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Poetry Book - Spider Web

A Choice

Better to lack food
Than to lack truth.
Rather perish in body
Than in soul.
Better to walk naked
Than to walk empty.
Rather be silent
Than to speak falsely.
Better to accomplish nothing
Than to achieve no virtue.

Walk for Shelter

Each of one!
One of each will,
Will walk!

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poem by Erica Borges
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Epilogue (Nothing 'Bout Me)

I don't drink coffee, I take tea my dear.
I like my toast done on one side,
and you can hear it in my accent when I talk.
I'm an Englishman in New York.
You see me walking down Fifth Avenue,
a walking cane here at my side;
I take it ev'rywhere I walk.
I'm an Englishman in New York.
Whoa
I'm an alien,
I'm a legal alien;
I'm an Englishman in New York.
Whoa
I'm an alien,
I'm a legal alien;
I'm an Englishman in New York.
If

song performed by Sting
Added by Lucian Velea
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Alien Shore

Words by neil peart, music by geddy lee and alex lifeson
You and i, we are strangers by one chromosome
Slave to the hormone, body and soul
In a struggle to be happy and free
Swimming in a primitive sea
You and i, we must dive below the surface
A world of red neon, and ultramarine
Shining bridges on the ocean floor
Reaching to the alien shore
For you and me --- sex is not a competition
For you and me --- sex is not a job description
For you and me --- we agree
You and i, we are pressed into these solitudes
Color and culture, language and race
Just variations on a theme
Islands in a much larger stream
For you and me --- race is not a competition
For you and me --- race is not a definition
For you and me --- we agree
Reaching for the alien shore

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song performed by Rush
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sydney Cove, 1788

SHE sat on the rocks, her fireless eyes
Teased and tired with the thoughts of yore;
And paining her sense were alien skies,
An alien sea and an alien shore.
In gold-green dusks she glimpsed new flowers
And the glittering wings of gleaming birds —
But haunting her still were English bowers
And the clinging sweetness of old love-words.
A soft breeze murmured of unknown shores
And laughed as it touched her with fingers light,
But she mourned the more for the wind that roars
Down sullen coasts on a northern night.
Like topaz gems on a sable dome
The stranger stars stole shyly forth;
She saw no stars like the stars of home
That burned, white-fired, in the frosty north.
A restless sea was at her feet,
A restless sea of darkest blue;
The lights burned dimly on The Fleet,
And these were all the ships it knew.

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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A short poem

this poem is the shortest I've written
however it may appear long
because the actual poem
is hidden somewhere far away
it is not in this website
the poem bounces off stars
it floats across the milky way
and dances with rock stars

The actual poem is so short
that in trhe English language
it would be impossible to say
because it fits so much in into a short
time frain, the meaning is compacted
into a single alien word
but in that word there is meaning
of a thousand words of praise
the poem could be analysed
for days and months and years

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poem by Torben Duncan
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An Alien In My Back Passage

There's an alien in my back passage
I never saw him coming
One night in june under a full moon
I heard a distant humming
At first I thought it was the girl next door,
who sang off key in the night
But she had gone to her bed at noon
And had turned off all her lights
Then a girgle followed the hum

Until a green light glowed from my tum
And out of the darkness a small green man sprung
Wearing a stetson and chewing some gum
'Take me to your leader' I cried
But he carried on chewing, strutting his stuff like J.R Ewing

He was 5cm heigh and 2.5cm wide
Before I could catch him, he rushed back inside
Leaving a stench without making a scene
Turning the room a dark shade of green

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poem by Yvette Smith
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Alien, Poor Alien

Introduction:
For centuries now Aliens have visited Earth we assume to study our culture. Then way back in 1958, Sheb Wooley in America told us about a strange little Alien who came to earth to join our culture and play Rock and Roll. His name was the Purple People Eater. His story was continued by J P Richardson (The Big Bopper) in Purple People Eater Meets The Witch Doctor. It seemed now that the Aliens were getting into the swing of things. Of course, that didn’t last long and they went back to observing us. Trawling through some of my lost files the other day I found that the purple guy wasn’t the only one who wanted to play Rock and Roll. There was another one who will remain nameless for contract reasons and latent sex appeal, and this is his story I am about to recount. He visited us in the late 1970’s.

David Harris - 13 September 2009

There stands the ragged troubadour
dusty guitar in his hands
serenading the crowd
gathering around the hot dog van.
He persists between the jeers, yells
and insults thrown at him.
Then he tried to pass the plate
only to have it tossed back again.

Next he tried the cinema queue
the taxman had hit them hard;
serenading wasn’t easy
to a group from the Palace guard.
Their bayonets were at the ready

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poem by David Harris
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Born during the seventies

I

The deepest thing within
Destroying the possibility of breathing
Will cry even when we’re gone
Even after our own death
We will remain
The homeland poets in the foreign countries
Obscure forces of alien lives
Too tired sights of alien eyes

The deepest thing within
Will move on breathing
When all our days are gone
Hopefully not dying again
Insane
Wretched descendants of alien pasts
Paying their bills with our own skin
Moving back to illusions
Building the worlds

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poem by Miroslava Odalovic
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The Soul Of The Anzac

THE form that was mine was brown and hard,
And thewed and muscled, and tall and straight;
And often it rode from the station yard,
And often it passed through the stockyard gate;
And often it paused on the grey skyline
'Twixt mulga and mallee or gum and pine.
There was never a task that it would not do;
There was never a labour it left undone;
But ever and always it battled through,
And took the rest that its toil had won,
And slept the sleep of the weary-limbed
Till the stars grew pale and the planets dimmed.
The form that was mine is mine no more,
For low it lies in a soldier's grave
By an alien sea on an alien shore;
And over its sleep no wattles wave,
And stars unseen on their journey creep;
But it wakes no more from its dreamless sleep.
O Mother of mine, what is is best!
And our graves are dug at the hour of birth;

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poem by Roderic Quinn
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England In Egypt

FROM the dusty jaded sunlight of the careless Cairo streets,
Through the open bedroom window where the pale blue held the
palms,
There came a sound of music, thrilling cries and rattling beats,
That startled me from slumber with a shock of sweet alarms
For beneath this rainless heaven with this music in my ears
I was born, and all my boyhood with its joy was glorified,
And for me the ranging Red-coats hold a passion of bright tears,
And the glancing of the bayonets lights a hell of savage pride.
So I leaped and ran, and looked,
And I stood, and listened there,
Till I heard the fifes and drums,
Till I heard the fifes and drums,
The fifes and drums of England
Thrilling all the alien air! —
And 'England, England, England,'
I heard the wild fifes cry,
'We are here to rob for England,
And to throttle liberty!'
And 'England, England, England,'

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poem by Francis William Lauderdale Adams
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