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.
Bevies of ideas
and useless thoughts
surround my mind
how ravens give wheel
carrions to be
through my head - waste land
by boiling and winds.
Thoughts and ideas
go round
like a pack of wolves
with empty bellies
through my head – winter of frost,
winter of sleet
with my mind
thoroughly frozen
by fright and a biting wind.
Pick
bunches of thoughts and ideas
caressed by the sun of mind
in bacchanal vineyards
planted on encephalic hills.
I squish them
and expect to get wine
and get drunk
in my head – tavern where the smoke
knife just cut it
and air is sourbitter.
Fog of thoughts and ideas
rises from my mind
as darkness on swamps
in late autumn.
Nothing to see
not hear anything
all still is,
just the small brain
flickers in my head – gray curtain
between movement and inertia.
Slacked thoughts and ideas
are resting on benches of mind,
nothing pulling them
with hands and teeth,
I can’t them gather
at work to bring
to get something good
from my head – chaos
where it lacks a poleax
and a stump of elm.
poem by Viorel Petru Trifan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
First sonnet
These words, they just wont come out of my head.
They stay deep down inside, where i can't reach.
I feel as if my mind has now gone dead.
These thoughts, i just cant hold, i want to screech!
You want me to write you a just sonnet,
but i cant think of what to say to you.
All i can think of is the word bonnet,
because its the only rhyme i can do.
if you want a better sonnet than this.
Then so help me, cause i don't have a clue.
do you think of my sonnet as amiss?
or are these thoughts down in my head adieu?
Will these ideas in my mind now leave?
So then i ask when will i be relieved?
poem by Brianna Perreira
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An Idea
An Idea can change the world, how many
things can be done from an idea, every piece
of object was an idea, sense the beginning of
time idea was the first thought created in the
mind, an idea is what surround’s every being.
But an idea is still only an idea and it can't be
felt, you cannot touch an idea or kiss it, or hold it,
ideas do not bleed or feel pain or love, an idea
cannot be seen or heard, its created in our thoughts,
but then again an idea can become real. An idea
can be what ever you which it to be, an idea can
be destructive, an idea can be brilliant, I've seen
people get killed in the name of ideas, ideas,
we walk around with a little
light bulb blinking in our thoughts, ideas.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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1. One
I am trying to find my poetic rhythm.
Pen my flow of thoughts.
Words running through my mind,
Ideas running through my mind.
Incoherent, Scattered and disjointed
I am trying to make words and ideas one
Create a world of words, in this world of chaos
Words running from one end
Ideas running from one end
On a path of collision
Ideas and words unite, one
One, the beginning
One, the universal beginning
One, the number of the gods
One, my first poem
poem by Anand Dixit
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You & I
Oh, you and i
The time we spent together ends too soon
Like sun sets to the moon
So breath my beautiful
I often find that Ive been losing time
Cos what you said last night
That play upon my mind
Like thoughts of
Chorus:
You and i
You and i
It goes round my head like a carousel
And round and round my mind
You and i
You and i
I know what to do when Im not with you
I fill my mind with thoughts of
You and i
You and i
A simple need of love is what you bring
It plays on my hearts strings
Songs of love to be loved
Got me thinking of
Our moments that are gone but will not fade
And we live to be replayed
In my mind overtime
Like thoughts of
(chorus)
Well I know well make mistakes
But thats just the chance we take
I hope youll never say
Cos Ill never say
Goodbye
Say goodbye
To you and I (you and I)
You and I (you are always on my mind)
It goes round my head like a carousel
And round and round my mind
You and I (you are always on my mind)
You and I (youve just got to give me a try)
I know what to do when Im not with you
I fill my mind with thoughts of
You and i
You and i
You and i
song performed by by Five
Submitted 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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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 by Men Without Hats
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mood
What can be termed as mood?
Can that be called conducive for good?
Situation may not take you out of wood
You may not even like or prefer food
It is perfect condition to emit ideas
Nothing will be heard even good pleas
Good melody may also fall to deaf ears
Perfection may take longer or even years
Mind may set in and take complete rest
Emergence of constructive but thoughts best
Some times may prove hard or acid test
Right time to strike, write and paste
Don’t attempt when nothing appeals
Thoughts may cross and ideas repeal
Allow normal function with gate closed
Gradual entry with no more ideas forced
It is like child demanding toy
Nothing will convince even if you employ
Good alternatives with submitting to demands
Even if you threaten with severe remands
Childish play with funny acts
Got to know with basic facts
Simply arranging with current scene
Facts to be reflected as never before seen
Poets are whimsical and funny
Care not for any more penny
It is simple presentation of views
May not head to any more clues
It is not magic or creating words
Simple notes and looking too forwards
It may not have head and tales
Poets are many as sea have whales
Poets may create new concept and waves
Beautiful ideas which may produce heroes and braves
It may not be drive powerful wagon
Certainly a sharp and double edged weapon
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Mind Searching
I was drifting through the chambers
of imagination, deep in my mind,
searching desperately for inspiration,
but it was proving so hard to find.
Visions of nonsense appeared,
as a smoke screen in my head.
It seemed the brain was delaying
creative ideas from being read.
Imbalances of clouded colour
flooded the chambers of my mind.
One by one, thoughts became stifled,
visualization I couldn’t find.
For some strange unknown reason
there was disagreement in my head.
Mind and brain were in turmoil
until the problem was sorted.
Attempts by the brain to cloud my mind
this time thankfully failed.
Inspiration is now clearly flowing,
but next time, which will prevail.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Nadya Imagines
If she could have got
inside her head, Nadya
thinks, she is sure, her
mind can expand like an
inner universe. The thoughts
moving around like lost
planets, clusters of stars,
images, words, faces, actions
remembered. If she could
just put her hand into a
hidden orifice and reach
into her brain and sort
amongst the galaxies of
ideas she could be brighter,
braver, wiser, and there
clinging to certain ideas
associations like Proust's
madeleines would be old
loves, broken heart moments,
melodies from favourite songs.
Josef has told her to leave
off the booze, to put away
the bottles, drink water, tea
or whatever. But he does
not satisfy. His love making
is a joke, all push and poke.
Sometimes she thinks her
thoughts come out of her
head and dance. Time for
another drink. She thinks
of Paris. Summers past,
spring walks. Josef's endless
chatter breaks in; those all
too intellectual boring talks.
She imagines him as another,
pretends some young Russian
overeager tends to her, embraces
her body, kisses each inch of her
flesh, pleasure giving. No more of
this boring life, more of that wild,
touching the new, exploring sex, living.
poem by Terry Collett
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Me And My Big Ideas
Me and my big ideas
Won't wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That I'm not that kind
Go get a volunteer
We'll pay him well my dear
He will see inside your mind
Because he is that kind
It's a southern kind of heat
The shadows crack and start to creep
Conversation drag its feet
I wish we'd both been more discret
Like light that it caught between night and day
You're stuck between me and my
Me and my big ideas
Won't wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That I'm not that kind
Well they love you when you're weak
Bet they hate you to see this winning streak
It's that thing we call control
There's a deep frustration
Black thoughts
That are stuck between someone's ears
Like me and my big idea
So many strings to your bow
Why not let one go
In a way this dream is over
Blown away our four leaf clover
There's no reason why
There's just me and my
Me and my big ideas
Won't wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That I'm not that kind
song performed by by Tears For Fears from Raoul & The Kings Of Spain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Run On Automatic
Mostly lots of action in my head, ideas fighting for
priority, a book to read, plans for borderline crime
or at least relatively interesting things – as empty
as a sieve today - all thoughts fall into a myriad
miniature black holes in my mind, nothing sticks
Nothing has meaning, annoying and boring, must
be the result of something I have eaten, the curry
last night, allergy rampant destroying everything
except the outline of my thoughts which run on
automatic, everything else lost, munching like
A worm, trying to minimize this effect though it
seems all attempts are worsening it, need sleep
to change personalities, escape the zombie state
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Smokeless
It's so uninspiring.
I'm sitting here and no lights are firing.
My head is mired with faulty wiring.
I need a spark to break the dark.
A cigarette that cures the heart.
Of mind and body it makes me smart.
At least it seems to fill the part.
I sit here now with no smokes left.
My head is empty and bereft.
Of great ideas.
There's been a theft.
So help me now to get them back.
Loan me six bucks to get a pack.
Then I'll find the things I lack.
With smoke filled lungs it brings it all back.
The brilliant ideas on which I snack.
poem by Michael McParland
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Poet's Heart
A poem is like a wild rose
Your ideas bloom into something as it grows
Some your ideas flow clear and beautiful like a song
And sometimes those thoughts turn into sadness about things that go wrong
But the most important things to remember is where those ideas start.
And that is from a Poet's Heart
poem by Frank Pulver
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Me & My Big Ideas
Me and my big ideas
Wont wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That Im not that kind
Go get a volunteer
Well pay him well my dear
He will see inside your mind
Because he is that kind
Its a southern kind of heat
The shadows crack and start to creep
Conversation drag its feet
I wish wed both been more discret
Like light that it caught between night and day
Youre stuck between me and my
Me and my big ideas
Wont wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That Im not that kind
Well they love you when youre weak
Bet they hate you to see this winning streak
Its that thing we call control
Theres a deep frustration
Black thoughts
That are stuck between someones ears
Like me and my big idea
So many strings to your bow
Why not let one go
In a way this dream is over
Blown away our four leaf clover
Theres no reason why
Theres just me and my
Me and my big ideas
Wont wash away your tears
No one else seems to mind
That Im not that kind
song performed by by Tears For Fears
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Thoughts of desire
Thoughts of desire
~
A burning passion rises
consumes the mind at will
thoughts become provocative
seducing the subconscious
ideas come into place
stirring, hard to shake
passions flame burns hot
with the secrets we keep
the desires we mask
continue to rise inside
a thought grows into a dream
how sweet the night
passes into morning
dare we ever live them
or should they remain
kept inside the mind
as thoughts of desire
poem by Matthew Holloway
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How poems emerge
When passion gets settled down
Gives birth of poem and of its own
It is expression from the heart
You can term it real feeing and art
What are we discussing today?
About poor test and forceful way
What poets are writing today and chase?
Few short lines for readers to guess
First of all it has nothing to do with poems
Nothing comes in head as pure and nice themes
And even if it comes then it is very vague
All threads are to be tied and traced
It will be unnatural to think of breeze in afternoon
No ideas may creep in mind and supplement soon
When I start thinking of hot after noon
Then there may appear cool evening with bright moon
I shall observe each cool nights with changing horizon
Movement of stars and diminishing their shine for moon
I may think of giving more weightage to shining object
Thus reducing the importance of stars of their brave act
Well, poems are all about this struggle
They simply not come without trouble
They will openly clash with set themes
All earlier ideas may be lost or put into flames
I may not give up that easily for simple reason
It is natural law and so change the seasons
Why should I not change the theme from time to time?
It may click and help for the race sometimes
I have made several pages of rough preparation
They have fairly come to the help in relation
I thought poetry is not all about writing on pages
It is out come of natural thoughts coming with age
Thoughts must travel with speed of light
It must bring back all ideas in sight
Then it must flow in orderly manner at one go
In same manner as calm waters of river naturally flow
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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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Generally students are the best vehicles for passing on ideas, for their thoughts are plastic and can be molded and they can adjust the ideas of old men to the shape of reality as they find it in villages and hills of China or in ghettos and suburbs of America.
quote by Theodore H. White
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Countless Waiting Gems
My fingers move across the empty page.
Its shining smoothness pure and newly felt.
But not one word on it has yet been spelt,
All inspiration hides within a cage.
And sadly there’s no key, to set it free.
Ideas come and then ideas go,
No single letter, up to now’s been writ.
Perhaps one’s trying too hard, just a bit.
I’ll ease up for a while, and take it slow.
Let my tired mind believe that I’ll achieve.
Ink within my pen has suddenly dried,
So has my font of countless waiting gems.
Nothing is left now in my old brainstems.
I think my mind is on a downward slide.
Could this then be my age, my final stage.
No it is just a bleep, all will be well,
My mind will open up and will receive,
New thoughts that form and I will then retrieve,
All the information, clear as a bell.
For as knowledge can grow, my pen will flow.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Written Word Rules!
At the idea of poetry, some people seem to scoff,
As they consider it is an art form only for toffs.
They may think that the concept of poetry is boring,
And that it will leave them fast asleep and snoring.
There are all types of poems: modern and classical.
There’s something for everyone: it’s not boring at all.
The lyrics of songs are poems as such;
They often rhyme together very much.
People like to sing along with their favourite songs,
So why does the concept of poetry feel so wrong?
I’ve only started writing poetry in the last few weeks,
And, I have to admit that I thought it was just for geeks.
But, now I can see, that whoever you are,
Everyone has the potential to go really far.
I have to admit, I much prefer
The written, to the spoken word.
At night, I lay awake tossing and turning in bed,
With random thoughts running through my head.
By my pillow, I keep a pen and note pad,
To jot down any thoughts, which I’ve had.
At the top of the page, my thoughts I jot,
And I always plan out a really rough plot.
I like to include words which have a nice ring.
Words, like these, into my poetry, I like to bring.
I continually go through the alphabet time after time,
Searching for useful words which, pretty much, rhyme.
In simple terms, my ideas, I always like to express;
Complicated and fancy words, my mind doesn’t posses.
I’m sat here, writing this poem, on a speeding train,
As thought after thought, floods into my brain.
I’m writing notes on a mini pocket timetable,
In any tiny blank space which is available.
In my handbag, I’ve got no pad, but I’ve got a pen;
My scribbled notes, I just hope I can comprehend.
I really must start carrying a notepad everywhere;
To forget all these thoughts I’ve had, I couldn’t bear.
When I’m thinking of ideas, I just can’t relax;
My mind seems to buzz to the absolute max.
I’m not far now from my final destination,
And the train is due to pull into the station.
On this subject, there’s not much more to be said,
So, I’m now putting this poem well and truly to bed.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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