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An Adventure

what would i choose for
this adventure?
a boat ride? a cruise?
a jet plane for instant arrivals?
what will i do there anyway
except to loaf
and take a view of the parks
and paths

on my feet for an adventure
please do not think
about death

we have so much of it already
on daily doses

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Beldame of Death

A crunch: afoot a dead arachnid
Spanning once a serving plate –
Oh! that others be alive
With such as me for spider bait!

I slunk along the silent hall
Of ancient ore attired in grime –
Feculent beyond the nose;
No bearing here, nor feel for time.

I shuddered in appreciation –
The ambience would mortify
A feeble mind, aghast, opined
Of murky thought, and typify
The will of Belial err I brought
Upon myself to loathe and dread
Exquisite retribution: to linger
Oftentimes alive, then dead.

Compulsion saw me edging on
Toward a narrow door of oak.
Behind, I knew, a greater evil
Waiting in her fusty cloak.

A choice of nil upon the table;
Aught of leave, I had to face
Alone the shrew – her flaming aura
Angling me; my deep disgrace
From ugly deeds I dealt in life,
A heinous world I honed in glee…

'Now take a crooked path to death,
For I have come to torture thee! '

Out of eyes of orange flame,
A piercing glare, then here it came –
The cackling cry of chanting song:

'You thought you'd die alone in pain
The once – nay nay! you'll die with me,
And so a catch: you'll die again
Ad infinitum - ever be!

Your soul to curse, my heart we'll gore,
Your liver to draw and quarter;
A sadomasochistic pair,
We'll slither together in slaughter! '

I answered only with a scream, from
Sensing near her craving lust.

[...] Read more

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Bogus Doses

Your rolling overexposed bogus doses aren't deep.
To keep them away from a 'vision'.
Your rolling overexposed bogus doses aren't deep.
To keep them away from a 'vision'.

Don't leave with a notion to soak,
Your bogus doses will get any info from me.
To keep me away from what's been 'visioned'.
Your rolling overexposed bogus doses aren't deep.
Not deep enough to cloud...
A 'vision'.

Your rolling overexposed bogus doses aren't deep,
To keep them away from the 'vision'.

Whatever that you do,
Has been done and 'thunked! '
With a doing of it in most eyes like a basketball dunked.
Swish, swoosh that's it.
And people who have seen this have a 'vision'.

You can't exchange the truth for a dollar.
Or change its appearance to ensure it fits.
Swish, swoosh that's it.
And people who have seen this have a 'vision'.
And people who have seen this have a 'vision'.

Swish, swoosh that's it.
Swish, swoosh that's it.
And people who have seen this have a 'vision'.
Take your bogus doses.
People who have seen this have a 'vision'.
And to witness focused.

Whatever that you do,
Has been done and 'thunked! '
With a doing of it in most eyes like a basketball dunked.
Swish, swoosh that's it.
Swish, swoosh that's it.
And people who have seen this have a 'vision'.
Now take your bogus doses.
Take your bogus doses.
Now take your bogus doses...
Away, away!

Now take your bogus doses.
Take your bogus doses.
Now take your bogus doses...
Away!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Instant Tunes

Instant tunes only just been made
Instant songs never to be played
Instant tunes hanging out to dry
Let me try to introduce you to
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Instant tunes give instant cash
Make me want to start a backlash
Let me have the recipe
And make me some lovely, lovely
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Ever and ever will they give us pleasure
Their instant, still instant
Like mother used to make it -- oh!
Instant tunes give instant cash
Make me want to start a backlash
Let me have the recipe
And make me some lovely, lovely
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes
Instant tunes

song performed by Xtc
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ride Sally Ride

Sit yourself down
Bang out a tune on that grand piano
Sit yourself down
Lay languidly down upon that sofa
Ooohhh, isnt it nice
When your heart is made out of ice
Ride, sally, ride
Its not your time or way of confusion
Ride, sally, ride
cause if you dont, youll get a contusion
Ooohhh, isnt it nice
When your heart is made out of ice
Sit yourself down
Take of your pants, dont you know this is a party
Sit yourself down
Why do you think we brought all these people, miss brandy
Ooohhh, isnt it nice
When you find your hearts made out of ice
Ride, sally, ride
Its not your time, its just your confusion
Ride, sally, ride
Its not your time, youll get a contusion
Ooohhh, isnt it nice
When you find your heart is made out of ice
(ride, sally ride)
(ride, ride, ride, ride, sally ride) ride, sally, ride
(ride, ride, ride, ride, sally ride) hey, ride, sally, ride
(ride, ride, ride, ride, sally ride) ride, sally, ride
(ride, ride, ride, ride, sally ride, oh-oh-oh, oh)
(ride, ride, ride, ride, sally ride, hey-hey-hey, hey-hey)

song performed by Lou Reed
Added by Lucian Velea
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It's Death Again

It's Death again - He's always there -
Watching, waiting - e'er the stare!
Every time I look behind
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood;
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But O! no use, he'll never go.
The adamant phantom; don't you know
He will but wait until it's time
For me to hear His fateful chime? -
The toll that claims my destiny,
To Hail: 'You're next, it has to be…'

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2009

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Jet Boy Blue

Written by dan peek and catherine peek, 1976
Found on hideaway.
Jet boy blue
You steal and you think that its right
Like a thief in the night
Ah, oh yeah
Ill tell you its true
You come around with your stories to tell
I dont hold no intrest
But I let you go
I know youve fallen under his spell
Dont let him kill you
Hell only fill you with lies
Youre a fool and you know it
Done your best not to show it
But its all over
Youre through
Jet boy blue
Hell only take you for a ride
Only cost you your pride
Jet boy blue
Stop, stop while youre still ahead
Youve got a lot to learn
Youre still so young
Listen to what your mama said
Try to tell you go to hell
Youre just a kid
Dont take no advice, you never think twice
Close the door
Jump in, dont mention what you did
Stop, stop while youre still ahead
Youve got a lot to learn
Youre still so young
Listen to what your mama said
Youre a fool and you know it
Done your best not to show it
But its all over
Youre through
Jet boy blue
Hell only take you for a ride
Only cost you your pride
Jet boy blue
Stop, stop while youre still ahead
Youve got a lot to learn
Youre still so young
Listen to what your mama said
Jet boy blue
You steal and you think that its right
Like a thief in the night
Wo, jet, jet, jet, jet boy blue

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song performed by America
Added by Lucian Velea
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Canto the Second

I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.

II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.

III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.

IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.

V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Still Cruisin

Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on
Hey baby come on
Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
Baby come on
Now get yourself in gear
Oh baby come on
Still cruisin after all of these years
Hey girl lets go for a spin
Hop in my hot rod and do it again
Youve got a greenhouse effect on me
I know a secret spot
Paradise by the sea
Well find a place to park
Thats kinda cool after dark
Well take a trip on up to the lake
Down by the river
Where we can make out
On the island
Wake up on the cape
Punch up yor favorite staion
Toss in your favorite tape
When we go cruisin
Well everything is all right
Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
Baby when we go cruisin now
Baby put your top down
Parade around down town
People trying to cool down
Party all summer long
Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
Baby come on
Now get yourself in gear
Baby baby come on
Still cruisin after all of these years
Everybody got a favorite spot
Where they like to come a lot
When we go cruisin well everything is all right
Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
Baby when we go crusin now
People dancin in the sand
Rockin to a reggae band
Lovers walkin hand in hand
Party all summer long
Come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose
So come on lets cruise ya got nothin to lose

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song performed by Beach Boys
Added by Lucian Velea
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Disingenuousness

Here lies another box for nature,
Carbon ready;
Black to eyes down here,
Where death is at its job.

Up there you’ll hear a rhythmic sob
Or two from living yet-to-dies –
A humming lacrimoso –
It all but cleans the eyes:

Forget it –
The dismal show of grief –
Life is only chemistry –
Our stay is only brief.
It’s we who hype it up!

Diaphragms jerk again;
The jet monotone of hearses
Feeds the disingenuousness
Of undertakers –
They seem to stare at something up ahead –
For them, it’s in the blood,
To taxi off the dead.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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The mother and the artist

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,

A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling

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poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

[...] Read more

poem by Tom Zart
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Jet

Jet! I can almost remember their funny faces
That time you told me that
You were going to be marrying soon.
And jet, I thought the only
Lonely place was on the moon.
Jet! jet!
Jet! was your father as bold as a sergeant major?
How come he told you that
You were hardly old enough yet?
And jet, I thought the major
Was a lady suffragette.
Jet! jet!
Ah, matter, want jet to always love me?
Ah, matter, want jet to always love me?
Ah, matter, much later.
Jet! with the wind in your hair of a thousand laces.
Climb on the back and well
Go for a ride in the sky.
And jet, I thought the major
Was a lady suffragette.
Jet! jet!

song performed by Paul McCartney
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Fresh Endeavour

So now I've taken leave of life,
I thought you'd like to know, I still
Possess a mind in love, oh wife;
A soulful eye to catch a show of
Silent beauty – ever yours;
An ear to pick the metaphors
Of tonal dance in words you say,
Grasp a thought in verse you pray
Inside your head, bemused of mind,
Softly mournful, intertwined with
Understanding tears.

I'll drift a whisper o'er to you
To tell that I am quietly calm;
Keeping time till your adieu
To flesh, upon the carol of a
Psalm of consummation. Now!
A fresh endeavour – we're forever
One together, resting yonder,
Cross our open plane of blue.

Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009

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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Pharsalia - Book VIII: Death Of Pompeius

Now through Alcides' pass and Tempe's groves
Pompeius, aiming for Haemonian glens
And forests lone, urged on his wearied steed
Scarce heeding now the spur; by devious tracks
Seeking to veil the footsteps of his flight:
The rustle of the foliage, and the noise
Of following comrades filled his anxious soul
With terrors, as he fancied at his side
Some ambushed enemy. Fallen from the height
Of former fortunes, still the chieftain knew
His life not worthless; mindful of the fates:
And 'gainst the price he set on Caesar's head,
He measures Caesar's value of his own.

Yet, as he rode, the features of the chief
Made known his ruin. Many as they sought
The camp Pharsalian, ere yet was spread
News of the battle, met the chief, amazed,
And wondered at the whirl of human things:
Nor held disaster sure, though Magnus' self
Told of his ruin. Every witness seen
Brought peril on his flight: 'twere better far
Safe in a name obscure, through all the world
To wander; but his ancient fame forbad.

Too long had great Pompeius from the height
Of human greatness, envied of mankind,
Looked on all others; nor for him henceforth
Could life be lowly. The honours of his youth
Too early thrust upon him, and the deeds
Which brought him triumph in the Sullan days,
His conquering navy and the Pontic war,
Made heavier now the burden of defeat,
And crushed his pondering soul. So length of days
Drags down the haughty spirit, and life prolonged
When power has perished. Fortune's latest hour,
Be the last hour of life! Nor let the wretch
Live on disgraced by memories of fame!
But for the boon of death, who'd dare the sea
Of prosperous chance?

Upon the ocean marge
By red Peneus blushing from the fray,
Borne in a sloop, to lightest wind and wave
Scarce equal, he, whose countless oars yet smote
Upon Coreyra's isle and Leucas point,
Lord of Cilicia and Liburnian lands,
Crept trembling to the sea. He bids them steer
For the sequestered shores of Lesbos isle;
For there wert thou, sharer of all his griefs,

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poem by Marcus Annaeus Lucanus
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Obstacle 2

I'm gonna pull you in close gonna wrap you up tight
gonna play with the braids that you came here with tonight
I'm gonna hold your face and toast the snow that fell
because friends don't waste wine when there's words to sell
i feel like love is in the kitchen with a culinary eye
I think he's making something special and I'm smart enough to try
if you don't trust yourself for at least one minute each day
well you should trust in this girl cause loving is coming our way
if you can fix me up girl you'll go a long way
if you can fix me up girl you'll go a long way
I'll stand by all this drinking if it helps me through these days
(take my love in these small doses)
It takes a long time just to get this all straight
(take my love in these small doses)
I'll showcase on route 7 when i find the right place
(take my love in these small doses)
It takes a long time just to get this all straight
(take my love in these small doses)
in my mind
this is my free time
because friends don't waste wine when there's words to sell
if you can fix me up girl you'll go a long way
if you can fix me up girl you'll go a long way
I'll stand by all this drinking if it helps me through these days
(take my love in these small doses)
I've spent a long time corresponding in my own way
(take my love in these small doses)
I'll showcase on route 7 when I find the right place
(take my love in these small doses)
It takes a long time just to get this all straight
(take my love in these small doses)
in my mind
this is my free time
to break it all away
spend it all today
spend it all today
it took time then I found you
it took time then I found you

song performed by Interpol
Added by Lucian Velea
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Follow The Format

make a big scene
make this glass house my coffin
you missed the big picture
well its the words that youre coughing out on your sleeve
so forge my sins here in song
well i'm telling you now what youve known all along
and its tired, so true, more subtle than you
theres a lull in the stereo
its calling for you (calling for you)
its calling for you
well i'm a slave to my vices (its true)
theyve all been renamed as a crutch
so drag my name and my face through the mud
flattery can flatter me (flattery can flatter me)
showing just how vicious you could be
do what you came here to do (do what you came here to do)
trigger finger gets you pointed in the right direction
my new found discretion
its not a lie if you believe it
its no mistake if its always repeated
its not a lie if you believe it
its no mistake if its always repeated
shall we call it quits or just wait? (its not a lie if you believe it)
even, even if my last name rhymes with your rescue of hear say
do not say you know (its no mistake if its repeated)
call me out
its not a lie (its such a lie)
but I dont need to hear it from you
so whats another word for (i dont need to hear it from you)
whats another word for (dont need to hear it from you)
whats another word for (i dont need to hear it from you)
whats another word for (dont need to hear it from you)
it gets easier with doses of time (easier with doses of time)
easier with doses of time (easier with doses of time)
easier with doses of time (easier with doses of time)
easier with doses of time (easier with doses of time)
Show us just how vicious you could be

song performed by Taking Back Sunday
Added by Lucian Velea
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Vida's Game Of Chess

TRANSLATED

ARMIES of box that sportively engage
And mimic real battles in their rage,
Pleased I recount; how, smit with glory's charms,
Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms,
Sable and white; assist me to explore,
Ye Serian Nymphs, what ne'er was sung before.
No path appears: yet resolute I stray
Where youth undaunted bids me force my way.
O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue,
Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue.
For you the rise of this diversion know,
You first were pleased in Italy to show
This studious sport; from Scacchis was its name,
The pleasing record of your Sister's fame.

When Jove through Ethiopia's parch'd extent
To grace the nuptials of old Ocean went,
Each god was there; and mirth and joy around
To shores remote diffused their happy sound.
Then when their hunger and their thirst no more
Claim'd their attention, and the feast was o'er;
Ocean with pastime to divert the thought,
Commands a painted table to be brought.
Sixty-four spaces fill the chequer'd square;
Eight in each rank eight equal limits share.
Alike their form, but different are their dyes,
They fade alternate, and alternate rise,
White after black; such various stains as those
The shelving backs of tortoises disclose.
Then to the gods that mute and wondering sate,
You see (says he) the field prepared for fate.
Here will the little armies please your sight,
With adverse colours hurrying to the fight:
On which so oft, with silent sweet surprise,
The Nymphs and Nereids used to feast their eyes,
And all the neighbours of the hoary deep,
When calm the sea, and winds were lull'd asleep
But see, the mimic heroes tread the board;
He said, and straightway from an urn he pour'd
The sculptured box, that neatly seem'd to ape
The graceful figure of a human shape:--
Equal the strength and number of each foe,
Sixteen appear'd like jet, sixteen like snow.
As their shape varies various is the name,
Different their posts, nor is their strength the same.
There might you see two Kings with equal pride
Gird on their arms, their Consorts by their side;
Here the Foot-warriors glowing after fame,

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poem by Oliver Goldsmith
Added by Poetry Lover
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Through the Metidja to Abd-El-Kadr

I

As I ride, as I ride,
With a full heart for my guide,
So its tide rocks my side,
As I ride, as I ride,
That, as I were double-eyed,
He, in whom our Tribes confide,
Is descried, ways untried
As I ride, as I ride.

II.

As I ride, as I ride
To our Chief and his Allied,
Who dares chide my heart's pride
As I ride, as I ride?
Or are witnesses denied—
Through the desert waste and wide
Do I glide unespied
As I ride, as I ride?

III.

As I ride, as I ride,
When an inner voice has cried,
The sands slide, nor abide
(As I ride, as I ride)
O'er each visioned homicide
That came vaunting (has he lied?)
To reside—where he died,
As I ride, as I ride.

IV.

As I ride, as I ride,
Ne'er has spur my swift horse plied,
Yet his hide, streaked and pied,
As I ride, as I ride,
Shows where sweat has sprung and dried,
—Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed—
How has vied stride with stride
As I ride, as I ride!

V.

As I ride, as I ride,
Could I loose what Fate has tied,
Ere I pried, she should hide
(As I ride, as I ride)

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poem by Robert Browning from Cavalier Tunes (1842)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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