To Autumn

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
`The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

`The spirits of the air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

poem by William Blake
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Super Summer

No more school
I’m always swimming in the pool
This is summer break, doesn’t this sound great?
I smell loads of chorine
The grass is a beautiful bright green
I scream for ice scream
On the beach I fly some kites
Sweet corn, ice pops, and strawberries open up, and take a bite
I sit under the stars at night
Quiet rids on my big blue bike
I love taking hikes
Charvale pool is always filled with little tikes
Always socking up the sun
but watch out for sun burn because it hurts tons
I hate burnt hotdogs on stale buns
I love huge boom fires at the beach
Fishing in funs when we all get one fish each
My hands and face always sticky from the peaches
Extremely hot air
Katie and I make a great summer pair

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poem by Molly Breadcrumb
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Many Things

Your nipples are perfectly pointed up like a pencil and,
They are very tempting to touch;
Your breasts are perfectly round like oranges and,
They are too juicy to hold;
But noted to your spot of love are the words of peace.
Summer break with summer love,
And of your golden-gate to respect at last;
But under your breasts is your secret of love.

Courtship and marriage,
And with the garden of flowers that holds the future;
For you are the evidence of more things to come.
'Aben wa ha'! !
And to learn from the status of your love;
For there are many things we can do together.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Music Is My Life

Music is my life, music is the key
Cause the rhythm's gonna get me, music takes me higher
Music is my life, music is the key
You're my first, you're my last, you are burning like a fire
Nananananananana, nananananana
Nananananananana, let's sing together
Say go, say when, say now, say hit-it,
Ready to rumble dance here we go
So, going up and down round and round on and on
Yo - how to throw a pair of dice
Be hot, be cool, be cold as ice
This is the time you better don't think twice
Be nice, emergency
Go mad, go wild, go nasty, go free
Like a maniac, you're feeling wild with me
Ringdingdong ringadinga ding dong
In a seventies style, it's a bobo song
Time for the old school, play that track
Mister deejay - bring the beat back, bring it back
Place is packed, so many different people

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song performed by DJ Bobo
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Bass Lake (2)

Through the Woods
along the winding road
we arrive at Bass Lake
just in time for the summer break

Such clean sweet water
fresh as fresh can be
and you do not have to think
That water we can drink,
you and Me

So we all run to the end of the Dock
and jump in the cold water, awaiting the Shock
we swim for Clams,
and watch the Fish watching us
no worries the Fish don't Fuss

But having Fun, and swimming all day
Takes it out of you in a funny way
So we head up to the barn, for a lie in the hay

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poem by David Darbyshire
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The Beat

Were all going on a summer holiday
Vigilantes coming out to follow me.
Heard somebody say theyre out to collar me.
Anybody wanna swallow me?
It takes two to tumble. it takes two to tango.
Speak up; dont mumble if youre in the combo.
On the beat, on the beat.
Till a man comes along and he says,
have you been a good boy, never played with your toy?
Though you never enjoy, such pleasure to employ.
See your friends in the state their in.
See your friends getting under their skin.
See your friends getting taken in.
Well, if you only knew the things you do to me.
Id do anything to confuse the enemy.
Theres only one thing wrong with you befriending me.
Take it easy. I think youre bending me.
Ive been a bad boy with the standard leader.
My neighbors revving up his vauxhall viva.
On the beat, on the upbeat.

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song performed by Elvis Costello
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From: Preludes for Memnon

LXII

I read the primrose and the sea
and remember nothing
I read Arcturus and the snow
and remember nothing
I read the green and white book of spring
and remember nothing
I read the hatred in a man’s eye
Lord, I remember nothing.

Scorn spat at me and spoke
I remember it not
The river was frozen round the ship
I remember it not
I found a secret message in a blade of grass
and it is forgotten
I called my lovers by their sweet names
they are all forgotten.

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Rhubarb

Summer break, all we need to take
Check again, whip me basket case
Summer girl, cherry lips I taste
Of a spill, as she licks my face
Oh no, here I go again
Oh yeah, upside down again
Daisy chain, tie me up again
As it breaks, pulls me in again
Hesitate, turn away to pain
Celebrate, feeling it twist the skin
Oh no, here I go again
Oh yeah, upside down again
I don't know how, I don't know how
She makes me feel
I don't know how, I don't know how
I turn the wheel
Look outside
I don't know how, I don't know how
She makes me feel
I don't know how, I don't know how

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song performed by Feeder
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Those Names

The shearers sat in the firelight, hearty and hale and strong,
After the hard day's shearing, passing the joke along:
The 'ringer' that shore a hundred, as they never were shorn before,
And the novice who, toiling bravely, had tommy-hawked half a score,
The tarboy, the cook and the slushy, the sweeper that swept the board,
The picker-up, and the penner, with the rest of the shearing horde.
There were men from the inland stations where the skies like a furnace glow,
And men from Snowy River, the land of frozen snow;
There were swarthy Queensland drovers who reckoned all land by miles,
And farmers' sons from the Murray, where many a vineyard smiles.
They started at telling stories when they wearied of cards and games,
And to give these stories flavour they threw in some local names,
Then a man from the bleak Monaro, away on the tableland,
He fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and he started to play his hand.
He told them of Adjintoothbong, where the pine-clad mountains freeze,
And the weight of the snow in summer breaks branches off the trees,
And, as he warmed to the business, he let them have it strong --
Nimitybelle, Conargo, Wheeo, Bongongolong;
He lingered over them fondly, because they recalled to mind
A thought of the bush homestead, and the girl that he left behind.

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Lament

When I was but a primary school boy
I would play with a girl
as my mate
and she had freckles
close to her nose
and red hair swishing
in a neat ponytail

and I would blush
when she gave me
a innocent kiss
and my heart
would miss a beat
and we would share our sandwiches
or eat each others
and to me that girl was really neat.

When I got a little older
I was really shy, when a lovely girl
caught my eye

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poem by Gert Strydom
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I Should Be Light Years Away From Here By Now

I should be light years away from here by now.
Too full of shadows. Encyclopedic sorrows
that keep updating themselves. Artistic ordeals
that return me to the world stranger than I was.
More alone. With my indeterminate talent
for living through things like arrows pushed
all the way through to the other side. I should be
out of this raving asylum any day now.
I should be released like a beast from a zoo
by a lightning storm that gnawed its way through the bars.
My last attachment in this zendo of mirageless monks
a rope in the basement, so as not to discourage the kids.

When is enough, enough? Go ask Plato,
or better yet, Plath, Essenin, Mayakovsky, Lao-tzu,
or that ingenuous adolescent down the street
who shot himself in his parents' laundry room
when his girlfriend said he wasn't fun enough?
Proved her right. Gouged his parents' hearts out.
Me? I thought I could shine for the eyeless.

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poem by Patrick White
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Epistle

Dear law students,
The semester is over, and I am
Your nightmare finished off by you by simply waking up
and breathe & recover. Fan yourselves, loosen your shirts.
I know I am the sum of your bad days for the whole semester,
Assigning you cases as Thick as three cabinets and
Giving you quizzes every meeting which
You think are nothing but trivial flaunts and show of a
Law teacher needing much attention. I suspect that you
Backbite me and consider me as Judge Terror on the loose
Eliminating the chaff from the grain, the bones from the
Cartilage and those whose guts are weak must, as
Humbly asked, pack up his wits and get his bolo and just
Plant camote & yam in his mountain. My car got scratches and
I spent a part of my meager salary to repair the marks of
Your suppressed cruelty. You read two books in political law, exclude
The assigned 3O cases or so, add another 20 and the handouts
Too. The law classes are long and weary and focus
Yes, focus is important, starts at 5: 30 to 8: 30 p.m. when
You could have rested in you cozy homes and watched the

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Resignation Pt 1

The days how few, how short the years
Of man's too rapid race!
Each leaving, as it swiftly flies,
A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy,
Have told us with a sigh,
That to be born seems little more
Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth
With fears alarm'd; and yet,
In life's delusions lull'd asleep,
This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin?
Age slumbers o'er the quill;
Its honour blots, whate'er it writes,
And am I writing still?

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poem by Edward Young
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The Recluse - Book First

HOME AT GRASMERE

ONCE to the verge of yon steep barrier came
A roving school-boy; what the adventurer's age
Hath now escaped his memory--but the hour,
One of a golden summer holiday,
He well remembers, though the year be gone--
Alone and devious from afar he came;
And, with a sudden influx overpowered
At sight of this seclusion, he forgot
His haste, for hasty had his footsteps been
As boyish his pursuits; and sighing said,
'What happy fortune were it here to live!
And, if a thought of dying, if a thought
Of mortal separation, could intrude
With paradise before him, here to die!'
No Prophet was he, had not even a hope,
Scarcely a wish, but one bright pleasing thought,
A fancy in the heart of what might be
The lot of others, never could be his.

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poem by William Wordsworth
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