this was created in class by combining the first words in each line from two seperate poems, then adding a little about an artical in the paper

age and anger wanted them

it was not alright
the Synagogue was razed!
the family lion charged
anger, kid, anger
it could have been saved?
the bone was missing
preservationist say some adversary had removed it
history destroyed!
were they stimulated
the star of david seen from different windows
what was the stimulus?
more robot lives

this is something that i really liked. hope you do to.

In the famous parable of the cave, representing mankind in a dark cave, Socrates shows that the dwellers of the den can see only the shadows of puppets, which are themselves only imitations of really living things. That is, they see only the appearances of material things, not their true nature. The shadows which they are accustomed to observe, appear more real than the puppets that caused them. This situation is similar to modern science which also pleases itself in its interpretation that material things are pure creations of our mind, caused by the observer. Only "shadows" of reality to which we are accustomed are observed. Modern science sees only the appearance of real things, not their true nature.
Allegory of the Cave By Socrates Written by Plato
Republic: Book VII

"And now," I said, "let me show in a figure how far our nature is enlightened or unenlightened. Behold! human beings living in an underground den, which has a mouth open toward the light and reaching all along the den; here they have been from their childhood, and have their legs and necks chained so that they cannot move, and can only see before them, being prevented by the chains from turning round their heads. Above and behind them a fire is blazing at a distance, and between the fire and the prisoners there is a raised way; and you will see, if you look, a low wall built along the way, like the screen which marionette players have in front of them, over which they show the puppets."
"I see."
"And do you see," I said, "men passing along the wall carrying all sorts of vessels, and statues and figures of animals made of wood and stone and various materials, which appear over the wall? Some of them are talking others silent."
"You have shown me a strange image, and they are strange prisoners."
"Like ourselves," I replied; "and they see only their own shadows, or the shadows of one another, which the fire throws on the opposite wall of the cave?"
"True," he said; "how could they see anything but the shadows if they were never allowed to move their heads?"
"And of the objects which are being carried in like manner they would only see the shadows?"
"Yes," he said.
"And if they were able to converse with one another, would they not suppose that they were naming what was actually before them?"
"Very true."
"And suppose further that the prison had an echo which came from the other side, would they not be sure to fancy when one of the passers-by spoke that the voice which they heard came from the passing shadows?"
"No question," he replied.
"To them," I said, "the truth would be literally nothing but the shadows of the images."
"That is certain."
"And now look again, and see what will naturally follow if the prisoners are released and disabused of their error. At first, when any of them is liberated and compelled suddenly to stand up and turn his neck round and walk and look towards the light, he will suffer sharp pains; the glare will distress him, and he will be unable to see the realities of which in his former state he had seen the shadows; and then conceive someone saying to him that what he saw before was an illusion, but that now, when he is approaching nearer to being and his eye is turned towards more real existence, he has a clearer vision - what will be his reply? And you may further imagine that his instructor is pointing to the objects as they pass and requiring him to name them, - will he not be perplexed? Will he not fancy that the shadows which he formerly saw are truer than the objects which are now shown to him?"
"Far truer."
"And if he is compelled to look straight at the light, will he not have a pain in his eyes which will make him turn away to take refuge in the objects of vision which he can see, and which he will conceive to be in reality clearer that the things which are now being shown to him?"
"True," he said.
"And suppose once more, that he is reluctantly dragged up a steep and rugged ascent, and held fast until he is forced into the presence of the sun himself, is he not likely to be pained and irritated? When he approaches the light his eyes will be dazzled, and he will not be able to see anything at all of what are now called realities."
"Not all in a moment," he said.
"He will require to grow accustomed to the sight of the upper world. And first he will see the shadows best, next the reflections of men and others objects in the water, and then the objects themselves; then he will gaze upon the light of the moon and the stars and the spangled heaven; and he will see the sky and the stars by night better than the sun or the light of the sun by day?"
"Certainly."
"Last of all he will be able to see the sun, and not mere reflections of him in the water, but he will see him in his own proper place, and not in another; and he will contemplate him as he is."
"Certainly."
"He will then proceed to argue that this is he who gives the season and the years, and is the guardian of all that is in the visible world, and is a certain way the cause of all things which he and his fellows have been accustomed to behold?"
"Clearly," he said, "he would first see the sun and then reason about him."
"And when he remembered his old habitation, and the wisdom of the den and his fellow prisoners, do you not suppose that he would felicitate himself on the change, and pity them?"
"Certainly, he would."
"And if they were in the habit of conferring honors among themselves on those who were quickest to observe the passing shadows and to remark which of them went before, and which followed after, and which were together; and who were therefore best able to draw conclusions as to the future, do you think that he would care for such honors and glories, or envy the possessors of them? Would he not say with Homer, 'Better to be the poor servant of a poor master,' and to endure anything, rather than think as they do and live after their manner?"
"Yes," he said, "I think that he would rather suffer anything than entertain these false notions and live in this miserable manner."
"Imagine once more," I said, "such a one coming suddenly out of the sun to be replaced in his old situation; would he not be certain to have his eyes full of darkness?"
"To be sure," he said.
"And if there were a contest, and he had to compete in measuring the shadows with the prisoners who had never moved out of the den, while his sight was still weak, and before his eyes had become steady (and the time which would be needed to acquire this new habit of sight might be very considerable), would he not be ridiculous? Men would say of him that up he went and down he came without his eyes; and that it was better not even to think of ascending; and if any one tried to loose another and lead him up to the light, let them only catch the offender, and they would put him to death."
"No question," he said.
"This entire allegory," I said, "you may now append, dear Glaucon, to the previous argument; the prison house is the world of sight, the light of the fire is the sun, and you will not misapprehend me if you interpret the journey upwards to be the ascent of the soul into the intellectual world according to my poor belief, which, at your desire, I have expressed - whether rightly of wrongly, God knows. But, whether true or false, my opinion is that in the world of knowledge the idea of good appears last of all, and is seen only with an effort; and, when seen, is also inferred to be universal author of all things beautiful and right, parent of light and of the lord of light in this visible world, and the immediate source of reason and truth in the intellectual; and that this is the power upon which he who would act rationally either in public or private life must have his eye fixed."
"I agree," he said, "as far as I am able to understand you."
"Moreover," I said, "you must not wonder that those who attain to this beatific vision are unwilling to descend to human affairs; for their souls are never hastening into the upper world where they desire to dwell; which desire of theirs is very natural, if our allegory may be trusted."
"Yes, very natural."
"And is there anything surprising in one who passes from divine contemplations to the evil state of man, misbehaving himself in a ridiculous manner; if, while his eyes are blinking and before he has become accustomed to the surrounding darkness, he is compelled to fight in courts of law, or in other places, about the images or the shadows of images of justice, and is endeavoring to meet the conceptions of those who have never yet seen absolute justice?"
"Anything but surprising," he replied.

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)
That nose is out of drawing. With a gasp,She pants upon the passionate lips that acheWith the red drain of her own mouth, and makeA monochord of colour. Like an asp,One lithe lock wriggles in his rutilant grasp. Her bosom is an oven of myrrh, to bake Love's white warm shewbread to a browner cake.The lock his fingers clench has burst its hasp.The legs are absolutely abominable. Ah! what keen overgust of wild-eyed woes Flags in that bosom, flushes in that nose?Nay! Death sets riddles for desire to spell, Responsive. What red hem earth's passion sews,But may be ravenously unripped in hell?

[Child of the grass]
Ezra Pound (1885-1972)
Child of the grass
The years pass Above us
Shadows of air All these shall Love us
Winds for our fellows
The browns and the yellowsOf autumn our colors
Now at our life's morn. Be we well sworn
Ne'er to grow older
Our spirits be bolder At meeting
Than e'er before All the old lore
Of the forests & woodways
Shall aid us: Keep we the bond & seal
Ne'er shall we feel
Aught of sorrow

Let light flow about thee
Asa cloak of air

Frost at Midnight

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Frost performs its secret ministry,Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cryCame loud---and hark, again! loud as before.The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,Have left me to that solitude, which suitsAbstruser musings: save that at my sideMy cradled infant slumbers peacefully.`Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbsAnd vexes meditation with its strangeAnd extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,With all the numberless goings-on of life,Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flameLies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.Methinks, its motion in this hush of natureGives it dim sympathies with me who live,Making it a companionable form,Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling SpiritBy its own moods interprets, every whereEcho or mirror seeking of itself,And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,How oft, at school, with most believing mind,Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oftWith unclosed lids, already had I dreamtOf my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang>From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted meWith a wild pleasure, falling on mine earMost like articulate sounds of things to come!So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams!And so I brooded all the following morn,Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eyeFixed with mock study on my swimming book:Save if the door half opened, and I snatchedA hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,Fill up the interspersed vacanciesAnd momentary pauses of the thought!My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heartWith tender gladness, thus to look at thee,And think that thou shall learn far other lore,And in far other scenes! For I was rearedIn the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breezeBy lakes and sandy shores, beneath the cragsOf ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,Which image in their bulk both lakes and shoresAnd mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hearThe lovely shapes and sounds intelligibleOf that eternal language, which thy GodUtters, who from eternity doth teachHimself in all, and all things in himself.Great universal Teacher! he shall mouldThy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,Whether the summer clothe the general earthWith greenness, or the redbreast sit and singBetwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branchOf mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatchSmokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fallHeard only in the trances of the blast,Or if the secret ministry of frostShall hang them up in silent icicles,Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Jabberwocky

Lewis Carroll[Rev. Charles Dodgson]

'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesdid gyre and gimble in the wabe.All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!Beware the Jubjub bird, and shunthe frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:Long time the maxome foe he sought-So rested he by the Tumtum tree,And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and throughThe vorpal blade went snicker-snack.He left it dead, and with its headHe went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?Come to my arms, my beamish boy!O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy tovesDid gyre and gimble in the wabe:All mimsy were the borogoves,And the mome raths outgrabe.

Ode to Joy

Anonymous

Wild and fearful in his cavernHid the naked troglodyte,And the homeless nomad wanderedLaying waste the fertile plain.Menacing with spear and arrowIn the woods the hunter strayed ...Woe to all poor wreteches stranded On those cruel and hostile shores!
From the peak of high OlympusCame the mother Ceres down,Seeeking in those savage regionsHer lost daughter Prosperine.But the Goddess found no refuge,Found no kindly welcome there,And no temple bearing witnessTo the worship of the gods.
From the fields and from the vineyardsCame no fruit to deck the feasts,Only flesh of blood-stained victimsSmouldered on the alter-fires,And where'er the grieving goddessTurns her melancholy gaze,Sunk in vilest degradationMan his loathsomeness displays.
Would he purge his soul from vilenessAnd attain to light and worth,He must turn and cling foreverTo his ancient Mother Earth.
Joy everlasting fosterethThe soul of all creation,It is her secret ferment firesThe cup of life with flame.'Tis at her beck the grass hath turnedEach blade toward the lightand solar systems have evolved From chaos and dark night,Filling the realms of boundless spaceBeyond the sage's sight.
At bounteous nature's kindly breast,All things that breath drink Joy,And bird and beasts and creaping thingsAll follow where she leads.Her gifts to man are friends in need,The wreath, the foaming must,To angels -- visions of God's throne,To insects -- sensual lust.

Schizophreniac2
by VersatileCopyright 2003 All rights reserved

They say the father rose instead and falling over, struck his head upon the table by the bed. His broken forehead bled and bled.
A heart attack is what they said. The lie to each they quietly fed. They knew the truth and where it led. The motive they had not misread.
The Schizophreniac had pled, throughout the years, for just a shred of kindness from the figurehead.
His precious mother now was dead. Because he could not stand the dread of begging for a piece of bread, and facing all the hate unsaidwithout his mother's kindly stead, he went where he had never tread, had rarely thought, and always fled. His loneliness and hurt he fed.
And creeping to the dark bedstead, he instigated the bloodshed, releasing all the hate inbred. And as the bleeding spread and spread, his joy was like a watershed.
And so the story is widespread, and always constantly resaid. The father he had rose instead and falling over, struck his head.