Mi gran ambición,
Que todos mis alumnos,
Brillen mas que yo.

Dos libros gratuitos tanto en su versión original en inglés como en mi nueva traducción al español disponibles gratis por primera vez.

El primero, una novela sobre la lucha de un abogado por hacer el bien en un ambito donde solo las ganancias gobiernan el día.
El sacrificio produce éxito, pero a un costo demasiado alto.
Lecciones aprendidas que cambian la vida sobre lo que importa: el liderazgo, el trabajo significativo y honrado, el conocimiento de uno mismo y, sobre todo, el amor.

El segundo libro ofrece 13 cuentos que abarcan los confines más recónditos de la mente hasta los límites exteriores del espacio y el tiempo, y mucho más en el medio.

Pueden leerlos a ambos sin costo y sin tener que registrarse en "Royal Road" si no lo desea hacer en el siguiente enlace: https://www.royalroad.com/profile/368939/fictions

Mistakes are the tools,
The Creator provides us,
To sculpt our own souls.

We all make mistakes,
Wise people will learn from them,
Foolish ones will not.

Dos libros de texto terminados,
Dos manuales de instructor,
Dos bancos de pruebas también.

Dos artículos sobre el derecho,
Enviados a dos diarios académicos,
Pronto se publicarán.

Elevado también,
A Profesor Distinguido,
Una noticia muy grata.

Investigación realizada,
Para un nuevo curso universitario,
Derecho de Inmigración.

Pero todo a un precio:
Insuficiente tiempo con mi esposa,
Viajes postergados nuevamente.

Todos los amigos lejos,
Lo mismo la familia,
Padres en el cielo.

Esclavo sin necesidad al trabajo,
Las arenas del tiempo se desvanecen,
¿Esto es todo lo que hay?

What is modern art?
Meaning contrived by critics?
Empty subterfuge?

With tender care the gardener plants her seeds,
Pregnant with hidden beauty yet to be,
Tends it with loving toil the season through,
Reaps the reward in May of glorious blooms.

Far more than flowers grow for all to see,
Civic pride, hope, inspiration bloom there too.

Government can take your land,
Confiscate your property,
Tax your earnings into dust,
Deprive you of your freedom,
Extinguish your very life.

But the knowledge you acquire,
And the honor that you earn,
Are a treasure they can't steal,
Tax, redistribute, destroy.

Governments come and they go,
Just and unjust ones alike,
And fade from memory in time.

Entropy rules in this world,
And the brightest lights fade out.

Knowledge and honor perdure.

Most prized Christmas gift,
Humble table, a meal shared,
With loved ones still here.

Cherish today the woman you call mom,
Who sacrificed her body and herself for you,
Your fearless champion your entire life,
Her pure love always unconditional.

She who first taught you what it means to love,
And also to distinguish right from wrong,
Taught you to care for other than yourself,
By her example always, not her words.

Your joy her joy for triumphs great and small,
Her anguish hidden for your every fall,
Your first and your most ardent fan in life,
In times you walked in darkness and in light.

Make sure you tell her what she longs to hear,
As often as you can while she still lives,
Not just on Mother's day, but every day,
Some day it will be your only comfort.

There's none so lucky as one whose mom lives,
Love her with all your heart for all she gives.

God made flesh is born,
Innocent, pure lamb of God,
To die for our sins.

There's no greater love,
Nor is there a greater hope,
For all who believe.

Unwortrhy am I
And yet He still died for me,
Forgives me my sins.

Believers rejoice,
But let us all remember,
He loves ALL of us.

Believers and non,
All humans are our brothers,
And our sisters too.

Let us not forget,
God made man came to teach us,
To love, not to hate.

Whether you believe,
That He is the Son of God,
Or you believe not.

Believe in His message,
Love your neighbor as yourself,
Regardless of faith.

People of good will,
Embrace at least the message,
Of the messenger.

May you each know peace,
Health and joy throughout your lives,
This my Christmas wish.

Dew draped budding rose,
Stirring for the rising sun,
How I yearn for spring.

While there is life, there’s hope, Spaniards do say,
What good is life, though, when all hope is gone?
With our hearts breaking, we can nightly pray,
Try to ignore reason’s call to move on.

Faith for a time can keep our hope alive,
Drown out despair’s compelling siren’s song,
Until the sands of time slowly contrive,
To wear to nothing that which once was strong.

And yet I cling to that thin, fading dream,
That all might yet be well for those I love,
For no one knows what will flow in life’s stream,
Known only to the mind of God above.

Please help her, God, and all I love in need,
Please, dearest Lord, I beg you, intercede.

Today I began to sing again,
Somewhat louder than the cry,
That I still cannot avoid
But that I can now bear,
Wrapped around me like a cloak.

Music knows how to call back,
That which was previously lost,
Through not knowing how to love,
Or not wanting to stand out,
And was buried in oblivion.

No fissure is too deep,
For us to climb out of,
The deepest darkness,
Can with a pure white light,
Be pierced.

A few notes on a chain,
impregnate a melody,
And out of ashes and sand,
Shoots of hope can grow,
And give birth to joy.

My mother in her sadness,
Cried tears of song,
With great skill,
And painful beauty,
Music was her daily lament.

My song is my poetry,
Toneless, painful, and impure,
It is not a song of joy,
But sadness provides release,
And hope endures.

Two textbooks finished,
Two instructor's manuals,
Two test banks as well.

Two papers on law,
Submitted to two journals,
Soon to be published.

A new appointment,
As Distinguished Professor,
Welcomed news as well.

Research conducted,
For a new course developed,
(Immigration Law).

But all at a price:
Not enough time with my wife,
No real vacation.

All friends far away,
The same true of family,
Parents in heaven.

Nose pressed to grind stone,
The sands of time drift away,
Is this all there is?

I love museums that house priceless art,
Strolling quiet galleries transports us,
To worlds masterfully rendered by minds,
That can enhance our vision of the world.

Gaze at a worthy work of art awhile,
And it will speak to you in its own tongue,
It will engage your senses, feelings, mind,
Plant fertile seeds that blossom later on.

But nature too can reach us with her art,
As she inspires artists, poets, you, me,
All around us, all the time, day, and night,
If we but take the time to stop and look.

Lanscapes we notice, sunsets from the beach,
Crystaline pine trees on white winter roads,
Faraway nebula through Hubble's eye,
Earth's blue-white image as seen from the moon.

Her subtler art is also all around,
Sometimes sculpted in moments, like a snowflake,
Some worked for ages by oceans, rivers,
Glaciers, or desert sand blown by the wind.

Whether wrought by intelligent design,
Or mere happenstance devoid of intent,
Nature reigns supreme in art great and small,
A living fine art museum for all.

I've posted a new reading of my poem,
About my unsung heroes who have passed,
All are closest to my heart and to my home,
All worthy mentors, from the first to last.

These troubled days true heroes we do need,
Share the lives of your own, sow wisdom's seed.

I hereby resolve,
To make no resolution,
For the coming year.

Take days as they come,
Embrace opportunities,
Brighten other lives.

Make no promises,
But do what you can each day,
To walk in the light.

Shine the light of truth,
Where darkness slithers freely,
That all may see clear.

See things as they are,
Not as sophists would paint them,
Give help when you can.

Let your purpose be,
Leaving something of value,
When your journey's done.

No resolution,
Not this year, last, or ever,
Ephemeral these.

No self-delusion,
Setting goals I will not reach,
Or safe, easy ones.

I'm a common man,
Who will do his best daily,
To do what is right.

And knows he will fail,
At times despite his effort,
To walk in the light.

Beloved dead watch,
Love me still despite my faults,
For them I must try.

Blood of innocents,
Hate-filled evil incarnate,
Spilt on sacred ground.

Pandemic home bound,
Completed my first novel,
Begun decades past

What was dead revived,
Sleepless nights spent writing it,
In two months complete.

Wanted an agent,
But pandemic made it hard,
To get a response.

So went indie route,
Published hard cover and soft,
But too few have read.

So I decided,
To make it available,
Free of charge online.

Never meant to make,
Profits from this work of mine,
Just wanted it read.

It is a story,
That others should know,
About higher ed.

Drama, love, humor,
Triumph, life altering loss,
Sacrifice for naught?

You can buy it, yes,
But now also read it free,
At the link below.

Will post it complete,
With Echoes of the Mind's Eye,
Latest short stories.

Click the link below,
To access both books free,
English / Spanish--both.

https://www.royalroad.com/profile/368939/fictions

Obey the golden rule, my friend,
But not by rust gilded with words,
Like politicians feed the herds,
That have no value in the end.

There is no parsing of the rule,
Not for those who are honor bound,
Let kindness, helpfulness abound,
Even when others call you fool.

When others scorn you, show them love,
I know it's not easy to do,
But your kindness will shine through,
To them and to your God above.

If you sow bitterness you'll reap,
A bitter harvest in due time,
To reap a harvest that's sublime,
Sow only kindness, take that leap.

Obey the golden rule your whole life through,
It may not save the world, but may save you.

Three books in two years,
Contractual commitment,
Why am I posting?

Beautiful small castle on a tranquil bay,
Of beauty seldom seen on any shore,
Museum now of artifacts of old,
From Roman digs and our Celtic ancestors.

Treasures displayed from my Galician soil,
The lost kingdom's uncovered still,
Yet nary a manacle, or bar seen,
Of a fascist makeshift prison once here.

My grandfather tortured, condemned to death,
But set free by a jailor/patriot.

Oh still-warm vision of my heart's delight,
Your crusty, crunchy skin and doughy heart,
Your sweet aroma with tears blurs my sight,
And makes me yearn to taste your every part.

My doctor says you'll be the death of me,
Blood sugar and triglycerides too high,
But I don't care, for my love sets me free,
And of one thing or other we must die.

Come, spend some time with me, bask in my love,
The simple pleasures are the best, one knows,
We're meant to be, we fit like hand in glove,
The more I have you, the more hunger grows.

Alas, I cannot live with only you,
Charcuterie and wine are vital too.

Oh half-remembered, fleeting happy time,
When nothing mattered more than love and play,
Imagination was then in its prime,
And life began anew with every day.

A flower was then a joy, a mystery,
And not a petal, root and simple stem,
And life was full of wondrous fantasy,
Untainted by the intellect of man.

That time is gone now, It cannot return,
The fruit's been swallowed, its slow poison kills,
And yet my fallen heart will always yearn,
For that ephemeral time of unknown skills.

Oh false god, knowledge, daily you destroy,
All that was holy in me as a boy!

My first small book of poems, still one I love,
That scans most of a lifetime's pain and joy,
A journey rendered in very few words,
Songs of myself and of far better souls.

Of all I've published it is the least read,
Yet one I hope survives me when I'm dead.

___
Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems free in all eBook formats only at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/181370

I've read some poems I'd written long ago,
Tenderly kept by one I love most dear,
And through them I've come to once again know,
Old feelings which inspired both warmth and fear.

For a moment I saw my love revived,
And was engulfed by growing tenderness,
There was much power in words which survived,
To pay mute homage to past happiness.

Yellowing, crinkled paper brought to me,
Glimpses of young, unbridled, simple love,
The awkward, fading words helped me to see,
That I have lived the dream I'm dreaming of.

How can I feel this painful emptiness,
When by enduring love I am so blessed?

I've lived in 1987 for the past two months
Every waking moment and in my every dream
When sleep would finally come called by exhaustion
As is still the case although the work is now done.

Idealistic young lawyer,
In his first posting as a dean,
In a for-profit business school,
Naive voice crying in the wilderness.

Worked very long hours,
To change what was wrong,
Achieved great success,
Which all came to naught.

Made friends while tilting at windmills,
Stubbornly refusing to accept,
That which could be changed through simple hard work
That I believed would make real difference in others' lives.

A classic clash of missions and visions:
Provides the factual drama--theirs, to maximize profits,
And deliver an education at the lowest possible cost,
Mine to be in the business of changing lives for the better.

I implemented meaningful changes,
That brought unintended consequences
I found unacceptable, and personal conflicts
That caused me to resign while still on good terms.

And I learned critical lessons,
Not just about an industry I did not know,
But about myself, my strengths and my weaknesses,
And about love that brought joy and pain that I can still feel.

As I wrote my novel, composing at the keyboard,
I wrote through the night, sleeping only when my vision blurred,
And I could not focus around 8:00, 9:00, 10:00 a.m.
For a few hours, then back to my keyboard and my previous life.

Ghosts long thought buried rose in warm flesh and blood,
Old battles fought anew, old brown paths grew verdant,
Cold cinders rekindled, closed doors opened wide,
Beckoned me to live for a time in what might have been.

Scars long ago faded opened up anew,
The heart cried tears of blood as fiction
Too close to truth flowed onto the page,
Chasing sleep away long after the writing was done.

After two decades of gestation,
I've now given birth to my first child,
The afterbirth has been cleaned,
She is all pink, warm, and oh so cuddly.

I fell in love with her the moment,
I stared into her huge, bright, old-soul eyes,
Her strong, tiny hand is now wrapped,
Around all of my heart strings and will be for life.

Now I'm searching for a literary agent,
Sending tiny snapshots of my little girl,
Hoping they will love her too,
But knowing they may not.

If I can't send her off to finishing school,
I will home school her, teach her all I know,
And ready her as best I can to be seen by the world,
Where she may not thrive but will always have my love.

If all goes well, I will give her a sister to play with,
In a year or so if life will allow it,
My heart is large and still has room,
For more wounds to open that only they can heal.

Hear me read this poem here: https://youtu.be/iOJt4ySlhXQ

Fiction comes alive,
Dystopian visions thrive,
In Cities world wide.

A Clockwork Orange,
Lord or the Flies, Brave New World,
Nineteen Eighty Four.

Animal Farm and,
Fahrenheit Four Fifty One,
All have come to pass.

And they will perdure,
If we defend what's clearly,
Indefensible.

Feed a hungry beast,
It will grow and it will thrive,
And eat you alive.

Likewise criminals,
Who thrive when no consequence,
Attach to their crimes.

When crimes are excused,
And criminals deemed victims,
What should we expect?

Poverty, racism,
Broken homes, addiction, vice,
Contribute to crime.

But crime's true root cause,
Is immoral criminals,
And their enablers.

Moral compass lost,
Confident blind fools lead us,
On perdition's road.

When did we forget,
That the road to hell is paved,
With good intentions?

We are born dying,
Every step we take brings us,
Closer to the grave.

Death brings us release,
Freeing our souls to fly free,
To eternity.

Weep not for the dead,
Their souls now know only joy,
In the arms of God.

And the love you shared,
Ripples through the universe,
To outlive the stars.

I am unworthy, Lord, of your sacrifice,
I am unworthy, Lord of your love,
But through You I am made whole.

My faith in You sustains me in the most difficult of times,
You are the light that shines in the darkest corners of my soul,
You have died. You have risen. Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!

Two decades passed since my first book of poems,
It was past time to publish volume two,
The sands of time weigh heavy on my bones,
And my road narrows with yet much to do.

Too many friends have now passed through the veil,
As have my parents and their siblings all,
My circle narrows, empty now my vale,
In sleepless nights I can but hear their call.

So many dreams deferred that now have died,
My negligence bereft them of their life,
So many doors left closed I should have tried,
No hope remains for me or for my wife.

Even my music echoes distant, dull,
But poetry can for a time pain lull.

____
If you would like to download a free copy of the eBook version of my second book of poems, Echoes of Dawn at Dusk, you can do so only at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1035449 until June 20, 2022.

Vote for the same folks,
In every election and,
Expect something new.

Why have you left me, sweet old dreams of youth?
I tried so hard to hold you in my heart,
Where have they fled, faith, honesty and truth,
Or were they only visions from the start?

Do I hear music deep within my soul,
Or mocking echoes of a bygone time?
Embers still glow, though I am growing old,
But they grow dark and cold, as does my rhyme.

Each passing moment wears away my hope,
As does the blowing sand the desert stone,
Symphonies fading to a single note,
Leaving me empty, bitter and alone.

I grieve not for my life; I have more sense,
I grieve far greater loss, my innocence.


[You can access my reading of this poem at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJ4EVKhvEYQ]

Standing at death's door,
Evil can only despair,
Good smiles marching through.

The crucifix in my Church is draped or removed,
Since Holy Friday in remembrance of Your death,
As always in these solemn Holiday.

This year You are not only metaphorically absent for three days,
In remembrance of Your laying in your tomb 2020 years ago,
But Your Churches are empty--no vigils, no light, no life in them.

We, Your children, cannot even visit Your home,
Even those who like me don't do it as often as we know we should,
But feel the need to share our grief and our joy on sacred ground.

We will remain in our homes turned temporary prisons,
We will watch Mass tomorrow on our televisions,
We will share our signs of peace and joy at a distance.

These are hard times for us, Your children,
But nothing compared with Your suffering for us,
And we know that this too shall pass.

You have not forsaken us.We will be tested,
But we will not be broken, for we know,
You have died. You have risen. You will come again.

I do not wear religion as a shield,
Nor as a sword.

I wear it quietly in my heart,
A beacon of hope, faith, and love.

I know You love me, Lord,
Despite all my flaws that make me unworthy of Your love.

God made man, the best of us,
Who died to buy redemption for our sins.

You are absent from my Church today,
Three days of absence that mark Your death and resurrection.

Tomorrow you will return in Glory,
We will celebrate your resurrection.

My wife and I may not be at Your home,
Illness may prevent it, not for the first time.

But we are grateful beyond words for Your sacrifice,
And the love that made it possible.

We carry You always in our hearts,
With gratitude, love, and hope.

You have died. You have risen. You will come again.
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

I welcome dissent,
Disagreement is vital,
To democracy.

Personal attacks,
Are also acceptable,
When grounded in truth.

Malicious attacks,
Are launched by liars to hide,
Inconvenient truths.

We must condemn lies,
Used to defame good people,
With differing views.

The thoughtless pursuit,
Of any task throughout life,
Will never end well.

Although I have published millions of words,
Twelve texts on law, fourteen peer-reviewed articles and more,
My favorite book of all is tiny,
Only seven thousand and eighty words.

A quarter million words about the law,
Between hard covers feed a hungry mind,
But seven thousand words and a few more,
Fed my young soul and stitched my broken heart.

I'm grateful my non-fiction is widely read,
But wish it were my poetry instead.

I am a child playing with finger-paints,
plopping blobs of multi-colored paint,
which runs and clumps onto the canvas,
making my attempts,
to depict what I see and feel,
into murky shadows of a world too crudely rendered.

Incomprehensible swirls,
of my chubby little hands,
struggling,
with mindless tenacity,
to paint,
blurry, evanescent, unrecognizable details,
as senseless as the death throes,
of a writhing salamander,
half drowned in a paint can by a sadistic child,
and thrown onto a canvas,
to create art,
through the stains of its death throes,

A child,
trapped,
in a middle-aged body,
staining with artless hands,
unrecognizable forms,
in a pointless effort,
to render,
some meaning,
on the canvas,
of his life.

Education is the lie you believe.
Propaganda is the truth you dislike.

reading poetry
and hearing poetry read
are two worlds apart

the mind processes
words differently when read
than when they are heard

just as with a song
each reader transforms a poem
reading it out loud

texture, color, voice
cadence, evoke emotion
through another's voice

I am an ostrich, hiding deep within myself,
My head submerged in murky moods,
Screaming in a vacuum.
No, not a vacuum, but a sound-proof room,
With walls of ten-foot stone,
A fortress,
Clammy, cold and, dimly lit,
That admits no sound,
But the monotonous percussion,
Of a heart that knows the one eternal truth:

We are born dying,
And every breath that we take,
Every beat of our heart,
Brings us one step closer,
To the grave.

It is easy to forget a world exists outside,
My diminutive cell when my teeth chatter,
Not from the absence of warmth,
But from the absence of meaning.

Perspective, perspective, perspective,
Echoes through my fruitless cell.

I am a foolish,
Ugly bird,
Cowardly bird,
But needlessly.

I heard a song today, a soothing melody,
Sung by an angel dressed in woman's clothes;
Oh, sing again, dear love, I had
Almost forgotten your sweet voice!