Serenity Poems Quotes

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year. He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety. Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could. Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in. Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day; begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit to be cumbered with your old nonsense. This new day is too dear, with its hopes and invitations, to waste a moment on the yesterdays.

If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever.

The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem.

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow’d to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all A heart whose love is innocent!

when I finally begin to drift into sleep your memory is the...first and the moonlight the last, to kiss my face.

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

We don’t know anything about silent sages, buried knowledge, the eye of the mute poet, serene seers, yet how many talkative destroyers, prophets and ideologues, teachers and beautifiers there are on the other side.

Then and Now In younger days each morning I rose with joy, To weep at nightfall; now, in my later years, Though doubting I begin my day, yet Always its end is serene and holy.

A truly brave man is ever serene; he is never taken by surprise; nothing ruffles the equanimity of his spirit. In the heat of battle he remains cool; in the midst of catastrophes he keeps level his mind. Earthquakes do not shake him, he laughs at storms. We admire him as truly great, who, in the menacing presence of danger or death, retains his self-possession; who, for instance, can compose a poem under impending peril or hum a strain in the face of death. Such indulgence betraying no tremor in the writing or in the voice, is taken as an infallible index of a large nature—of what we call a capacious mind (Yoyū), which, far from being pressed or crowded, has always room for something more.

Beer bottles, whiskey bottles, brown glass, green. They fell to the lawn and I'd feel serene. Adam was king to my stilted queen.

In a serener Bright, In a more golden light I see Each little doubt and fear, Each little discord here Removed.

Mother Teresa's Anyway Poem People are often unreasonable, illogical and self centered; Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies; Succeed anyway. If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; Be honest and frank anyway. What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; Build anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; Be happy anyway. The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; Do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; Give the world the best you've got anyway. You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God; It was never between you and them anyway. Inscribed on the wall of Mother Teresa's children's home in Calcutta.

Imagination will often carry us to worlds that never were. But without it, we go nowhere - Carl Sagan

I saw thee once - only once - years ago: I must not say how many - but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared stir, unless on tiptoe - Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death - Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in the parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence. Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell upon the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd - alas, in sorrow! Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight - Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses? No footsteps stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven! - oh, G**! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused - I looked - And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind the garden was enchanted!) The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All - all expired save thee - save less than thou: Save only divine light in thine eyes - Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them - they were the world to me. I saw but them - saw only them for hours - Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep - How fathomless a capacity for love! But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go - they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me - they lead me through the years. They are my ministers - yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle - My duty, to be saved by their bright fire, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) And are far up in Heaven - the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still - two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!

I Got Kin Plant So that your own heart Will grow. Love So God will think, “Ahhhhhh, I got kin in that body! I should start inviting that soul over For coffee and Rolls.” Sing Because this is a food Our starving world Needs. Laugh Because that is the purest Sound.

In the midst of a thousand clouds and countless waters there is an idle person. By day, he roams the green mountains, at night, he returns to sleep beneath the cliff. Quickly, the seasons pass in serenity, with no worldly bonds. How joyful! What does he depend upon? Quiet, like a large autumn river.

Tomorrow I shall write something beautiful, something so serene that storms will rise suddenly and protest with ferocious screams. I shall write poems for the poets and for the songster a single song That will tell a tale of such beauty the heart of earth shall moan. But today, today shall be special for all I will do is sit quietly alone and think of you and think of you.

II A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,       A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,       Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,           In word, or sigh, or tear — O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,       All this long eve, so balmy and serene, Have I been gazing on the western sky,       And its peculiar tint of yellow green: And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are! III           My genial spirits fail;           And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?           It were a vain endeavour,           Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

Robert Browning's childhood was passed in an unusually serene and happy home. In Development he tells how, at five years of age, he was made to understand the main facts of the Trojan War by his father's clever use of the cat, the dogs, the pony in the stable, and the page-boy, to impersonate the heroes of that ancient conflict.

It was marvelous that I found my best friend and soul mate all in the same person.

The season was waning fast Our nights were growing cold at last I took her to bed with silk and song, 'Lay still, my love, I won’t be long... I must prepare my body for passion.' 'O, your body you give, but all else you ration.' 'It is because of these dreams of a sylvan scene... A bleeding nymph to leave me serene... I have dreams of a trembling wench.' 'You have dreams,' she said, 'that cannot be quenched.' 'Our passion,' said I, 'should never be feared... As our longing for love can never be cured... Our want is our way and our way is our will... We have the love, my love, that no one can kill.' 'If night is your love, then in dreams you’ll fulfill... This love, our love, that no one can kill.' Yet want is my way, and my way is my will, Thus I killed my love with a sleeping pill.

To My Wife You are like a young white hen. Her feathers ruffle in the wind, her neck curves down to drink, and she rummages in the earth: but, in walking, she has your slow, queenly step, haughty and proud. She is better than the male. She is like the females of all the serene animals who draw near to God. Here, if my eye, if my judgment doesn’t deceive me, among these, you find your equals, and in no other woman. When evening lulls the little hens to sleep, they make sounds that call to mind those mild, sweet voices with which you argue with your pains, and don’t know that your voice has the soft, sad music of the henyard. You are like a pregnant heifer, still free, and without heaviness, merry, in fact; who, if someone strokes her, turns her neck, where a tender pink tinges her flesh. If you meet up with her, and hear her bellow, so mournful is this sound that you tear at the earth to give her a present. In the same way, I offer my gift to you when you are sad. You are like a tall, thin female dog, that always has so much sweetness in her eyes and ferociousness in her heart. At your feet, she seems a saint who burns with an indomitable fervor and in this way looks at you as her God and Lord. When you are at home, or going down the street, to anyone who tries, uninvited, to approach you, she uncovers her shining white teeth. And her love suffers from jealousy. You are like the fearful rabbit. Within her narrow cage, she stands upright to look at you, and extends her long, still ear; she deprives herself of the husks and roots that you bring her, and cowers, seeking the darkest corners. Who might take away this food? Who might take away the fur which she tears from her back to add to the nest where she will give birth? Who would ever make you suffer? You are like the swallow which returns in the spring. But each autumn will depart— you don’t have this art. You have this of the swallow: the light movements; that which, to me, seemed and was old, you proclaim another spring. You are like the provident ant. She whom the grandmother speaks of to the child as they go out in the countryside. And thus I find you in the bumble bee and in all the females of all the serene animals who draw near to God. And in no other woman.

The writer of this legend then records Its ghostly application in these words: The image is the Adversary old, Whose beckoning finger points to realms of gold; Our lusts and passions are the downward stair That leads the soul from a diviner air; The archer, Death; the flaming jewel, Life; Terrestrial goods, the goblet and the knife; The knights and ladies all whose flesh and bone By avarice have been hardened into stone; The clerk, the scholar whom the love of pelf Tempts from his books and from his nobler self. The scholar and the world! The endless strife, The discord in the harmonies of life! The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, And all the sweet serenity of books; The market-place, the eager love of gain, Whose aim is vanity, and whose end is pain!

My greatest fear is losing who I am—

Despite it all, we are here

What I like about the trees is their serenity. They're not a generation in a hurry.

your arms resemble a home for my soul.

We are constantly reminded  that the good parts in life will always outshine the bad.

Drop Thy still dews of quietness, Till all our strivings cease; Take from our souls the strain and stress, And let our ordered lives confess The beauty of Thy peace.

Monet’s “Waterlilies” (for Bill and Sonja) Today as the news from Selma and Saigon poisons the air like fallout, I come again to see the serene great picture that I love. Here space and time exist in light the eye like the eye of faith believes. The seen, the known dissolve in iridescence, become illusive flesh of light that was not, was, forever is. O light beheld as through refracting tears. Here is the aura of that world each of us has lost. Here is the shadow of its joy.

Hands fitted into each other’s, we would walk Pausing only for an expresso at Dario’s And a while to lean on the railing of the bridge To watch the dark mystery of the canal moving upon itself We would lie in the tall grass and watch fireflies Dance against the tent of night Then race madly to catch the last train home Where we would eat bread and cheese And drink cheap wine on the table we made from boxes And life was young, alive and beautiful Because it was Sunday, and you loved Sundays.

Dad was mercurial, swinging between extremes. Guilty and full of remorse one day, drunk as a skunk the next. I wanted to hate him, but I couldn’t. I could see the same traits welling up within me, and that scared me. I didn’t want to turn out like him. I was desperate to be better. Explains a lot about my life, really, but he had this poem hanging on the wall of our living room. I guess it was a prayer. Lord, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, And wisdom to know the difference.

Finish each day and be done with it.  You have done what you could.  Some blunders and absurdities no doubt crept in;  forget them as soon as you can.  Tomorrow is a new day.  You shall begin it serenely  and with too high a spirit  to be encumbered with your old nonsense

Overflowing heavens of squandered stars flame brilliantly above your troubles. Instead of into your pillows, weep up toward them. There, at the already weeping, at the ending visage, slowly thinning out, ravishing worldspace begins. Who will interrupt, once you've forced your way there, the current? No one. You may panic, and fight the overwhelming course of stars that streams towards you. Breathe. Breathe the darkness of the earth and again look up! Again. Lightly and facelessly depths lean toward you from above. The serene countenance dissolved in night makes room for yours. Paris, April 1913

Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead! There's none of these so lonely and poor of old, But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold. These laid the world away; poured out the red Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene, That men call age; and those who would have been, Their sons, they gave, their immortality

A green world, a scene of green, deep / with light blues, the greens made deep / by those blues. One thinks how / in certain pictures, envied landscapes are seen / (through a window, maybe) far behind the serene / sitter’s face, the serene pose, as though/in some impossible mirror, face to back, / human serenity gazed at a green world / which gazed at this face.

But unarmed righteousness fostered by love can overcome weapons and power, as demonstrated by the miraculous triumph of Jesus over Caesar, or Gandhi’s and Martin Luther King’s victories through nonviolent resistance. Jesus is a model of martyrdom because he withstood the temptations of power, wealth, and glamour, and remained steadfast even when threatened with crucifixion. Most important of all, Jesus exemplified opposition without hatred or the desire for retaliation; his heart was filled with boundless love and forgiveness. Completely eschewing violence, he epitomized passive resistance, serenely defiant even as he meekly carried his own cross. No matter how profane and pragmatic our world is, we will have passion, miracles, and beauty as long as we have the example of Jesus Christ. In

J.M.W. Turner's Poem dedicated to Ivan Aivazovsky (1842) Like a curtain slowly drawn It stops suddenly half open, Or, like grief itself, filled with gentle hope, It becomes lighter in the shore-less dark, Thus the moon barely wanes Winding her way above the storm-tossed sea. Stand upon this hill and behold endlessly This scene of a formidable sea, And it will seem to thee a waking dream. That secret mind flowing in thee Which even the day cannot scatter, The serenity of thinking and the beating of the heart Will enchain thee in this vision; This golden-silver moon Standing lonely over the sea, All curtain the grief of even the hopeless. And it appears that through the tempest Moves a light caressing wind, While the sea swells up with a roar, Sometimes, like a battlefield it looks to me The tempestuous sea, Where the moon itself is a brilliant golden crown Of a great king. But even that moon is always beneath thee Oh Master most high, Oh forgive thou me If even this master was frightened for a moment Oh, noble moment, by art betrayed… And how may one not delight in thee, Oh thou young boy, but forgive thou me, If I shall bend my white head Before thy art divine Thy bliss-wrought genius...

I PRAY TODAY I pray today for Those who are homeless to find shelter. Those who are depressed to discover joy. Those who are addicted to find release. Those who are lonely to find a friend. Those who are confused or lost to find a path. Those who are heartbroken to know that it will pass. Those who are sick to find healing. Those who live in darkness to be covered in light. Those who are dying to know that they have lived. I pray today for peace where there is unrest, for love to prevail over all. —corrine de winter

Lover off The Street (A Sonnet) Beauty and bliss are all around, When my feet walk alongside yours. Life reaches the pinnacle of being, When I'm annihilated for a smile of yours. Climbed plenty hills, trotted plenty jungle, Nowhere did I find a drop of sanity. Then I stood crazy before your radiance, And I got drenched in beams of serenity. I am but a naïve lover off the street, Without a single trace of intellect. The only thing that I've learnt in life is, In your happiness lies my upliftment. Business is measured by how much we receive, Life is realized when we stand hellbent to give.

In my opinion, for Baudelaire, the word vast is a vocal value. It is a word that is pronounced, never only read, never only seen in the objects to which it is attached. It is one of those words that a writer always speaks softly while he is writing it. Whether in verse or in prose, it has a poetic effect, which is also an effect of vocal poetry. This word immediately stands out from the words that surround it, from the images, and perhaps, even, from the thought. It is a "power of the word." Indeed, whenever we read this word in the measure of one of Baudelaire's verses, or in the periods of his prose poems, we have the impression that he forces us to pronounce it. The word vast, then, is a vocable of breath. It is placed on our breathing, which must be slow and calm. And the fact is that always, in Baudelaire's poetics, the word vast evokes calm, peace and serenity. It expresses a vital, intimate conviction. It transmits to our ears the echo of the secret recesses of our being. For this word bears the mark of gravity, it is the enemy of turmoil, opposed to the vocal exaggerations of declamation. In diction enslaved to strict measure, it would be shattered. The word vast must reign over the peaceful silence of being.

Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved, Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened, Thee, my serenity, A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee wail, whine, cry, Like a gloomy, mourning brume, Thee, my serenity, Soared through fervor and delight, To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth, One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure, Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune, Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart, Lean on my shoulders now, My beautiful, wonderful Lily, That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of, Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer, As I promise, to my most dear, The girl to my heart, always near, Come what may, don’t age a year, That I will be, forever here,

My Serinity, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee befuddled, bereaved, Dimmed like the midnight, secluded, darkened, Thee, my serenity, A window to my eyes, A window to laughter, and peace of mind, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee wail, whine, cry, Like a gloomy, mourning brume, Thee, my serenity, Soared through fervor and delight, To the crown of heavens, the Almighty Myth, One can not bear, Seeing thee prostrate, razed, demure, Upon the dimmed streets, crawling, for a sight of the lune, Thee, my birdy in love, What befall to thy song, The very chant of my life, Cut short, stopped, along with all I gasp, Thee, my serenity, one can not bear, Seeing thee, caged in thy own night, Encumbered, through thy own heart, Lean on my shoulders now, My beautiful, wonderful Lily, That thee shall not fear, the sorrow of, Of being lonely, apart, not having a peer, As I promise, to my most dear, The girl to my heart, always near, Come what may, don’t age a year, That I will be, forever here,

As I grow longer in the tooth, I find myself shaking off for greater and greater stretches of time, and I always use this time to fret morosely about my health in general, and about the likelihood that a grave illness, conceivably located in the bladder region, will overtake me in the future, maybe imminently. In this way a pleasurable, natural act becomes the catalyst for somber reflections and an unnatural, incipient depression. So much of life follows this pattern exactly, I think, We begin to lose ourselves in a joyful or gratifying act - it can be a creature comfort or something complicatedly emotional like stimulating conversation or the solitary immersion in a poem, a beautiful landscape, or a work of art - and we forget, in the moment of serenity, all the pain and trouble of life. Until, quite suddenly, and as a rule, shockingly, this very forgetfulness, our fleeting holiday from care, becomes nothing more than another occasion to remember how truly infrequently happiness comes to us, and how likely we are to die in some hortible way. Then, disgusted with ourselves over our inability to enjoy life, we halt the pleasurable activity and move on, as speedily as we can, to other business.

We are all gastropods, soft, sticky creatures pulling ourselves along the earth from which we came and leaving a trail of silvery drool behind. But the snail, a worm that eternally slides along the horizon, lifts into the air, from its soft bivalve back, the geometrical wonder of its spiral shell, seemingly unrelated to the body that produced it in fear and loneliness. We secrete our shell in the sweat and mucous of our skin, in the transparent, scaly flesh of the foot we use to drag ourselves along. Through an alchemical transmutation, our drool turns to ivory and the spasms of our flesh into an undisturbed stillness. We curl around our central pilaster of rose-colored kaolin, we add, in our desperate drive to persist, spiral after spiral, each one wider, asymptotic, and translucid, until the miracle comes to pass: the revolting worm—existing in the life it lives, fermenting in its sins, irrigated by hormones and blood and sperm and lymph—rots and dies, leaving behind the ceramic filigree of its shell, a triumph of symmetry, the deathless icon in the platonic world of the mind. We all secrete, as we live, poems and pictures, ideas and hope, glistening palaces of music and faith, shells which begin by protecting our soft abdomen but after our disappearance live in the golden air of pure forms. Geometry always appears out of the amorphous, serenity out of pain and torture, just as dry tears leave behind the most wondrous crystals of salt.

O God of heaven! The dream of horror, The frightful dream is over now; The sickened heart, the blasting sorrow, The ghastly night, the ghastlier morrow, The aching sense of utter woe. The burning tears that would keep welling, The groan that mocked at every tear, That burst from out their dreary dwelling, As if each gasp were life expelling, But life was nourished by despair. The tossing and the anguished pining, The grinding teeth and starting eye; The agony of still repining, When not a spark of hope was shining From gloomy fate's relentless sky. The impatient rage, the useless shrinking From thoughts that yet could not be borne; The soul that was for ever thinking, Till nature maddened, tortured, sinking, At last refused to mourn. It's over now—and I am free, And the ocean wind is caressing me, The wild wind from the wavy main I never thought to see again. Bless thee, bright Sea, and glorious dome, And my own world, my spirit's home; Bless thee, bless all—I cannot speak; My voice is choked, but not with grief, And salt drops from my haggard cheek Descend like rain upon the heath. How long they've wet a dungeon floor, Falling on flagstones damp and grey: I used to weep even in my sleep; The night was dreadful like the day. I used to weep when winter's snow Whirled through the grating stormily; But then it was a calmer woe, For everything was drear to me. The bitterest time, the worst of all, Was that in which the summer sheen Cast a green lustre on the wall That told of fields of lovelier green. Often I've sat down on the ground, Gazing up to the flush scarce seen, Till, heedless of the darkness round, My soul has sought a land serene. It sought the arch of heaven divine, The pure blue heaven with clouds of gold; It sought thy father's home and mine As I remembered it of old. Oh, even now too horribly Come back the feelings that would swell, When with my face hid on my knee, I strove the bursting groans to quell. I flung myself upon the stone; I howled, and tore my tangled hair; And then, when the first gust had flown, Lay in unspeakable despair. Sometimes a curse, sometimes a prayer, Would quiver on my parchèd tongue; But both without a murmur there Died in the breast from whence they sprung. And so the day would fade on high, And darkness quench that lonely beam, And slumber mould my misery Into some strange and spectral dream, Whose phantom horrors made me know The worst extent of human woe. But this is past, and why return O'er such a path to brood and mourn? Shake off the fetters, break the chain, And live and love and smile again. The waste of youth, the waste of years, Departed in that dungeon thrall; The gnawing grief, the hopeless tears, Forget them—oh, forget them all!

John Burroughs beautifully expresses this in his poem “Waiting”: Serene, I fold my hands and wait, Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea; I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, For, lo! my own shall come to me. I stay my haste, I make delays, For what avails this eager pace? I stand amid the eternal ways, And what is mine shall know my face. Asleep, awake, by night or day, The friends I seek are seeking me; No wind can drive my bark astray, Nor change the tide of destiny. What matter if I stand alone? I wait with joy the coming years; My heart shall reap where it hath sown, And garner up its fruit of tears. The waters know their own and draw The brook that springs in yonder height; So flows the good with equal law Unto the soul of pure delight. The stars come nightly to the sky; The tidal wave unto the sea; Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, Can keep my own away from me.

Yes! No! How necessary it is to have opinions! I think the spotted trout lilies are satisfied, standing a few inches above the earth. I think serenity is not something you just find in the world, like a plum tree, holding up its white petals. The violets, along the river, are opening their blue faces, like small dark lanterns. The green mosses, being so many, are as good as brawny. How important it is to walk along, not in haste but slowly, looking at everything and calling out Yes! No! The swan, for all his pomp, his robes of glass and petals, wants only to be allowed to live on the nameless pond. The catbrier is without fault. The water thrushes, down among the sloppy rocks, are going crazy with happiness. Imagination is better than a sharp instrument. To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

All finite things reveal infinitude: The mountain with its singular bright shade Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow, The after-light upon ice-burdened pines; Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope, A scent beloved of bees; Silence of water above a sunken tree: The pure serene of memory in one man, – A ripple widening from a single stone Winding around the waters of the world.

The kingdom of poetry" This is like light. This is light, Useful as light, as charming And enchanting… …Poetry is certainly More interesting, more valuable, and certainly more charming Than Niagara Falls, the Grand Canyon, the Atlantic Ocean And other much admired natural phenomena. It is useful as light, and as beautiful It is preposterous Precisely, making it possible to say One cannot carry a mountain, but a poem can be carried all over. It is monstrous. Pleasantly, for poetry can say, seriously or in play: “Poetry is better than hope, “For poetry is patience of hope, and all hope’s vivid pictures, “Poetry is better than excitement, it is far more delightful, “Poetry is superior to success, and victory, it endures in serene blessedness “Long after the most fabulous feat like fireworks has mounted and fallen. “Poetry is far more powerful and far more enchanting animal “Than any wood, jungle, ark, circus or zoo possesses.” For poetry magnifies and heighten reality: Poetry says of reality that if it is magnificent, it is also stupid: For poetry is, in a way, omnipotent; For reality is various and rich, powerful and vivid, but it is not enough Because it is disorderly and stupid or only at times, and erratically, intelligent: For without poetry, reality is speechless or incoherent: It is inchoate, like the pomp and the bombast of thunder: Its peroration verge upon the ceaseless oration of the ocean: For reality glows and glory, without poetry, Fake, like the red operas of sunset The blue rivers and the windows of morning. The arts of poetry makes it possible to say: Pandemonium. For poetry is gay and exact. It says: “The sunset resembles a bull-fight. “A sleeping arm feels like soda, fizzing.” Poetry resurrect the past from the sepulchre, like Lazarus. It transforms a lion into a sphinx and a girl. It gives a girl the splendor of Latin. It transforms the water into wine at each marriage in Cana of Galilee. For it is true that poetry invented the unicorn, the centaur and the phoenix. Hence it is true that poetry is an everlasting Ark. An omnibus containing, bearing and begetting all the mind’s animals. Whence it is that poetry gave and gives tongue to forgiveness Therefore a history of poetry would be a history of joy, and a history of the mystery of love For poetry provides spontaneously, abundantly and freely The petnames and the diminutives which love requires and without which the mystery of love cannot be mastered. For poetry is like light, and it is light. It shines over all, like the blue sky, with the same blue justice. For poetry is the sunlight of consciousness: It is also the soil of the fruits of knowledge In the orchards of being: It shows us the pleasures of the city. It lights up the structures of reality. It is a cause of knowledge and laughter: It sharpens the whistles of the witty: It is like morning and the flutes of morning, chanting and enchanted. It is the birth and the rebirth of the first morning forever. Poetry is quick as tigers, clever as cats, vivid as oranges, Nevertheless, it is deathless: it is evergreen and in blossom; long after the Pharaohs and the Caesars have fallen, It shines and endures more than diamonds, It is because poetry is the actuality of possibility, it is The reality of the imagination, The throat of exaltation, The processions of possessions, The motion of meaning and The meaning of morning and The mastery of meaning. The praise of poetry is like the clarity of the heights of the mountains. The heights of poetry are like the exaltation of the mountains. It is the consummation of consciousness in the country of the morning!

Sonnet of Human I am but a human who's got no name, Simply alive in the land of liberty, I am but a human who talks no lame, Simply communicates with utter serenity, I am but a human who despises harming, No matter what some books command, I am but a human who loves not blaming, No matter how much my peers demand, I am but a human who lives not in history, Simply breathes in the now and here, I am but a human who's curious in mystery, And loves to investigate forged with questionnaire, I am but a human teeming with awareness beyond all race and clans, I am but a human whose religion is liberty and god the humans.

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok you would never see him doing such a thing, tossing the dry snow over the mountain of his bare, round shoulder, his hair tied in a knot, a model of concentration. Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word for what he does, or does not do. Even the season is wrong for him. In all his manifestations, is it not warm and slightly humid? Is this not implied by his serene expression, that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? But here we are, working our way down the driveway. one shovelful at a time. We toss the light powder into the clean air. We feel the cold most on our faces. And with every heave we disappear and become lost to each other in these sudden clouds of our own making, these fountain-bursts of snow. This is so much better than a sermon in church, I say out loud, bud Buddha keeps on shoveling. This is the true religion, the religion of snow, and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, I say, but he is too busy to hear me He has thrown himself into shoveling snow as if it were the purpose of existence, as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway you could back the car down easily and drive off into the vanities of the world with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio. All morning long we work side by side, me with my commentary and he is inside the generous pocket of his silence, until the house is nearly noon and the snow is piled high all around us; then, I hear him speak. After this, he asks, can we go inside and play cards? Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk and bring cups of hot chlorate to the table while you shuffle the deck, and our boots stand dripping by the door. Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes and leaning for a moment on his shovel before he drives the fun blade again deep into the glittering white snow.

It’s Up to You” by Edgar A. Guest. That poem expressed his intense dedication to his goals and his principles: No one is beat till he quits; No one is through till he stops, No matter how hard failure hits, No matter how often he drops. A fellow’s not down till he lies In the dust and refuses to rise. Fate may slam him and bang him around And batter his frame till he’s sore, But she never can say that he’s downed While he bobs up serenely for more. A fellow’s not dead till he dies, Nor beat till no longer he tries.

I read a poem today that reminded me of you.” He gave her another sideways glance, as if confessing something naughty. “Would you like to hear it?” Her knees quivered beneath her skirts. Perhaps he did feel something for her. Perhaps he is now going to declare himself! “Yes, I would.” “Your chaperone is watching us from the parapets. It would be better for me to recite it more privately.” With gentle force, he guided her behind a tall hedge. Lydia’s belly fluttered as Deveril took both her hands. His hair gleamed like an angel’s wing. Would he tell her he couldn’t let her go, that they didn’t have to go to London? That instead they could remain here…together? “She walks in beauty, like the night,” he whispered. “Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.” Vincent’s eyes were like a turbulent sea in a moonlit storm. He gazed at her as though she was something precious. Lydia sighed as his long fingers removed a pin from her hair. “One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,” Her breath caught as he twirled a lock of her hair. “Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.” His hand crept up to caress her cheek, his intent gaze never wavering. “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,” His lips curved in a sensual smile as he concluded. “But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!” For an eternity, they stared as if peering into each other’s souls. His fingers slid past her cheek and threaded once more through her hair, sending the remaining pins scattering into the grass. “Lydia,” he whispered. Then his lips were on hers, warm, silken, teasing.

Strange as it may seem today to say, the aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware. In this state of god-like awareness one sings; in this realm the world exists as poem.

The Sapiens Experiment (A Sonnet) If knowledge is power, Love is superpower. If curiosity is a gift, Compassion is a trove of treasure. More than abundance, focus on wholeness, More than serenity, focus on simplicity. More than leading, focus on service, More than individuality, focus on collectivity. To reason is great, but to accept is greater, To be loved is great, but to be love is greater. To have help is great, but to be the help is greater, To seek light is great, but to be the light is greater. Sapiens are the most spectacular experiment of nature. To waste it all on presumptions is but sheer disaster.

Sonnet Krantistani To hell with fear, To hell with insecurity! Stand up with conviction, To hell with serenity! Enough with pretend revolution, Enough with jungly aum shanti! For once in your life grow up o soldier, Breaking all biases become krantistani. Your footsteps will strike terror in terrorists, Your voice will give chills to the divisionists. Turn your existence into a beacon of help, Possess this world with acts of love and uplift. Killing terrorists and tyrants don't end inhumanity. Oust them all, then irrigate the soil with solidarity. (Krantistani: Citizen of Revolution, Aum Shanti: Archaic Peace Chant)

Dead Rite by Stewart Stafford While he lives, hope still clings, The hereafter remains a mystery, If life is but struggle and toil, Then death is hushed serenity. Things he treasured when alive, Trinkets to divide up as booty, The body still lying in repose, Nothing but a fading memory. Lay him down in a mossy grave, Heads bowed in a muttered eulogy, Then back away with platitudes, To the nearest exit from the cemetery. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

No Struggle No Life (The Sonnet) Ain't no life without struggle, Ain't no heart without heartbreak. Ain't no destination without the journey, Ain't no courage without some dread. Ain't no clarity without some confusion, Ain't no serenity without suffering. Ain't no contentment without disappointment, Ain't no resilience without failing. Ain't no mindfulness without mindlessness, Ain't no uplift without some devastation. Ain't no knowledge without ignorance, Ain't no salvation without self-annihilation. Ain't no I without the Us, without the We. Ain't no We, unless the norm is nonbinary.

Simple, Sonnet Serenity is born of simplicity, Insecurity is born of clutter. Patience empowers perseverance, Selfishness brings down disaster. But what's a life without difficulty, Difficulty delivers durability. Don't be ashamed of darkness in life, It's in darkness we shine most brightly. There's nothing shameful about fear, It's a problem when the reason is baseless. Trouble of privilege is trouble of lies, Reject all privilege and rush to the helpless. It is human nature to shed tears when in agony, Taking pain to wipe another's tears is humanity.

When I am with you Irma Life is an experience of learnings and undoings, A ceaseless cluster of moments adored and detested, But for lovers it is all about love and its choosings, Where the heart investigates the feelings against which the mind protested, A pursuit that never ends, A cycle of feelings always in a state of motion, For what the mind dislikes the love smitten heart often defends, Only to prove that lovers have its own notion, About life, about time, about reality and about dreams too, They somehow can enslave time and bend the reality, Whenever a lover says, “my darling I love you!” At this moment of serenity, time gets installed in their lives as the patron deity, And reality begins to please them in all possible ways, As these lovers live in this self made reality, They do not yearn for anything, not even new days, Because when in love, life is like the Summer rose, a life of beauty and perfect austerity!

Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look, The fields his study, Nature was his book; And, as revolving SEASONS chang'd the scene From heat to cold, tempestuous to serene, Though every change still varied his employ, Yet each new duty brought its share of joy.

When I found the people who were right for me and did not have to run in circles for their love and acceptance, that is when I knew I was in good hands.

The way you feel when you’re stuck at a crossroads,  not knowing which way is the right way,

For when the memories depart, I will know there are only  pleasant emotions behind the vague memory of our day.

We have so much to be thankful for when we remember our reasons for gratitude—the blessings we may take for granted, the blessings we would miss bitterly if they vanished.

We ask Your help in remembering to practice     an attitude of gratitude today and every day. —suzanne c. cole

I am all these terrible deeds wrapped in skin

Whitman began to work on an elegy to describe the meaning of the war. He called it, “Retrievements Out of the Night.” It was perhaps his greatest poem. It was written for all the bruised and broken young men. The poem was saturated with death: Come lovely and soothing death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later delicate death. Here were commingled the memories of the dead soldiers and their dead commander—the president. It was a triumph of a poem—written in the thrall of dharma. It was the last great poem of Whitman’s career.

I read a poem today that reminded me of you.” He gave her another sideways glance, as if confessing something naughty. “Would you like to hear it?” Her knees quivered beneath her skirts. Perhaps he did feel something for her. Perhaps he is now going to declare himself! “Yes, I would.” “Your chaperone is watching us from the parapets. It would be better for me to recite it more privately.” With gentle force, he guided her behind a tall hedge. Lydia’s belly fluttered as Deveril took both her hands. His hair gleamed like an angel’s wing. Would he tell her he couldn’t let her go, that they didn’t have to go to London? That instead they could remain here…together? “She walks in beauty, like the night,” he whispered. “Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.” Vincent’s eyes were like a turbulent sea in a moonlit storm. He gazed at her as though she was something precious. Lydia sighed as his long fingers removed a pin from her hair. “One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress,” Her breath caught as he twirled a lock of her hair. “Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.” His hand crept up to caress her cheek, his intent gaze never wavering. “And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,” His lips curved in a sensual smile as he concluded. “But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!” For an eternity, they stared as if peering into each other’s souls. His fingers slid past her cheek and threaded once more through her hair, sending the remaining pins scattering into the grass. “Lydia,” he whispered. Then his lips were on hers, warm, silken, teasing. Her limbs melted. Intoxicating heat unfurled low in her body. Lydia reached up to pull him closer, to demand more. Vincent pulled back before she could grasp him. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “And that is your most important lesson in courtship, Lydia. Never allow a man to get you off alone, especially if he desires to recite poetry, and particularly Lord Byron’s verses.” A strangled gasp caught in her throat at his duplicity. It had all been part of the game! “You…you…” He held up a hand. “Now slap me with your fan in retaliation for taking such liberties.” Reeling in outrage, she fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for the ineffectual weapon. Vincent shrugged, undaunted at her ire. “That is why you should keep your fan at the ready.” Seizing the bundle of cloth-covered sticks, she smacked him soundly on the arm, much harder than Miss Hobson had instructed. “You are lucky I did not have my gun,” she hissed. How could he? To

I must do these things lest I forget     how precious life can be. I must walk again the wooded path     of quaint simplicity. —clay harrison

All is white where the moon pours her shower. At her feet groans the tormented sea. Serene, she sees solitude flower In the night, and chastity.

Serenity stems from simplicity, Fear festers in frivolity. Peace stems from patience, Insecurity festers in apathy.

Our voices turn so easily into too much noise. The gift I give myself is a day of silence so that I might retrieve what has been lost in the clamor— of cars, the frenzy, the gossip— what we mistake for connection.

In silence, I notice a branch bending in the wind, as if to lean closer, to whisper in my ear its timeless secrets.

Morning's Serenade by Stewart Stafford Stirred by a magpie's auction bids, I opened up our curtained eyelids, To pale dawn's reverential blinking, Beyond my lady's distant inkling. Anointed by the infant sun's rays, I stand in regal morning’s praise; Surveying virgin domain’s expanse, Before the hatchling public dance. The early-risen owl hoots carried far, The songbirds played off fading stars, Cockcrow drew in a loping red fox, Scattering fawns and sheep flocks. My lady spent, sports a drowsy crown, Her chest rises, then slowly down, Cityscape visions to last night's desire, Golden tresses tossed in oriole fire. To the kitchen, a connoisseur's start, A lover's labour, a chef's work of art, Crack avian treasures, new life's motif. Ground coffee, perfumed weekend relief. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.

I Give You My Life (The Sonnet) I give you my life, Crossing all foul insecurity. Don't let me dwindle in chains, Accept this offering of my serenity. Pour me with all your suffering, So I can bathe in your smile. Take this torch of my burning soul, With it light up your shadowy aisle. Darkness is a fiendish illusion, Our each molecule is a fountain of light. I have nothing to give my friend, So I give you my life to amplify your might. We are dead till we live for others. In helping them our burden disappears.

I am a flat line of serenity.

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can and wisdom to know the difference.

WELCOMING ANGELS In the arduous simplicity of this moment I open my heart, mind, and soul to stillness. In the deeper quiet I sense the greater Life that is my life. I do not live only; I am lived. I do not breathe only; I am breathed. I am not only the one I appear to be but also the One who appears as me. —rabbi rami m. shapiro

THE GIFT I GIVE MYSELF Our voices turn so easily into too much noise. The gift I give myself is a day of silence so that I might retrieve what has been lost in the clamor— of cars, the frenzy, the gossip— what we mistake for connection. In silence, I watch the leaves, each crimson and tangerine hue more brilliant than the next on its slow descent— as if a message is there for the reading. In silence, I hear the wind crackling its own stormy song. In silence, I notice a branch bending in the wind, as if to lean closer, to whisper in my ear its timeless secrets. —jane butkin wagner

LISTEN Listening to your heart, finding out who you are, is not simple. It takes time for the chatter to quiet down. In the silence of “not doing” we begin to know what we feel. If we listen and hear what is being offered, then anything in life can be our guide. Listen. —author unknown

the way life will when we learn what to hold, what to let go

Wandered I have at the Kumbh, seeking salvation from the bondages of a painful past Dipped in its holy waters with a million sinners, cleansing me of the sin of having failed in love Burnt in the eternal pyres of Manikarnika, and of my mind, memories of a grim yesterday, and hopes of a colourful tomorrow Offered my self to the Lord of death, hoping to be reborn at the charnel grounds Scaled I have the mighty Himalayas, seeking solace in its serene peaks; Peaks with herbs so potent that they burned many a man’s grief into smokes of joy, With heights so cold that it froze rivers over, and with it, a man’s burning tears, too. In your love I learnt that the salvation, the hope, and the serenity they all offered, was right there where I was Or maybe, this realisation is the blessing these places offer a man – for hither, yonder and beyond.

God Bless The Queen Mother Ode to her Majesty God bless the Queen Mother Grant her many years of life We need her in our lives Show her everlasting love Cover her with power from Above God bless the Queen Mother A descendant of royalty As she goes in and out of the city To serve with loyalty and dignity May she have serenity God bless the Queen Mother Whether down the valley or up the hill On the battlefield, may she win Please keep her still As she honours your will God bless the Queen Mother Throughout seasons Wherever she goes And whatever she does Let her be favoured God bless the Queen Mother!

The Sacred Place of A Loving Mother It felt so unreal The atmosphere surreal Yet, you had serenity As you said your final goodbyes With conviction, you waved at us Until you gave your last breath That was the end of you on Earth Years go by and I realise I hope to see you one more time So, I keep looking around Your departure left in me a gaping wound That wound sometimes bleeds No matter how much I try to hide it I cannot help but long for you Mommy Your beautiful smile calmed my nerves Your warm presence gave me calmness Your gentle kindness changed who I am Your wealth of wisdom helped me grow Your staunch support kept me strong Your sincere sacrifices brought me hope Your powerful prayers made me a conqueror If you could hear my voice I would whisper the words “I love you.” If you could see my face You would realise that I miss you If you could look at me now You would understand how much I need you If you could notice my tears I know you would wipe them there and there If you could get closer to me You would give me a hug and say, “It is okay.” Because right now, I feel it is not Mama! Deep in my heart, there is a vacuum A vacuum that no one can ever fill Every time I am at crossroads I wonder what you would say or do Living next to you was a great blessing You were an amazing parent to me And you will always be my inspiration In sadness, I recall how you prayed In happiness, I recount how you praised the Lord In the wilderness, I remember how you trusted God It is still hard to believe you are gone I will cherish you forever My loving Mother No one can ever take your sacred place

Will and Wheel (The Sonnet) Where there is a will, there is a wheel. Where there is intent, there is upliftment. Where there is heart, there is less dirt. Where there is content, there is less torment. Where there is simplicity, there is sanity. Where there is luxury, there is degradation. Where there is sharing, there is serenity. Where there is moderation, there is ascension. Where there is love, there is acceptance. Where there is division, there is judgment. Where there is selflessness, there is joy. Where there is self-absorption, there is lament. The requirement of civilization is simply this. We are to have the will to love and the will to lift.

There are moments where I am stopped— I forget the right way to go and even contemplate retracing my steps. To go back to where I used to be  in order to figure out where exactly I desire to go.

The spiritual aspect of valor is evidenced by composure—calm presence of mind. Tranquility is courage in repose. It is a statical manifestation of valor, as daring deeds are a dynamical. A truly brave man is ever serene; he is never taken by surprise; nothing ruffles the equanimity of his spirit. In the heat of battle he remains cool; in the midst of catastrophes he keeps level his mind. Earthquakes do not shake him, he laughs at storms. We admire him as truly great, who, in the menacing presence of danger or death, retains his self-possession; who, for instance, can compose a poem under impending peril or hum a strain in the face of death. Such indulgence, betraying no tremor in the writing or in the voice, is taken as an infallible index of a large nature—of what we call a capacious mind (Yoyū), which, far from being pressed or crowded, has always room for something more.

Consensus of Heart (The Sonnet) Place truth at the feet of love, Intellect at the feet of integration. Place belief at the feet of harmony, Stubbornness at the feet of ascension. Place tradition at the feet of expansion, Individuality at the feet of collectivity. Place knowledge at the feet of warmth, Patriotism at the feet of world community. Place differences at the feet of unity, Rebellion at the feet of accountability. Place serenity at the feet of social uplift, Practicality at the feet of dignity 'n equality. Whether there is consensus of head or not, Let us first ensure consensus of the heart.

War Ain’t Peace (The Sonnet) Hudson, Thames, Nile and Sindhu, All are now red with the blood of the innocent. Who is to blame for such catastrophe, Everybody who accepts arms race as upliftment. Suited savages have seduced them to believe, That bigger the military greater the pride. It’s necessary for politicians to sell nationalism, Or else their loyal subjects will all get untied. Acts of national security only breed insecurity, Which forces people to seek comfort in weapons. True, lasting stability and serenity of a nation, Comes only from a universal desire for union. Let the politicians sell war in the name of peace. Why must the citizens buy it like rats chasing cheese!

Beauty’s what I want now. I look for it within and without my- self, when I feel serene that’s beautiful, when I see forsythias, when someone reads poems I exist to be the one who’s feeling it. It isn’t for me in- dividually, I am the universe as senses for beauty, or as beauty; no need for forgiveness, drama, or oppression— watch lights appear through the trees at evening while your daddy cleans fish. It’s all that’s left, only in memory as I’m you, the voice who remembers me, there used to be a world.

Her face and the garden Her face is like a summer garden, By divine beauty tended and by grace never forsaken, There bloom roses many, and lilies too, And I keep looking at it, for in spell bound state what else can I do, Yesterday she was a garden of roses, Last year she was the entire spring, where once in bloom, the beauty’s flower never closes, This year she has transformed into a garden blooming with new flowers, Daisies, daffodils, and sunflowers standing like beauty’s radiant towers, Rendered more radiant in the never ending splendour of her eyes, And the garden of beautiful roses growing all over her, even time defies, While I watch the garden of beauty grow over her face, My heart beats assume a new and lovely pace, That draw my mind into this world of endless beauty, And I know not whether it obeys my heart’s yearnings or it too has grown fond of her pure serenity, The summer has found a permanent residence in her face, infact within her, Because I still see the roses blooming over her face although it is late November, And when sometimes she brushes her hair with her fingers, The roses peek from her face to feel her finger tips and their magical wonders, And when she rests her eyelids upon her eyes, The pollen dust of million flowers, upon her waiting eyelashes, a perfect sheen applies, That neither sparkles nor glows, But in the garden of her face it simply in its splendour grows, And when the winter sun gets tired and retires finally, The lilies apply the mask of radiance on her tenderly, While the violets and narcissus seep deep into her brow, And what a wonder she is to look at now, A beauty with no end, where waves of summer flow interminably, As she rests her head on the pillow and closes her eyes slowly, The morning glory turns into the night glory, And then begins our own love story, Where the lovely and winding creepers grow all over us, over her and over me too, Finally the garden of beauty grows all over us, and now it shall be so, no matter what you do, I in the garden of her beauty where flowers bloom everywhere, And then my heart confesses, “Irma, let us hide in this garden somewhere, To be never found by time, and never felt by any season, Because finally we have found love in each other that defies every reason,” And this is how it has been for many years now, I and my every feeling of love sinking deep into her beauty’s eternal brow!

Illusions of a lover! Illusions have neither a past nor any present, They always seem to hang in the moments of the future, For when experienced one never knows what they mean or represent, But they always arise from the person’s conscience and the stature, As for those who are in love everything is an illusion, When with her even real appears more real, When not with her even real seems unreal, a sort of hallucination, A dawn of new reality where everything is surreal, Only her smiles, her charms, her kisses, and her deep eyes exist, And the heart seeks its indulgences in them, And ah how much like a wanton kid it does persist, To only chase her, and seek her as if she were the most precious gem, The sun peeps in from the still and motionless curtains, And the weary eyes open hoping its rays will bring her along, But then everything drowns in the loud calls of martins, Until every sound resembles her voice and her beautiful song, Then nothing exists, neither the Sun, nor the curtains, and not even martins, Only your song and your endless memories, And the heart dutifully warbles to mind these emotional bulletins, So, I rest my head on a pile of your feelings and bid farewell to all my worries! And now it is me and your feelings spread all over, The heart stops beating, the mind stops to think, For now Irma, begins the journey called forever, Where moments do not pass as eyes blink, Because the heart does not beat and the mind does not think, Making time irrelevant and unnecessary, And as in this moment called forever we sink, We now only seek what is necessary, You, your memories, your charms and your smiles, As this restful state extends into eternity, It marks an end of life’s tribulations and trials, Because now your feelings envelope me to create a new feeling of serenity!

in the passing time we will work to make those oceans  into rivers, and then soon after, puddles.

There are days I do not feel as if I am living; instead, an existent being walking the various streets of life— not noticing all which surrounds them.

I walk down to the river to see what it looks like in the rain. Cold drizzle punctuates the smooth green sheet of serene jade in an insistent pizzicato that leaves a succession of ring prints - like many time wet glasses quickly set down and then plucked off a coffee table without coasters. I bring an umbrella, but don't use it. The rain, I finally decide after careful consideration, doesn't mean me any harm. And so I give in to it.

Humanity A to Z (The Poem) A for assimilation is the way, B for bigotry must be thrown away. C for conscience when at play, D for delusions all run away. E for equality once brought to life, F for fears can no longer survive. G for greed when let not to thrive, H for humility won't be caught in strife. I for integrity mustn't be compromised, J for justice will then prevail alright. K for kindness must never run tight, L for life can then be lived upright. M for mercy can never be forgotten, N for naivety keeps you from being rotten. O for oppression when is begotten, P for patience must be overridden. Q for questions when let fly, R for rigidity will weaken and die. S for serenity will go awry, T for tradition if obeyed dry. U for unity is our supreme mission, V for vanity leads only to destruction. W for wholeness is our salvation, X for xenophobia is no civilization. Y for yield we must never to separation, Z for zeal we mustn't lose for ascension.

A Poet wrote this poem for me in 2017. Whenever I read this, I feel happy that I could touch someone deeply! "It has not been long since he came to my life He came like a soft wind He made me feel like a king He showed me who i am He made me believe i can No not just a simple man A man who is so deep Emotions feelings are in a heap His mighty head high to keep Though strong and hard His heart is made of gold Love kindness are decorated in folds He holds the capacity of changing others Making all the sisters and brothers Feel that they are worthy His words are so simple yet strong Commanding yet soft High pitched yet so serene He smiles and makes the world smile He feels the unfelt He touches the untouched He sees the unseen He takes care of all without showing He shows without pretending His eyes sparkel with light He is fearless no fright He lightens up the room when he enters And when he speaks is like a melodious symphony That touch you deep down He will inspire you He will teach you He will lend u a hand And make u stand He will be the eye for you to see Thorough ur own heart He never hopes bad for others Neither does he bothers About the negetivies He is the positive man The mighty happy soul And if i talk about his soul It the most beautiful soul How can anyone feel so much? And he has the capability of being himself No matter what He takes good care of others And makes sure he is fit too He wants smile in evryones faces And he will make you smile You meet him once And here you go! You have a changed life Do you kno who the magic man is ? He is the passionate writer

Love is a momentary destruction, a combustion that threatens the pure creature we love, the one who's wounded in our fire. But after we've pulled away from her unraveled flames and looked at her, we see clearly the new, re-formed and flawless life, the quiet, warm life that called to us from the sweet surface of her body. Here is love's perfect vessel, filled and overflowing with its serene and glistening golden blood.