XVI Prima Proposita Mea

(My First Purposes)
I wish to cure the ills that are our own,
The ever-hidden evils of our time,
They are injustice, which is never shown,
And emptiness, whose remedy is rhyme.
Leviathan, to seize through every means
The hard-earned funds which keep all men alive!
You do deserve some praise, or so it seems,
But not control to rule our very lives!
The void, our even more disastrous foe,
You steal from all the purpose of their lives!
If life is to be happy and gain dough,
Its nature is too shallow to survive!
Much poetry and law I wish to write
To call the sun, and end this evil night!
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XI Octobribus, Anno Domini MMVII

XV Amor Prudentitatis Secundus

(The Second Love of Wisdom, the second sonnet on Philosophy)
As Plato said, one ought to question all,
Each answer will lead closer to the Truth,
Philosophy does ever to me call,
For he who knows is better fit to choose.
This modern life is ever full of choice,
And one ought not to choose 'til he is sure,
Yet if you wait too long, you'll have no voice,
And silence cannot be a useful cure.
The Earth is ere beset by many flaws-
Injustices and evil spring to mind,
And what will better shut their hungry jaws,
That Truth's amazing power to unwind?
False thoughts, when brought to light, lose their appeal,
Yet Truth must first be found to make it real.
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XI Octobris, Anno Domini MMVII

XIV Cupiditas Puerilis

(Boyish Passion)
A thousand does there are, a thousand maids,
And yet there are a hundred fit for me,
I set my sights on one, of sight and age,
That pleases all my fancy and dismay.
For as I do advance, she flees away-
Or as I choose to act, another has-
Must always my desire be at bay,
When all my hope and misery are hers?
With anguish'd heart, I draw myself away,
With bleeding soul, I dare accept the truth-
I choose again, another comely maid,
To find her gone from me, oh horrid youth!
I either long for treasure far too vast,
Or for despair and sorrow to the last!
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XVII Septembris, Anno Domini MMVII

XIII Metamorphoses

(Changes of Form)
Apes goggle from their cyan sandy cage,
They stare at finest specimens of Man,
Their greatest soldier, and their wisest sage,
Are naught but ash to those whose legs can stand!
Those noble ones are Nature's best design,
Selected not by Her but by themselves,
Their willed success, against the foes of time,
Evolves them from the bestial to themselves!
To cross the desert sand they boarded ships,
To till the Promised Land, they used their will,
They dipped and dodged despair from death's own lips,
To match the woes of Nature with their skill!
No clan of apes can match these Israelites;
They fear defear while suns alight their nights!
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XIII Septembris, Anno Domini MMVII

XII Vita Bona

(The Good Life)
The man of virtue is the only Man,
The law of virtue is the only Law,
The only ever fully happy land
Is in the self of Him without a flaw!
Remorse for ev'ry sin is part of life,
The cry of torment, parcel of the soul-
If only one could end the horrid strife
Between his action and his Perfect Goal!
Is sorrow not the opposite of joy?
Is evil not the opposite of good?
Is life a boon, if one must self-destroy,
Because one never does what'ere he should?
Is he who stumbles verily alive,
If he has not a purpose to survive?
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies IV Septembris, Anno Domini MMVII

XI Amor Prudentitatis

(The Love of Wisdom)
A summer spent in leisurely distress,
Teh windless heat burns down upon the soul,
No joy is full, all life is but a mess,
A mix of pointless passion, empty goals!
Then what- I hear a voice among the trees,
The silence broke by tremors of the sun!
I feel, to end the heat, a cooling breeze-
Which seeks to finish answers left undone!
I am a man, a thinker and a sage,
The world is matter geared to higher cause,
All life is beauty, sung from age to age,
All death does serve the Master's Holy Laws!
As daybreak floods the land with blazing light,
The silence ends with songs of wrong and right!
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies II Septrembris, Anno Domini MMVII

X Temperantia

(Temperance/ Moderation)
The world has never been a perfect place,
At least we can't remember if it was.
Yet listen, ye reformers, in your haste-
You err too much in fighting what it does.
No virtue on its own can be enought-
The courage without principle is dead;
A wisdom lost for action is but fluff,
And careless kindness ever weighs as lead.
Ye mustn't pick but one to be your guide-
To follow one is folly in the least,
It would be worse than if you hadn't tried,
Obsession makes a demon of the priest.
To right the wrongs that everyone can see,
The virtues must be mixed in harmony.
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XXVIII Iunii, Anno Domini MMVII

IX Complexio Animantis

(The Creature's Dilemma)
I long to find the path of highest worth,
On which I may fulfill and be fulfilled,
To chance return the love which made my birth,
And match the will by which my life was willed.
Yet how can one repay so great a debt?
My very life itself was paid in full,
This very gift I find I must regret,
When duty is, my purpose, to fulfill.
For how is one to know why he was formed?
His conscience must direct his ev'ry step,
And if unto its path he's not conformed,
What justice can he do to pay his debt?
The sinner needs forgiveness to rebuild,
To rest in peace, and be in short, fulfilled.
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit Dies XXVIII Iunii, Anno Domini MMVII

VIII Bellum Tacitum

(The Silent War)
Oh, when and where have men of virtue gone?
Their footsteps died away an age ago,
We strain to hear their noble fading song,
While rising up the banner of its foe.
That noblest excuse for lechery-
The artistry and pleasure of the base
Does ever hail that grand debauchery,
The beauty that is shallow in its haste.
Pale art is not alone in its attempt,
Cruel science holds its standard higher still.
The works of Man do ever seem unkept,
And power over nature boosts his will.
The artistry and virtue are at war,
Indulgence and the gloried days of yore.
-Vir Cogitans Americanus
Scribit dies XXVII Iunii, Anno Domini MMVII

The Temple of Wisdom

The orb within the sky doth shine its ray,
From God does come the root of every day.
Yet man does own his glory, also great,
Where such doth lie, a subject of debate.
Alas, the answer here in glory lies,
A beauty here, that riseth to the skies!
The word of gold sublime upon the stone,
Doth show the world the glory which we own!
Majestic columns stand to lift the sky,
They do support the majesty of time.
A land that rose upon the ancient truth,
A nation strong, imbibed such written truth.
They built a structure white and gold, sublime,
To hold the greatest riches of all time.
Its name doth speak so little of its grace,
Its majesty surrounds and fills its place-
No mask can hide the beauty lying here,
No word can match the glory or the fear.
Indeed in such a temple to the wise,
Its fall or loss, mankind would ere despise.
It holds the glory lost across the sea,
And speaks of greater glory soon to be.
As tall Minerva stands and holds the scroll,
The gold and white cascade upon the wall!
A sky so gold and brilliant roofs her head,
As man does worship her, though she is dead.
The light of knowledge holds a bitter dark,
As faith does flee, one builds another ark.
The glory held in majesty sublime
Does speak corruption in a newer time.
As Greece we worship knowledge, Rome, the games,
Yet still we are so blind to their last days.
Corruption lies in wait to end our might,
And still destruction lies beyond our sight!
Our faith, the very cornerstone of life-
Decays and rusts away upon our strife.
The life not worth a cause is not sublime,
The loss of glory doth corrupt the mind.
This building stands so white in majesty-
It sayeth naught of those whose lives are free!
Too free to see the glory known in death,
Too wise for wisdom, lost in fear of death.
This rock now stands, to bring a faith in thought,
And yet, it is destroyed, its gold for naught!
The glory here speaks well upon our prize,
A freedom linked with wisdom in our eyes!
A goal for those who do not fear the end,
But rather search for where, their life, to send!
Here stands the temple for the wisest man,
Whose life is bent, to find what ere he can,
To find the glory lost in newer time,
To see and speak new beauty unto rhyme.
His day will come, a time so blessed to see,
Then he as I, to glory bows the knee.
-Viennarising
-June 19,2006