All the asylum clothing is made by the patients, but sewing does not employ one's mind. After several months' confinement the thoughts of the busy world grow faint, and all the poor prisoners can do is to sit and ponder over their hopeless fate.
quote by Nellie Bly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Dr. Valentine To His Son
Your hopeless patients will live,
Your healthy patients will die.
I have only this word to give:
Wonder, and find out why
poem by Ogden Nash
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Funny Farm Frenzy
Welcome to the funny farm,
Let’s embrace in the steel embedded walls without harm,
Welcome to delusion, the land of charm,
Inside the walls is the realm of the most brilliant of men,
The schizophrenics, and the bi polars, everything torments them,
But inside the insane asylum, they escape from condemn,
The funny farm where you’re surrounded with laughter,
Through the air, the giggles are hidden beneath the rafters,
Constant delusion, from morning, afternoon and thereafter,
Manuscripts and portraits, the artistic minds inside the brilliant drafters,
The mentally ill the most creative of mind,
Inside the asylum, escaped from reality, their thoughts refined,
Inside the asylum, their life is left behind,
On the white walls where portraits and creative writing shine,
Without sunlight, they’re the creators of their own realm of divine,
Inside the white walls, in their delusion, their confined,
The funny farm where humor is their lifeline,
Welcome to delusion, the neverending dream,
Inside the asylum things are not what they seem,
To reality it’s a prison, to the patients it’s their regime,
But what happens when the walls blacken in the night?
The laughter fades and their humor turns to spite,
They crumble in the fear of darkness without the touch of sunlight,
And they realize something about them isn’t “right”,
Isolated from the world their trapped in the dark,
Only within the walls, is their adventure to embark,
Inside their asylum, a community of reality segregated apart,
Their lifeline, through vivid imagination they depart,
They cannot see the walls around them, it’s their everyday home,
Inside the closed doors, their only space to roam,
An everyday dream to separate from reality, the unknown,
But when the lights turn on, and the walls turn white, the asylum fills with glee,
The reality inside the funny farm, the walls they can’t see,
They open their mind to creativity and imagination where their free,
The most creative of the mind, the indulgence of the what reality can’t see,
Up and down inside the walls, the rollercoaster of the emotional cycle spree,
The novel written and painted inside the asylum, the neverending dream,
Beyond the walls where reality isn’t seen.
poem by Kurt Kacich
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The Poor Mind
The poor mind becomes a temple
Based on the noble and virtuous
Thoughts it possesses.
The poor mind becomes a trash can
Based on the ignoble and noxious
Thoughts it contains.
The lowly always dwell
On sinister thoughts vicious
And on loathsome thoughts injurious.
If these deleterious thoughts
Of malevolence and trash are erased
The poor mind becomes highly raised
And it becomes a temple.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Sonnet: The Patient Poor!
The smiles of gratitude on being healed,
That lights the face of patients very poor,
Gives satisfaction more than covers sealed
From patients wearing shoes high-heeled and fur!
The etiquette of villagers unread,
Surpasses that of urban men ‘degreed’,
Well-dressed in foreign cars, overly fed,
With haughty laughter, showing off their greed!
Oh, what a lovely heart, the poor man has!
His humble voice and stance can lure the Doc;
Diseases strike more poor bodies; Alas,
For them, the health-providers scarcely talk!
The coins of love that patients poor empty
Are worth more weight in gold than dollars free!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 6-1-2006
poem by John Celes
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Busy Thoughts
I busy my mind with thoughts—thoughts of things
I have yet seen—thoughts of places that I
Have never been. Stationary living
Makes me question how it might feel to die—
But I already know—so I want something
Dissimilar to it—something bright, bold—
Reinvigorating for my being—
Something to encapsulate— to hold.
Sometimes I might wonder if anything
Can help me experience my desires—
To affirm for me that they truly bring
An existence more vital than the wires
Can program and provide. My busy thoughts
Often wander when I think I cannot.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt in Pan American Day address (15 April 1939)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Nighttime Forever
Noisy world
quiet minds
spinning forever
through all time
Thoughtless wonders
peaceful hate
for all man
death is fate
Fear and power
Greed and lust
one touch of water and
iron turns to rust
quiet sadness
of one's own mind
spinning forever
through all time
one's solitude
one's own mind
made an original
one of a kind
Too bad to say
my mind is gone
forever hopeless
used to be strong
I'll never know
of my own fate
because my heart
spoke too late.
The time is slow
the hours fade to days
the more time that passes
the more I fade away
I leave you with this
with this, be wise
follow pleasure
to your own demise
poem by Shelbie Bozeman
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The whole country is one vast insane asylum and they're letting the worst patients run the place.
quote by Robert Welch
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Did Anyone Approach You
You never look up
You never look back
You never say anything based on fact
Youve got issues going way back
You never say hi
You never say much
You never make an effort to stay in touch
Ive got this feeling something happened here
Something happened here
Did anybody feel you?
Did anybody deal you?
Did anybody make you do some things now?
Did anyone approach you?
Did anybody coach you?
Did anybody tell you what to say now?
Hopeless - its not hopeless
Doubtful - but not hopeless at all
You never looked up
You never look back
You never did anything in between
Are things black and white with you
You never believed
You never belonged
Never made milestones to call your own
Ive got this feeling something happened here
Something happened here
Did anybody hide you?
Did anybody fight you?
Did anyone decide to do some harm now?
Did anybody read you?
Did anybody bleed you?
Did anybody feed you lots of junk now?
Hopeless - its not hopeless
Doubtful - but not hopeless
Hopeless - its not hopeless
Doubtful - but not hopeless at all
Hopeless - its not hopeless
Doubtful - but not hopeless at all
Something happened here
Something happened here
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crying For Bread
"Please, lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
The suit fits you splendidly--that you'll allow.
Oh! don't say tomorrow! I see you are going;
But this will not hinder long--please pay me now.
Ma work'd all night for you! ev'ry minute;
Now she lies groaning with pain in her head;
And there by the pantry (with not a thing in it),
Sits poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
I'll run and get change for you. Don't call me bold--
But how could you dance tonight all the time knowing
That we were left suffering, hungry and cold?
Ma looks so wild! she keeps calling for Daisy;
That was the name of my sister that's dead.
Oh! what shall I do, with my Ma going crazy,
And poor little Theodore cryiing for bread?
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
She must have some medicine--that let me buy.
Now, don't speak of beggars! 'tis money you're owing:
Do please, pay me part of it--else we must die."
On the wheels roll'd, and Fidele returned weeping;
Ah! in her absence a spirit had fled,
And morning light found her a weary watch keeping,
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Busy
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the old woman needs help
to find her way home.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the dove is too slow
to fly out of the way.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy
but the children crossing the street
are too many.
I am busy
you are busy
we are busy....
I am busy
you are busy
we are...
busy.
poem by Marites C. Cayetano
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Attica State
What a waste of human power
What a waste of human lives
Shoot the prisoners in the towers
Forty-three poor widowed wives
Attica state, attica state,
Were all mates with attica state
Media blames it on the prisoners
But the prisoners did not kill
Rockefeller pulled the trigger
That is what the people feel
Attica state, attica state,
Were all mates with attica state
Free the prisoners, jail the judges
Free all prisoners everywhere
All they want is truth and justice
All they need is love and care
Attica state, attica state,
Were all mates with attica state
They all live in suffocation
Lets not watch them die in sorrow
Nows the time for revolution
Give them all a chance to grow
Attica state, attica state,
Were all mates with attica state
Come together join the movement
Take a stand for human rights
Fear and hatred clouds our judgement
Free us all from endless night
Attica state, attica state,
Were all mates with attica state
Attica state, attica state,
We all live in attica state
Attica state, attica state,
Attica, attica, attica state
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dream to reality
In my comfort zone, I lay imagining the stars above
I lay in my slumber wondering the wonders of injured life.
Overblown by this site, Full of negativity how my mind wishes to drift
Onto the light of blossomed happiness within success.
How my thoughts flow like the sweet tides of the deep blue waves wishing to glide into reality.
My conscious runs through what could have been a beautiful ending
Now my mind is scanning those mistakes of madness.
How I wish I could re-make what was ready made naturally.
Now I am awakened and remembering back to that wonderful brake.
A dream that made me realize that I make the fate, fate will not make me.
I will now let fate come to me I will walk to fate.
poem by Noorie Ali
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Be The Garden Not The Gardener
the thoughts growing in your mind
are thorns
you are the one growing them in your mind
let no thought grow there
let yourself be not the grower of these thoughts they are the thorns
let your mind be just the garden
let Him spread the seeds and let these seeds grow like
some clouds seeded in the skies
let Him grow the thoughts in you
you see them
they are the red roses
because you are the garden
you are not the gardener
you have never been and you are never the good one
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Who Do These People Think They Are
Who do these people think they are they take far more than they give?
They rule the World through their Bureaucracies and they tell us how to live
The tycoons of the twenty first century their financial nest egg grow and grow
In a World where millions live in poverty of poverty they do not wish to know.
They believe in free markets and their pet subject free trade
And in their dealings with Third World Countries millions in money they have made
But they do not believe in the free movement of people or in homes for refugees
When confronted with these subjects they do seem ill at ease.
They control big Government and tell them what to do
And that money speaks all languages so happens to be true
And whilst they grow rich and richer and more financially secure
The have nots of the World so sad to say grow poor.
Who do these people think they are for to satisfy their greed
They take and take and too few of them think of those who are in need
And most of the World's assets with the very wealthy few
And the poor keep getting poorer only happens to be true.
poem by Francis Duggan
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If you would grow poor without perceiving it, employ workmen and go to sleep.
My Clinic
My clinic is a ‘church’ in which I pray;
Not many patients flock in anyway;
Some rosaries I manage to well say;
This keeps both devils and my foes away.
The ones that come are poorer than they seem;
‘The rich in cars come only in my dream.’
Most patients brush their teeth with only neem;
My words of solace make their faces gleam.
So, can I fleece my brethren poor and ill?
Can I then hand them inflated a bill?
Can I charge them for just a sample pill?
They live despite the doctor’s care by ‘will! ’
I long to see more patients but be wise;
I dare not try to anyway entice;
My profession is sacrosanct and nice;
I cannot let it turn into a vice!
The only thing I hate is waste my time;
The other thing I hate’s a rainy clime;
But everyday, I write aplenty rime;
I never mind if I earn just a dime!
I scooter daily not more than a mile;
I feel so happy seeing patients smile;
Becoming rich is not my beloved style;
My heart abounds with joy when poor souls file.
When will my practice pick up? - I don’t know;
To God, my art of healing, I just owe;
Rewards in heaven wait for righteous, oh!
To ways God makes me walk, I say not, ‘No! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-10-2006
poem by John Celes
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He who knows not how to employ his leisure hath more cares on his mind than the most busy of busily-engaged men.
Like A Surgeon
I finally made it through med school
Somehow I made it through
Im just an intern
I still make a mistake or two
I was last in my class
Barely passsed at the institute
Now Im trying to avoid, yah Im trying to avoid
A malpractise suit
Hey, like a surgeon
Cuttin for the very first time
Like a surgeon
Organ transplants are my line
Better give me all your gause nurse
This patients fading fast
Complications have set in
Dont know how long hell last
Let me see, that i.v.
Here we go - time to operate
Ill pull his indsides out, pull his insides out
And see what he ate
Like a surgeon, hey
Cuttin for the very first time
Like a surgeon
Heres a waiver for you to sign
Woe, woe, woe
Its a fact - Im a quack
The disgrace of the a.m.a.
cause my patients die, yah my patients die
Before they can pay
Like a surgeon, hey
Cuttin for the very first time
Like a surgeon
Got your kidneys on my mind
Like a surgeon, ooh like a surgeon
When I reach inside
With my scalpel, and my forceps, and retractors
Oh oh, oh oh, woe, oh
Ooh baby, yah
I can hear your heartbeat
For the very last time
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Plaid
Some will say its too late,
So dont change the story.
Theres too much at stake to grow.
Yesterday was so great,
Just bask in the glory.
Dont let your feelings show.
And I say,
Oh yeah like a man with condition
I wait for my heart to stop.
Stay down,
Got a plan hold that position.
You cant afford a flop.
Pack my suitcase
With my game face,
Take the same place,
And put away the dreams I had.
Let my hair grow,
Find some old clothes,
Let the world know
That my glory days were plaid.
Im not asking for permission,
Are you ready for me to be me.
Just pass the ammunition,
This prisoners about to bust free from chains.
For so long you told me to keep it familiar,
Just play what they all would find,
I can wear this blindfold, stick to your story,
But I gotta ask myself why.
And I play, ..., goes on
For so many seasons,
Til Im sure Im losing my mind.
And I say, oh no,
Gotta have a much better reason
To leave all my dreams behind.
Strangers,
Rearrange us,
Stay the same fate,
And become your favorite fad.
With the see-through,
I gotta be true,
I cant be you.
While yes still comes in plaid.
Im not asking for permission
Are you ready for me to be me.
Lord, pass some ammunition,
This prisoners about to bust free from your chains.
Im more than just excited,
Like a hundred pounds of monkey on my back.
Now everybodys divided,
Were riding this train til we run clear out of track.
Clean of track.
Repeat chorus
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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