Sebastian Mari Poems

We are all but the few the chosen…
The selected few from the Land of the Meadow;
Our Home of solitude and of pride.
We are … in the vines that we grow in
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I met an Irishman on the road one day
His hat made of black leather and coat of brightest grey.
He wore an honest smile so I joined him on his stroll
He spoke of his travels and stories he seldom told
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When first I asked her name
I didn’t know the voice behind it
But I loved her all the same.
When first I asked to hold her book
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Slowly, they kept on moving
Following the road on the strength of their pain
And seeking on the face of their God.
Oh, Blessed is he
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As the tenth sun of March graced us this year

We were greeted by a new smile that shone like light.
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We are born, find ourselves
question the existence of man
and then we die.
Surely there's more, eternal truth
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Upon reflection and her sorrowed mind
As she gazes through the paths lost time.
She gathers that her eyes loose sparkle
As she remembers the day that made her blind.
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If words were roses
and sonnets the reddest of them all.
My heart be a garden
and my mind its invisible wall.
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Of Saints to sinners
of fools and man
of jesters to a king.
Of music to chaos
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Mine is a simple word –
Passion rolls not towards a bitter end
and be the study today so frightfully intense,
a good man’s loyalty is so very hard to bend.
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