange-juiced lips
exalting transcendent minds
suffused with sunrise symphonies
organic-born tranquilities
sublimed sonorous assemblages
with scintillas of eternity beating

at our breasts – their embraces but

a blushing, longing glance away…

I’ll end my charms this enraptured morn'
before cacophony and chafe
coarse in crude and rough abrade
when cynical distrust is laid
by hoarse and leeching parasites,
distaste fraught with smug disgust
by hairy, smelly maladroit

mediocrities born of poisoned wells

grotesque with selfish lies -

shrill and shrieking, biting, creeping

around our love, as if they rose

from Edgar Allen’s own immortal

rumpled decomposing clothes…

Oh me, oh my! I am so sorry!
can you forgive me? I gone and kissed you

for so long, in my morning imaginings,

through these words, through this song -
‘twas supposed to be "a trifle treat,"
but little treats do sometimes last

a little longer; and, oh, but oh,

but if I could, I surly would

keep you just a little longer tarrying here,

tarrying here with me this pleasant morn”
― Numi Who