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Too often new ideas are studied and analyzed until they are suffocated.

quote by William Pollard
Added by Lucian Velea
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Ideas For Walls

So many things in my head, Ive always had them before
No reason to be upset, theyre just ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Like putting paint on my feet & walking sideways in rows
My walls could be so complete, complete with patterns of toes
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing the left side, right side, which is the right side
Now-ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
A little m for the mirror, a double u for the wall
To make things perfectly clear, a great big h in the hall
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing, demanding that the nightlife be called the right life
Is everybody confused? (no) Im making no sense at all
You want a room with a view you need ideas for walls
Now Im standing inside, outside, which is the right side
Im standing inside, outside, outside, right side
Inside, outside, which is the right side
Now -- ideas
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas
Theyre just ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls
Ideas for walls

song performed by Men Without Hats
Added by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts and ideas - (Talking through my hat)

Break and husk
thoughts and ideas that,
without reason,
I smashing them like nuts
into my head – mortar with pig iron pestle.

Lay and hatch
thoughts and ideas,
and younglings,
instead of fly,
I keep them under latch
in my head – cage of neurons,
dendrites and axons.

Knead and raise
thoughts and ideas
but let me tempted,
and without reason,
instead of bake them, I play
“of thieves and bobbies”
with bullets of dough
shot from my head – automatic gun.

Pull kernels out of
thoughts and ideas
but I put not them to spring
and hundredfold harvest to bring,
I chain them necklace
that my poor mind
who walks nomad
through my head – ballad
to put it neck
in a night with moon
and than to catch
in a fairies dance
and hungry of blue
to soar in the stars.

***

Thoughts and ideas
are shrieking through my mind
as lost migratory birds
in an autumn of rains.
Thoughts and ideas
- arrow-shaped cranes with wet wings -
fall all at once
in my head – moorland
of thistle and mud.

[...] Read more

poem by Viorel Petru Trifan
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Changes

I'm not supposed to be scared of anything
But I don't know where I am
I wish that I could move but I'm exhausted
And nobody understands
(How I feel)
I'm tryin' hard to breathe now but there's no air in my lungs
Theres no one here to talk to
And the pain inside is making me numb
I try to hold this, under control
They can't help me
'Cause no one knows
Now I'm going through changes, changes
God I feel so frustrated lately
When I get suffocated save me
Now I'm going through changes, changes
I'm feelin' weak and weary walkin' through this world alone
Everything I say, every word of it cuts me to the bone
(And I bleed)
I've got something to say but now I got nowhere to turn
It feels like Ive been buried underneath all the weight of the world
I try to hold this, under control
They can't help me
Cause no one knows
Now Im going through changes, changes
God I feel so frustrated lately
When I get suffocated save me
Now Im going through changes, changes
I'm blind and shaking
Bound and breaking
I hope I make it through all these changes
Now Im going through changes, changes
God I feel so frustrated lately
When I get suffocated save me
Now Im falling apart now I feel it
But Im going through changes, changes
God I feel so frustrated lately
And I get suffocated I hate this
But Im going through changes, changes

song performed by 3 Doors Down
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A Map Of Culture

Culture

Contents

What is Culture?

The Importance of Culture

Culture Varies

Culture is Critical

The Sociobiology Debate

Values, Norms, and Social Control

Signs and Symbols

Language

Terms and Definitions

Approaches to the Study of Culture

Are We Prisoners of Our Culture?

What is Culture?

I prefer the definition used by Ian Robertson: 'all the shared products of society: material and nonmaterial' (Our text defines it in somewhat more ponderous terms- 'The totality of learned, socially transmitted behavior. It includes ideas, values, and customs (as well as the sailboats, comic books, and birth control devices) of groups of people' (p.32) .

Back to Contents

[...] Read more

poem by Nyein Way
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Soccer Under 20

soccer teams close to pa
soccer teams cartoons
soccer teams england
soccer teams aurora co age 11
soccer teams for ren jacksonville fl
soccer teams for girls in atlanta
soccer teams for ren
soccer teams aurora co
soccer teams fo age 11
soccer teams from europe
soccer teams for toddlers
soccer teams from spain
soccer teams girls massachusetts
soccer teams in alberta
soccer teams for women in massachusetts
soccer teams for women n massachusetts
soccer teams for the facup 2007
soccer teams for toddlers in california
soccer teams from colombia and argentina
soccer teams for winfield
soccer teams games in sarasota florida
soccer teams hotels brescia
soccer teams for s in delaware
soccer teams in allen texas
soccer teams for undder 14s girls
soccer teams in 1987 varsity
soccer teams from mexico
soccer teams for s
soccer teams for youth in newark
soccer teams in clifton new jersey
soccer teams in chaicago
soccer teams in brazil
soccer teams in around chicago
soccer teams in cocoa
soccer teams in central america
soccer teams in chamblee georgia
soccer teams in chula vista
soccer teams in carrollton tx
soccer teams in canada
soccer teams in central valley
soccer teams in charlotte nc
soccer teams in athens greece
soccer teams in charlotte
soccer teams in chile
soccer teams in argintina
soccer teams in arizona
soccer teams in argentina and chile
soccer teams in argentina
soccer teams in concord mass
soccer teams in dundee il

[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Problem of the Idea

The Philosopher:

'The Problem of the 21st century
is the problem of the Origins of the Idea.'

The Idea has driven much
of human history-
a major motivator
many taken together are
Articulators;
Ideas compose all Human Dreams.

But ask what is this Idea
and silence ensues;
ask where is it
in the human mind
and we'll get charts of its activity centers
but nothing about what it is
or where it comes from.

The Scientist:

Well, we don't have to know what a thing is
to utilize it.
We can identify behaviors and integrate
them-
harness them to purpose.

Philosopher:

Sure like the Atomic Bomb. It was built because
we could integrate various disciplines
and make things go bang
without thinking of Consequence.
technical Ideas-too have consequences.

Scientist:

So you would hold up all human progress
until the over-arching Idea comes along
before we act?

Philosopher:
Ah, but note that progress that destroys
the planet is not
progress at all
but only a blind mistake;
one I might add,
that did not have
an Idea or Clue

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Phenomenons Studied

Phenomenons studied by scholars,
Are...
Stunning phenomenons never undone.

Phenomenons studied by scholars,
Are...
Stunning phenomenons never undone.

Mysteries lived to exist,
Are...
Phenomenons never undone.
And,
The more they're probed confusion sits.
Because we don't see us a part of this.

Why are we here to be neighbors?
With confusion that we can't resist.
Why can't we accept our differences?
Without trying to end conflicts.
Why the fighting to exist...
In a peacefulness ruled by one fist.

Phenomenons studied by scholars,
Are...
Stunning phenomenons never undone.

Phenomenons studied by scholars,
Are...
Stunning phenomenons never undone.

And why are obelisks ignored?
Why are they there and who are they for?
What is that energy they feed?
And what is it that we can't see?
What is the purpose and the need?

Phenomenons studied by scholars,
Are...
Stunning phenomenons never undone.

Mysteries lived to exist,
Are...
Phenomenons never undone.
And,
The more they're probed confusion sits.
Because we don't see us a part of this.

What blind eye has to open?
To fix what has been broken.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Bipolar

Oh no here we go,
here we go again
You were so afraid
you let me back in
Back in thru a door
you had long forgot
Its resistance is shot,
mine was not
But I waited..
my complicated,overrated girl
You know that I hated,we suffocated
and Overstated everything
Why can't you be bi-sexual instead of bi-polar?
Oh look there she goes
There she goes again
She keeps on checkin out
Checkin out her friends
I swear you'll never know
Know what's on her mind
Wish she'd given in
At least one time, Cuz
I waited..
my complicated,overrated girl
You know that I hated,we suffocated
and Overstated everything
Why can't you be bi-sexual instead of bi-polar?
Get up get up, whatcha doing in bed
I think it's all in your head
Get up get up, no don't sleep sunday morning
And there's a whole world around you gotta let in
Especially the girls, we all like the girls
I waited..
my complicated,overrated girl
You know that I hated,we suffocated
and Overstated everything
Why can't you be bi-sexual?
Why can't you be bi-sexual?
Why can't you be bi-sexual?
instead of bi-polar

song performed by Bowling For Soup
Added by Lucian Velea
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Angels Lie

She sent me to a place where Angels scream me to sleep
Swallowing mouthfuls of pain, I'm in too deep
A place where my soul fails to exist
Pretty little flowers carve away at my wrist

Heaven sent for my demise
It suffocated me with your lies
I hold back the tears until it's blood I cry
I bleed myself to sleep when Angels lie

Lies Lies Lies
I'm choking on your lies

A summers day with acid rain
Head held high I fight the pain
Crimson drips from the corner of my eyes
Behind your innocent smile there's a thousand lies

Heaven sent for my demise
It suffocated me with your lies
I hold back the tears until it's blood I cry
I bleed myself to sleep when Angels lie

Lies Lies Lies
I'm choking on your lies

The clouds pierce right through my vision
Cherubs with razorblades drive me into collision
My ears bleed like hanging Angel cries
Sleep smotheres my face and all I see are lies

Heaven sent for my demise
It suffocated me with your lies
I hold back the tears until it's blood I cry
I bleed myself to sleep when Angels lie

Lies Lies Lies
I'm choking on your lies

poem by TyjaRae Guy
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Oxymoron

Oxymoron:
fresh fish

*********

JBO:

'The beach at Sanibel... an Arlington Cemetery of shells.'
*
Every suffocated or strangled fish is first given
waterboarding sensations.
*
Fishes more frequently than
mammals or birds are cut open
alive, while their eyes watch
the knifing of others and their
gills struggle for absent air.

Fish cannot scream.
Greed for suffocated fish flesh causes seals to be clubbed in Canada, Norway, S Africa etc., dolphins to be knifed in Japan, whales to be murdered by
Norwegian Japanese Icelandic and American Inuit fishermen, bears
to be murdered in Alaska, untold thousands of fishermen to
be lost in tsunamis,700 Bangladesh fishermen lost in just 1 storm, Thai fishermen working for slave wages, tens of millions around
the world to die of stomach cancer, food poisoning etc.**

What's in fish? unreported Mad Fish
Disease, nuclear toxins a million
times more concentrated than in
sea water, AIDS from unprocessed
human waste dumped into
the oceans, hepatitis, anaphylactic shock, ecoli,
and other food poisoning,
throat, stomach and other cancers,
mercury, lead, cadmium, arsenic, pbb's, pcb's, thousands
of carcinogenic industrial waste products, and heavy metal sired
brain damage, pfiesteria (red tide) which poisons the fishes

FISH CAN'T SCREAM, FISH TOXINS, FISH STORIES

Are all anglers stranglers?

Dick Gregory: Eating fish liver oil is like eating the filter out of a car.

[...] Read more

poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Stalk Of Wheat

I went for a walk on a stalk, on a stalk of wheat
And it felt like a trillion feet
I was looking for a friend at the end, at the end of the line
And it took me till the end of time
I was all out of luck like a duck, like a duck that died
I was all out of juice like a moose, like a moose denied
I was all out of money like a bunny that's broke
I was all out of work like a jerk who's a joke
And I was out of ideas, like I is, like I is,
Like I is, like I is, I was out of ideas...of ideas
I once had a dream of a gleam, of a gleam in my eye
And I'll have it till the day I die
I had a thought bubble of trouble, of trouble and strife
And I'll have it for the rest of my life
I was all out of luck like a duck, like a duck that died
I was all out of juice like a moose, like a moose denied
I was all out of money like a bunny that's broke
I was all out of work like a jerk who's a joke
And I was out of ideas like I is, like I is,
Like I is, like I is, I was out of ideas...of ideas...of ideas...of ideas

song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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Mostly Slavonic

I.—
Peter Michaelov

It was Peter the Barbarian put an apron in his bag
And rolled up the honoured bundle that Australians call a swag;
And he tramped from Darkest Russia, that it might be dark no more,
Dreaming of a port, and shipping, as no monarch dreamed before.
Of a home, and education, and of children staunch and true,
Like my father in the fifties—and his name was Peter, too.
(He could build a ship—or fiddle, out of wood, or bark, or hide—.
Sail one round the world and play the other one at eventide.)

Russia’s Peter (not my father) went to Holland in disguise,
Where he laboured as a shipwright underneath those gloomy skies;
Later on he went to England (which the Kaiser now—condemns)
Where he studied as a ship-smith by old Deptford on the Thames—
And no doubt he knew the rope-walk—(and the rope’s end too, he knew)—
Learned to build a ship and sail it—learned the business through and through.
And I’d like to say my father mastered navigation too.
(He was born across in Norway, educated fairly well,
And he grafted in a ship-yard by the Port of Arundel.)

“Peter Michaelov” (not Larsen) his work was by no means done;
For he learned to make a ploughshare, and he learned to make a gun.
Russian soldiers must have clothing, so he laboured at the looms,
And he studied, after hours, building forts and building booms.
He would talk with all and sundry, merchants and adventurers—
Whaling men from Nova Scotia, and with ancient mariners.
Studied military systems (of which Austria’s was the best).
Hospitals and even bedlams—class distinctions and the rest.

There was nothing he neglected that was useful to be known—
And he even studied Wowsers, who had no creed of his own.
And, lest all that he accomplished should as miracles appear,
It must always be remembered he’d a secret Fund for Beer.
When he tramped to toil and exile he was only twenty-five,
With a greater, grander object than had any man alive.
And perhaps the lad was bullied, and was sad for all we know—
Though it isn’t very likely that he’d take a second blow.
He had brains amongst the brainless, and, what that thing means I knew,
For before I found my kingdom, I had slaved in workshops too.

But they never dreamed, the brainless, boors that used to sneer and scoff,
That the dreamy lad beside them—known as “Dutchy Mickyloff”—
Was a genius and a poet, and a Man—no matter which—
Was the Czar of all the Russias!—Peter Michaelovich.

Sweden struck ere he was ready—filled the land with blood and tears—
But he broke the power of Sweden though it took him nine long years.

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Lawson
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Washing Day

I. WASHING DAY
The little gipsy vi'lits, they wus peepin' thro' the green
As she come walkin' in the grass, me little wife, Doreen.
The sun shone on the sassafras, where thrushes sung a bar.
-The 'ope an' worry uv our lives wus yelling fer 'is Mar. -
I watched 'er comin' down the green; the sun wus on 'her 'air -
Jist the woman that I marri'd, when me luck wus 'eading fair.

I seen 'er walkin' in the sun that lit our little farm.
She 'ad three clothes-pegs in 'er mouth, an' washin' on 'er arm -
Three clothes-pegs, fer I counted 'em, an' watched 'er as she come.
'The stove-wood's low,' she mumbles, 'an' young Bill 'as cut 'is thumb,'
Now, it weren't no giddy love-speech, but it seemd to take me straight
Back to the time I kissed 'er first beside 'er mother's gate.

Six years 'uv wedded life we've 'ad, an' still me dreams is sweet. . .
Aw, them bonzer little vi'lits, they wus smilin' round me feet.
An' wots a bit uv stove-wood count, wiv paddicks grinnin' green,
When a bloke gits on to dreamin' uv the old days an' Doreen -
The days I thort I snared a saint; but since I've understood
I 'ave wed a dinkum woman, which is fifty times as good.

I 'ave wed a dinkum woman, an' she's give me eyes to see.
Oh, I ain't been mollycoddled, an' there ain't no fluff on me!
But days when I wus down an' out she seemd so 'igh above;
An' a saint is made fer worship, but a woman's made fer love.
An' a bloke is growin' richer as sich things 'e comes to know. . .
(She pegs another sheet an' sez, 'The stove-wood's gettin' low.')

A bloke 'e learns a lot uv things in six years wiv a tart;
But thrushes in the sassafras ain't singin' like me 'eart.
'Tis the thrushes 'oo 'ave tort me in their choonful sort o' way
That it's best to take things singin' as yeh meet 'em day be day.
Fer I wed a reel, live woman, wiv a woman's 'appy knack
Uv torkin' reason inside out an' logic front to back.

An' I like it. 'Struth I like it! Fer a wax doll in a 'ome,
She'd give a man the flamin' pip an' longin's fer to roam.
Aw, I ain't no silk-sock sookie 'oo ab'ors the rood an' rough;
Fer, city-born an' gutter-bred, me schoolin' it wus tough.
An' I like the dinkum woman 'oo . . . (She jerks the clothes-prop, so,
An' sez, so sweet an' dangerous, 'The stove-wood's gittin' low.')

See, I've studied men in cities, an' I've studied 'em out 'ere;

[...] Read more

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Power of Ideas

The power of ideas are immeasurable
They are the hidden treasures which lies
Deep within each and everyone of us
When we take the time to mind them we will find
That they are more precious than diamonds

Ideas which may seem insignificant
Has tremendous power within them
They are the genesis the initiation the foundation
Of all invention and everything which
Is created by humankind

The power of ideas are immeasurable
They have got the power to move mountains
To overcome any obstacle and to make
The seemingly impossible possible

Ideas are the levers which moves and the axis
On which the world revolves
The power of ideas are immeasurable
The power of ideas...

poem by Anthony Shurland Phillander
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I Don't Want to Be Let Go

Why is the sky so blue?
Why are your eyes,
Twinkling with stars?
I've analyzed this love.
And I am surprised,
It's still a mystery.

Why does my heart feel warm?
Since you've been there,
It even skips a beat.
You have me in your hands.
And I don't want to be,
Let go again!

Why are the nights so clear?
Why do the birds come near,
To sing like they do.
Under the full moon...
Just to be near me and you.

Why is the sky so blue?
Why are your eyes,
Twinkling with stars?
I've analyzed this love.
And I am surprised,
It's still a mystery.

Why does my heart feel warm?
Since you've been there,
It even skips a beat.
You have me in your hands.
And I don't want to be,
Let go again!

You have me in your hands.
And I don't want to be,
Let go again!
No I never want to be...
Let go again.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Essay on Psychiatrists

I. Invocation

It‘s crazy to think one could describe them—
Calling on reason, fantasy, memory, eves and ears—
As though they were all alike any more

Than sweeps, opticians, poets or masseurs.
Moreover, they are for more than one reason
Difficult to speak of seriously and freely,

And I have never (even this is difficult to say
Plainly, without foolishness or irony)
Consulted one for professional help, though it happens

Many or most of my friends have—and that,
Perhaps, is why it seems urgent to try to speak
Sensibly about them, about the psychiatrists.

II. Some Terms

“Shrink” is a misnomer. The religious
Analogy is all wrong, too, and the old,
Half-forgotten jokes about Viennese accents

And beards hardly apply to the good-looking woman
In boots and a knit dress, or the man
Seen buying the Sunday Times in mutton-chop

Whiskers and expensive running shoes.
In a way I suspect that even the terms “doctor”
And “therapist” are misnomers; the patient

Is not necessarily “sick.” And one assumes
That no small part of the psychiatrist’s
Role is just that: to point out misnomers.

III. Proposition

These are the first citizens of contingency.
Far from the doctrinaire past of the old ones,
They think in their prudent meditations

Not about ecstasy (the soul leaving the body)
Nor enthusiasm (the god entering one’s person)
Nor even about sanity (which means

Health, an impossible perfection)
But ponder instead relative truth and the warm

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Pinsky
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Fake hallucination from Berlin

I can hear their voices clearly, low and suffocated
I smell the fear, the whirlwind of their thoughts, unaccomplished
they can pass through, under this controlled sky tonight
whatever they find out there, they will stop this fight

I can hear my voice clearly, low and suffocated
I smell my fear, the whirlwind of my thoughts, unaccomplished
I can pass through, under this unattended mind tonight
whatever I find out there, I will stop this fight

there's a light they can see, a thin line breaking the trunk
there's a choice they can make, a simple faithful act
what will they do then? how will they build a new beginning?
no matter what, no matter how, freedom is not a sightseeing

there's a light I can see, a thin line breaking my time
there's a choice I can make, a simple faithful act to find
what will I do then? how will I build a new beginning?
no matter what, no matter how, freedom is not a sightseeing

Make it happen, let this wall fall down
make their dreams come true, raise these people from the ground
who may forgive this insane world? who may erase all the pain?
only love, only love, only love will cut this chain

Make it happen, let this wall fall down
make my dreams come true, raise me from the ground
who may forgive my insane world? who may erase all the pain?
only love, only love, only love will wash away this mourning rain

poem by Ilaria Boffa
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Pigtail

When all the women in the transport
had their heads shaved
four workmen with brooms made of birch twigs
swept up
and gathered up the hair

Behind clean glass
the stiff hair lies
of those suffocated in gas chambers
there are pins and side combs
in this hair

The hair is not shot through with light
is not parted by the breeze
is not touched by any hand
or rain or lips

In huge chests
clouds of dry hair
of those suffocated
and a faded plait
a pigtail with a ribbon
pulled at school
by naughty boys.

Translated by Adam Czerniawski

poem by Tadeusz Ròzewicz
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These are ideas. I could say that they just came to me, but it would be more accurate to say that I went to them. Ideas - and new connections between ideas - lead you away from commonly held perceptions of reality. Ideas lead you out here. Ideas lead you into the darkness.

quote by Dave Sim
Added by Lucian Velea
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Being A Poet

I find that I can compose a poem best,
When I am out walking, or am at rest.
When I am lying in my bed at night,
I think about what I am able to write.

Or when I’m out walking, or sat on a train,
Words and ideas, all rush round my brain.
Sometimes, ideas just appear in my head,
Or may be a result of something I’ve read.

At fellow passengers, on a train, I take a look;
Some chatter away, while others read a book.
But, me, I’m sat there, quietly composing verse;
With dozens of ideas, my creative mind bursts.

If I compose lines on my way into town,
I repeat them over, until I write them down;
If they are not written down straightaway,
Around my mind, other thoughts then play.

There are many things which inspire me to write,
Such as animals, the seasons, and the sky at night.
If I try to force ideas, they just do not flow;
The poem itself, I find, just will not grow.

I like to write on a layperson’s level;
In too much information, I do not revel.
Having chosen a decent subject or idea,
I then need to get my brain in to gear.

Of a subject, I like to consider all of the aspects,
But I keep my writing simple; not too complex.
To make a poem rhyme, words I may change,
But I only use words that are within my range.

In using unfamiliar words, I can see no point;
A nice poem, tricky words, can really disjoint.
Words, within my head, I keep batting around,
Until the perfect combination, is finally found.

With poetry, I really love the creative process,
But over time, I’ve become slightly obsessed.
Sometimes I find myself talking in rhyme;
That I am a poet, this must be a sure sign.

Of my finished poems, I often feel proud;
One day, I’ll be brave and read them aloud.
Into my swirling head, ideas continue to pop;
I love writing poetry and never want to stop!

poem by Angela Wybrow
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