J’ai DitBy Carina Zatarain
James brought the Harvest,
an acre of grain per hour, in fact,
inherited by his namesake–
Deering Harvester Company.
Because of this gift, his fortune,
he thought himself like Dionysus,
the statue deified at his threshold.
An American mythic,
his seasonal visits awakened
the estate of Vizcaya, always with
an artifact to add to his makeshift legend.
He brought lavish gifts from Ancient Rome,
Muslim embroidered carpets to wipe his feet,
church paintings to carve into,
the arm of Mary, the virgin, severed to display an organ.
He was the “god of things.”
He ruled but only one land–
a storage house with appropriated relics
accumulating like an Egyptian pharaoh’s death chamber,
for mummified furniture, wrapped like gauze,
their skeletal structure seen through thin layers and sunlight,
to preserve his illustrious reputation.
But, the god of the harvest, of epiphany and wine, was already taken.
Dionysus reminded him that.
This “god” was only man,
but, as the gods did, he dismembered his body,
threw these adopted pieces of himself into his Winter home,
made his mark, fashioned myth piece by piece,
until there was nothing left of the man,
but his objects and a phrase echoing in each room:
“I have spoken.”
Prisms By Stephanie Villavicencio
Shine a white light through a prism And find it is made of so many more colors. Sparkling and dancing Across the ceiling and floor.
Our bodies are kinda the same Showing us time and space Always moving Always changing Sometimes we find the role we play Is so much bigger than we imagined
That we are history in its entirety Condensed onto a dust mote Dancing in the rainbow Cast by all those who came before
Reality By Dennys Block
Stuck inside the maze of life And lost in the maze Deering called “Vizcaya” Where working souls are traded for a meal and a home So caught up with the distractions around you You fail to realize the price you pay For the little freedom we say we have
In this boasted land of freedom I know the plan of the hidden hand Keep us occupied in order to keep us tame So you can continue to work and pay interest For this rest of you life All until, the rich white folk says, My job here is done
I value wealth by your worth as a person Not by your astonishing estates And make no mistake From your birth you’re programmed this way And until this day, I stand against.
Art Imitates LifeBy Lennie Adaza
Relics of the past that we preserve and cherish A reminder of what came before Our history told by sculptures and paintings Our memories guarded by paper and stone
We look in awe at these works of art Celebrating them as pinnacles of our existence For what better feeling is there than to leave a legacy — Something to show for generations on end
But as time will have it, the beauty won’t last No matter how well we fabricate our stories, The cracks will show and the luster won’t last
Yet there’s beauty in the impermanence of paper and stone It mirrors our fleeting lives And we turn to dust, once and for all.
happy dayBy Leila Adaza
May winds fill the air and flowers bloom into bright, colorful discs while the morning sun lays its head on the grass.
Youth is scraped knees and carefree giggles, when one can prance, dance, frolic about, and romp across the clear blue sky as if two angels laughing into the sun.
As the day goes on, the sun sets, the flowers rest, and up above, the meadow becomes symmetrical, giving an illusion of two parts, but ultimately whole.
Youth By Joseph Abdin
Ponce de León look no further, Through all the water traveled Here, before me, A fountain gushes the purest
The fresh green scent of the lawn, Being carried around by a gentle breeze, That cools my skin from the heating sun
The grassy plain lay beyond me, Extending beyond the naked eyed And suddenly halted by a breath-taking hacienda
I found myself lost in such tranquility, Believing that time could stand still, And death never be discovered
Life flew through me Entering from the doors of the soul And trapped for an eternity
Old Folks HomeBy Nathanael Cameron
I heard it said at a train station. Heard it said in a car. Heard it slip off the lips of an old man in a coffee shop. Off a stonewall by a telephone pole. Near a dusty house. Under a banyan tree. On a Tuesday. In Miami.
“100 years from now. All new people.”
The Immigrant in VizcayaBy Laura Carvajal
Laughter echoes through the halls The sound of forks and plates colliding, Cues guests to move to the dance floor. Rhythms and beats coming together as one A woman dressed in white Glasses clinking by the bay Celebratory applause disperses among the crowd Flashes of light coming from a camera
“Can I get a rum and coke please?” She’s taken back by the request It takes her a second to remember where she is She mixes the drink And zones out again, dreaming Of what it’s like to be on the other side of the bar
Running in and out of the gardens Living lavishly like the man who built the house Having a say in every detail from the ceilings To the size of the woman’s breasts on the barge From the fake marble to the stained glass
Instead, she’s there to work Following the path of those that came before her Helping, building, aiding, serving To provide for her family So that someday she’d have riches of her own. Unaware of her rose-colored glasses Unable to see the American Dream being crushed by the American legacy Hidden within the walls of Vizcaya