Go take a Holiday

Go take a holiday, somewhere so quiet,

And if need be, leave your pets with the vet;
f
Then maybe go on a train for a trip to the sea,

Might be Adelaide, or Perth, enjoy the scenery.

Go take a holiday, to the far north, on a jet plane,

To cairns, or Darwin, where, no where is it the same;

What about take a glass bottom boat to an island or two,

But; don't get seasick, or get stung, it's a warning for you.

Go for a holiday, to the Mornington peninsula, to a flat,

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poem by Margaret Haig
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After the Comet

Ad-ma was a techno, and he worked for Magno Rep.,
Logging vagaries of asteroids, their orbits, speed and depth,
On the eastern shore of Atalan, his villa on the shore
He would plot triangulations, mapping comets by the score,
But his brow was creased with worry,
And his eyes were ringed with black,
For he hadn't slept these many nights
Since Agnar Kor's attack,
It had suddenly appeared from outer
Space that gave it birth,
And the dark and dread conclusion was
It would collide with earth.

It was known as an erratic, potent wanderer through space,
But its orbit wasn't constant, it had been quite hard to trace,
For a week or more it could be seen, quite naked to the eye,
With its tail like whirling serpents lighting up the evening sky,
While at Ba-ha-ma the experts
Had been working on the core,
Of the huge magnetic pulser that

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Song Of The Egg

One sunny morning in late june
I heard a strange and mournful tune
I looked around the empty room
And stood awhile feeling bemused
A strange hallucination came
Was it a dimming in the brain?
But louder still the cries were coming
Like a distant droning humming
And then I saw the egg box open
Inside a weeping egg was broken
'oh take me to the boiling pot, or fry me quick, or scramble me,
come quick and cook me, set me free!
The unbroken eggs were strangely silent
Being advocates of violence
Rounded on the broken egg
'Oh take him quick and smash his head! '
Unable to fulfil his wish
The portly consumer changed his dish
Leaving the eggs inside the box
He had some fish

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poem by Yvette Smith
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Malcolm's Katie: A Love Story - Part V.

Said the high hill, in the morning: 'Look on me--
'Behold, sweet earth, sweet sister sky, behold
'The red flames on my peaks, and how my pines
'Are cressets of pure gold; my quarried scars
'Of black crevase and shadow-fill'd canon,
'Are trac'd in silver mist. How on my breast
'Hang the soft purple fringes of the night;
'Close to my shoulder droops the weary moon,
'Dove-pale, into the crimson surf the sun
'Drives up before his prow; and blackly stands
'On my slim, loftiest peak, an eagle, with
'His angry eyes set sunward, while his cry
'Falls fiercely back from all my ruddy heights;
'And his bald eaglets, in their bare, broad nest,
'Shrill pipe their angry echoes: ''Sun, arise,
''And show me that pale dove, beside her nest,
''Which I shall strike with piercing beak and tear
''With iron talons for my hungry young.''
And that mild dove, secure for yet a space,
Half waken'd, turns her ring'd and glossy neck

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poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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To My Liars

Attend, mine enemies of all degrees,
From sandlot orators and sandlot fleas
To fallen gentlemen and rising louts
Who babble slander at your drinking bouts,
And, filled with unfamiliar wine, begin
Lies drowned, ere born, in more congenial gin.
But most attend, ye persons of the press
Who live (though why, yourselves alone can guess)
In hope deferred, ambitious still to shine
By hating me at half a cent a line
Like drones among the bees of brighter wing,
Sunless to shine and impotent to sting.
To estimate in easy verse I'll try
The controversial value of a lie.
So lend your ears-God knows you have enough!
I mean to teach, and if I can't I'll cuff.

A lie is wicked, so the priests declare;
But that to us is neither here nor there.
'Tis worse than wicked, it is vulgar too;

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Drilling Holes

Drilling Holes
Date: May 6,2012

I crowd into this dungeon
Where chemicals scoop out the rot
From my brain. I lay flat bellied
Drool dripping from the jar
Inside the dream, my curtains are black. They are
Blowing, blowing, blowing, away the whispers from
My dead eyes. Dark stains puddle the carpet
And I laugh, weep, for no particular reason
I took hold the cup and sucked it dry
My mouth is fat and sated
So, I've no need for more thick black tar.
Else my tongue will turn bitter, bitter, bitter
Jealous of the instant coffee steaming from my cup.
It's poured, black, hot, and artificially sweetened
Perfect, to wash down the drone
Of jackhammers squealing false promises to my soul

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poem by Leria Hawkins
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War Diary

1. Monday Evening

You see, now fear often fingers your heart,
and at times the world seems only distant news;
the old trees guard your childhood for you
as an ever more ancient memory.

Between suspicious mornings and foreboding nights
you have lived half your life among wars,
and now once more, order is glinting toward you
on the raised points of bayonets.

In dreams sometimes the landscape still rises before you,
the home of your poetry, where the scent of freedom
wafts over the meadows, and in the morning when you wake,
you carry the scent with you.

Rarely, when you are working, you half-sit, frightened
at your desk. And it's as if you were living in soft mud;
your hand, adorned with a pen, moves heavily

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poem by Miklos Radnoti
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Waiting For Our Time

Looking up from where I stand
I see the vapor trail
Of a jet plane in the sky
Here the wheel is in my hand
But theres no wind in my sails
And life is drifting by
Still I hold on and wait
I know its not too late
And my breeze will come
Muse you satisfy my soul
Keep me warm while the
Cold world guards the gate
Im searching
Im wondering
Im yearning
Waiting for our time to come
Im searching
Im wondering
Im yearning
Waiting for our time to come

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song performed by Styx
Added by Lucian Velea
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Awake At Six A.M.

Awake at six a.m. The clock ticks, nicks,
flintknaps little pieces of my life off,
a French executioner's sword quicker and neater
than the sloppy axe of the moon
naping the strike. I swan on the block
to the drum roll of a panicked palpitant
among kitchen utensils. I'm the crucifix
of Cygnus in the Summer Triangle,
arms outspread. I'm severed like a carrot.
I'm the headless horseman. An acephalic shallot.

Someone yanks me up out of the earth
and holds me up by a gout of hair
like a prize turnip with a characteristic look
of freeze-framed despair on my face
as if it had just been amputated.
I had a snake transplant. Now I'm Medusa.
The star, Algol, in the grip of Perseus.
The ghoul of my own solitude, I can heal
or I can enflame the disease with an unclean needle.

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poem by Patrick White
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To James T. Fields

ON A BLANK LEAF OF 'POEMS PRINTED, NOT PUBLISHED.'

Well thought! who would not rather hear
The songs to Love and Friendship sung
Than those which move the stranger's tongue,
And feed his unselected ear?

Our social joys are more than fame;
Life withers in the public look.
Why mount the pillory of a book,
Or barter comfort for a name?

Who in a house of glass would dwell,
With curious eyes at every pane?
To ring him in and out again,
Who wants the public crier's bell?

To see the angel in one's way,
Who wants to play the ass's part,--
Bear on his back the wizard Art,

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poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Queen Mab: Part III.

'Fairy!' the Spirit said,
And on the Queen of Spells
Fixed her ethereal eyes,
'I thank thee. Thou hast given
A boon which I will not resign, and taught
A lesson not to be unlearned. I know
The past, and thence I will essay to glean
A warning for the future, so that man
May profit by his errors and derive
Experience from his folly;
For, when the power of imparting joy
Is equal to the will, the human soul
Requires no other heaven.'

MAB
'Turn thee, surpassing Spirit!
Much yet remains unscanned.
Thou knowest how great is man,
Thou knowest his imbecility;
Yet learn thou what he is;

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poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Eyes-radio-lies

Slipping past position
You know I watch you dive
Watching you painted in chrome max factor
And feeling number one

all alone now
I can see you way, to the drone
Radio waves, hitting your brain from the phone
I can see
I cant see whats on your mind
Because your never alone
I am the voice inside your head
And the eyes in your radio
Im the eyes in your radio (radio, radio)
Im the eyes in your radio (radio, radio)
Hello mr. race car driver
You know Im watching you too
In the trauma-room, brain dead, still you went faster
Now your number means nothing
Mr. nickel-plated candyman
Are you feeling in lifeless in aluminum

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song performed by Orgy
Added by Lucian Velea
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Funeral Of Youth, The: Threnody

The day that YOUTH had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the country's ends,
Those scatter'd friends
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,
In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,
The days and nights and dawnings of the time
When YOUTH kept open house,
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,
No quest of his unshar'd --
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,
Followed their old friend's bier.
FOLLY went first,
With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;
And after trod the bearers, hat in hand --
LAUGHTER, most hoarse, and Captain PRIDE with tanned
And martial face all grim, and fussy JOY,
Who had to catch a train, and LUST, poor, snivelling boy;

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poem by Rupert Brooke
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The Moon's Admirer

Who can say where the weather goes
When it leaves this house, it jumps over
The rafters: an octogenarian,
An old hurdler,
Who has practiced all his existence
To touch the glowing belly of the lonely
Satellite:
The woman he saw casting her eyes
Through his window
While he was a teenager.
Then, young and eager, he still prayed
And faithfully competed for her,
And thought that by graduation she
Would know him,
And the secret roads he ran on through,
Where, between the interludes of clouds,
She cast her light down like scattered seeds
To feed the exhausted birds
Famished from trying to swallow her
Opulence to feed their young,

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poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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Evangeline: Part The First. II.

NOW had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;

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poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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The Lake Josephus Days

We left Little Redfish for Lake Josephus, traveling along the good names — from Stanley to Capehorn to Seafoam to the Rapid River, up Float Creek, past the Greyhound Mine and then to Lake Josephus, and a few days after that up the trail to Hell-diver Lake with the baby on my shoulders and a good limit of trout waiting in Hell-diver.

Knowing the trout would wait there like airplane tickets for us to come, we stopped at Mushroom Springs and had a drink of cold shadowy water and some photographs taken of the baby and me sitting together on a log.

I hope someday we'll have enough money to get those pictures developed. Sometimes I get curious about them, wondering if they will turn out all right. They are in suspension now like seeds in a package. I'll be older when they are developed and easier to please. Look there's the baby! Look there's Mushroom Springs! Look there's me!

I caught the limit of trout within an hour of reaching Hell-diver, and my woman, in all the excitement of good fishing, let the baby fall asleep directly in the sun and when the baby woke up, she puked and I carried her back down the trail.

My woman trailed silently behind, carrying the rods and the fish. The baby puked a couple more times, thimblefuls of gentle lavender vomit, but still it got on my clothes, and her face was hot and flushed.

We stopped at Mushroom Springs. I gave her a small drink of water, not too much, and rinsed the vomit taste out of her mouth. Then I wiped the puke off my clothes and for some strange reason suddenly it was a perfect time, there at Mushroom Springs, to wonder whatever happened to the Zoot suit.

Along with World War II and the Andrews Sisters, the Zoot suit had been very popular in the early 40s. I guess they were all just passing fads.

A sick baby on the trail down from Hell-diver, July 1961, is probably a more important question. It cannot be left to go on forever, a sick baby to take her place in the galaxy, among the comets, bound to pass close to the earth every 173 years.

She stopped puking after Mushroom Springs, and I carried her back down along the path in and out of the shadows and across other nameless springs, and by the time we got down to Lake Josephus, she was all right.

She was soon running around with a big cutthroat trout in her hands, carrying it like a harp on her way to a concert — ten minutes late with no bus in sight and no taxi either.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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The Funeral of Youth: Threnody

The day that Youth had died,
There came to his grave-side,
In decent mourning, from the country's ends,
Those scatter'd friends
Who had lived the boon companions of his prime,
And laughed with him and sung with him and wasted,
In feast and wine and many-crown'd carouse,
The days and nights and dawnings of the time
When Youth kept open house,
Nor left untasted
Aught of his high emprise and ventures dear,
No quest of his unshar'd -
All these, with loitering feet and sad head bar'd,
Followed their old friend's bier.
Folly went first,
With muffled bells and coxcomb still revers'd;
And after trod the bearers, hat in hand -
Laughter, most hoarse, and Captain Pride with tanned
And martial face all grim, and fussy Joy,
Who had to catch a train, and Lust, poor, snivelling boy;

[...] Read more

poem by Rupert Brooke (1913)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Take A Little Trip

If we could leave this big old city
And head back for the cabin we loved back deep in the woods
Whoa baby we would
If we could jump in some big old jet plane & head for the islands
Where the weather is always good
Oh dont you know we would
Well we cant do this & we cant do that
But baby we can stay right where were at
Take a little trip, take a little trip
Take a little trip up to heaven tonight
Take a little time leave it all behind
Take a little trip up to heaven tonight
We could go downtown to a nightclub
And dance to the rythm of the music on that old hardwood
Whoa baby we could
We could call up rita & bobby
And see what theyre doing tonight & maybe play some rook
Yeah baby we could
Yeah now we can do this or we can do that
Or baby we can stay right where were at

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song performed by Alabama
Added by Lucian Velea
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Pick Up The Pace

No one can rock the microphone finer
East, west, north, South Carolina
Alex and Vivian chillin' at Mel's Diner
Off to China 'cause I got a show there
Get my passport, then I'm gonna go there
Who do I know there? I guess no one
But I will have fun and I get the job done
On the airplane, movin' like the Concord
Come and join me, everybody on board
You won't be bored with the stuff I'm pickin' up
Watch me quicken up and with the pace, I pick it up
Pick up the pace
[Chorus]
Second verse and never cursin'
Rockin' the microphone with the style that I'm reherasin'
In person, that means liver
Swimmin' and slimmin' just like a deep sea diver
I'll arrive, uh, just to go faster
Grab the microphone and show that I am the master
Of disaster, cookin' up a potion

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song performed by Young MC
Added by Lucian Velea
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Gradual Change

I witnessed gradual change in body
Even though it was concern of nobody
I felt it so sweet and dreamt of unusual things
To be near with some one and enjoy something

My throat thickened little
The voice too became hard to settle
The mustache lines appeared on face
I was loosing my childhood trace

I could speak no one about my feelings
I was getting some unique inkling
The friends of opposite gender were appealing
I liked closeness and resorted to dealing

I had no restriction in childhood
All girls were freely paying with me from neighborhood
Now they have started keeping some distance
As it might have been told by their parents at once

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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