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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 11

SCARCE had the rosy Morning rais’d her head
Above the waves, and left her wat’ry bed;
The pious chief, whom double cares attend
For his unburied soldiers and his friend,
Yet first to Heav’n perform’d a victor’s vows: 5
He bar’d an ancient oak of all her boughs;
Then on a rising ground the trunk he plac’d,
Which with the spoils of his dead foe he grac’d.
The coat of arms by proud Mezentius worn,
Now on a naked snag in triumph borne, 10
Was hung on high, and glitter’d from afar,
A trophy sacred to the God of War.
Above his arms, fix’d on the leafless wood,
Appear’d his plumy crest, besmear’d with blood:
His brazen buckler on the left was seen; 15
Truncheons of shiver’d lances hung between;
And on the right was placed his corslet, bor’d;
And to the neck was tied his unavailing sword.
A crowd of chiefs inclose the godlike man,
Who thus, conspicuous in the midst, began: 20

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Sometimes I Can Hear the Confusion and Sorrow

The television buzzes and pops
and the dishes loom in their piles
while the dog looks up from
her empty water dish,
the laundry is folded in sorted piles
yet to be claimed by the household,
and the internet is on
so nobody calls,
and under the three remaining bulbs
a yellow light is cast,
thrown among crusty plates,
and the papers are spread out
in categorized piles to show
if we can afford to just throw away
the spaghetti hardening in the pot,
while the cat yowls at the doorknob,
but nobody hears
over the sound of things falling apart
while the television drones on
about tornadoes.

poem by Ayn Timmerman
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The Sea Deceives Me

The pages of the calendar fall to the ground,
crunch crunch crunch under our feet,
grinding themselves to dust.
Hours and numbers, days and months cover the earth with mosaic colors
as if a tempest had broken open a damn and they flood out into our fields, we rake them up, unspoken we burn them, we stuff them in threadbare and patchy clothing, we make scarecrows up to look like our former selves,
others we stuff in gutters and drains.
There are pages from a hundred years back in some darkening silence in the deepest of woodlands, these leaves mixed with the dirtiest of branches; histories at the foot of precipices slouching on the meanders of rivers flowing into the sunset, they dwell in the pits of caves, and in the nests of baby birds.
We lay our backs down and swim through the pages, we fall asleep and neglect our lazy day, the sounds and the smells, the tastes and the textures of the times we've inherited (we have (and the time ahead.)
New years take shape and more time buds, the seasons pass and we decorate the decaying earth.
new days are piled up: in piles of bills, piles of events, piles of junk mail, invitations torn and abandoned, occasions attended and written about, solidarities and intimacies cherished and worshiped

They are still there in the air- you act as if they're not passing by,
new pages swiftly sway in the winds hand and rest on the earth. In numbers and records.
The pointless statistics of time, taken time and time again.
We waste our time on something like memories and plans
until time our runs out for us
like counting the fallen leaves as a derelict train creeps through the country - how absurdly endless a task
time is not statistics nor even measurable
time is not a standard of options weighable,
time is not a parquet floor where a curtain stretches, that you shoot marbles across, or even throw a rug over then slowly rock yourself to sleep on

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poem by Jerome Moore
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The Golden Age

Long ere the Muse the strenuous chords had swept,
And the first lay as yet in silence slept,
A Time there was which since has stirred the lyre
To notes of wail and accents warm with fire;
Moved the soft Mantuan to his silvery strain,
And him who sobbed in pentametric pain;
To which the World, waxed desolate and old,
Fondly reverts, and calls the Age of Gold.

Then, without toil, by vale and mountain side,
Men found their few and simple wants supplied;
Plenty, like dew, dropped subtle from the air,
And Earth's fair gifts rose prodigal as prayer.
Love, with no charms except its own to lure,
Was swiftly answered by a love as pure.
No need for wealth; each glittering fruit and flower,
Each star, each streamlet, made the maiden's dower.
Far in the future lurked maternal throes,
And children blossomed painless as the rose.
No harrowing question `why,' no torturing `how,'

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poem by Alfred Austin
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I. The Ring and the Book

Do you see this Ring?
'T is Rome-work, made to match
(By Castellani's imitative craft)
Etrurian circlets found, some happy morn,
After a dropping April; found alive
Spark-like 'mid unearthed slope-side figtree-roots
That roof old tombs at Chiusi: soft, you see,
Yet crisp as jewel-cutting. There's one trick,
(Craftsmen instruct me) one approved device
And but one, fits such slivers of pure gold
As this was,—such mere oozings from the mine,
Virgin as oval tawny pendent tear
At beehive-edge when ripened combs o'erflow,—
To bear the file's tooth and the hammer's tap:
Since hammer needs must widen out the round,
And file emboss it fine with lily-flowers,
Ere the stuff grow a ring-thing right to wear.
That trick is, the artificer melts up wax
With honey, so to speak; he mingles gold
With gold's alloy, and, duly tempering both,

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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On the subject of spinach: divide into little piles. Rearrange again into new piles. After five of six maneuvers, sit back and say you are full.

Delia Ephron in How To Eat Like A Child
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When Winter Comes

The leaves have finished their journey
The trees are naked now
As the first flake falls it flickers and sparkles
The clouds build piles of snow on the ground
Children jump up and down excitedly waiting to be freed
Dead frozen grass underneath the piles of snow waiting patiently for spring
Snowmen, snow angels were left alone to vanish with the winds and foot steps
Snowball fights had forced everyone to hide
When winter comes i want to stay under my blanket all day long

poem by Innocent Rose
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Growing Piles

Bliss comes
Bliss goes
Another thorn
From a faded rose
Once taken in with joy and smiles
Now thrown in pain on growing piles

Sometime maybe
Somewhere baby
Will we meet once more

Sometime baby
Somewhere maybe
Will we manage an encore

Just now the fog
is no memory jog
Of how this came to be

A break felt oh so painfully

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poem by Dave Dunn
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Life Is Worth Living

Piles of papers on the floor,
Color coded to master,
Eight hours a day to fiddle,
Oh, what a job to settle.

Lego toys and cereal crumbs,
Dirty clothes on the floor,
Piles of plates on the counter,
Oh, what a job thereafter.

But life goes on no matter what
Will it be in its deepest mystery,
And as we seek our own destiny,
We’ll trip and fall along the way.

Those of us who fell in to a pit,
Slum of poor among the poorest,
We strive life for what is best,
And what it’s worth than shame

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poem by Efren Petalver Carranza
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Can't get enough

Can't get enough of your gentle touch
I like it so much

Can't get enough of your wet lips
They send me on a pleasurable moaning trip

Can't get enough of your enchanting smile
They keep me in a trance all the while
and simply multiplie in piles and piles

Can't get enough of your thoughtful ways
Showering me with your care everyday

Can't get enough of the warmth of your body
It cries out my name
and lights my heart with your flame

Can't get enough of the laughter in your voice
The sweet melody to my ears takes away all the noise

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poem by Sylvia Chidi
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