Never-ending JourneyA new place with new ideas,
Away from familiarity
I could only see what’s across the sea
And could only think of what I left behind
No Heir to the ThroneBy Benjamin Obando
James Deering meticulously molded Vizcaya his winter residence to mirror An Italian villa in the seventeen hundreds. He hit bull’s-eye when Vizcaya stabbed The crusty shores of Biscayne Bay.
Winter homes are meant for families to treasure The time spent together. The passage of such precious Time can only be measured by sand trickling Down an hourglass.
The main house is spacious, But James Deering Did not have children of his own To run around the courtyard making it beat Lub-dub, lub-dub.
The lower level of the main house has a pool, But no children to cannonball into the cool waters. The east terrace slides down into the waters Of beautiful Biscayne Bay, But no children to swim out to the slimy barge.
The south terrace unfolds Into a European-inspired garden, But no children to wake up the sleeping orchids As they giggle their way around playing a game Of hide-and-seek.
I see Vizcaya as a family heirloom, But no children to inherit the throne.
The Birth of VizcayaBy Dria Thomas
I can hear the echoes of voices that ricochet off the glossy marble floors, I can see the faces that were here before me, And I can feel the vibrations of cultures that run through this land. The birth of these cultures so pure and so rich. The mixture of French Baroque fixtures, Spanish Plateresque carvings, and the chisel of Italian sculptures Just to name a few, Have birthed and raised this land to what it is today. As the land gets older and grayer its beauty will still impress those who come and go Vizcaya is what they call this land. From the warm hues of the morning sun Till the polka dotted lit night sky, We will never forget how you made us feel at first sight. We will no longer have to wonder Helplessly And blind. Our long lost kin Is found. I can hear, I can see, And I can feel the vibrations of cultures that run through this land.