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There is no doubt that environmentally related diseases will continue to pose problems in the future.

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Kevin's Telescope

His hands hide inside a sleeve
and little feet play with the ground beneath him
while up in the sky is where he wants to be

Time will fly
and the wind plays with him
the night will give him its charm

While he walks home
his head's up in a cloud
he feels his pores fill up with fresh air
and there is no doubt
that one day he will be
where the eye of his telescope has already been

Night will pass
but he's a lot faster
no one can do him any harm


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Five Critcisms

I.

(_On many recent novels by the conventional unconventionalists_.)

Old Pantaloon, lean-witted, dour and rich,
After grim years of soul-destroying greed,
Weds Columbine, that April-blooded witch
'Too young' to know that gold was not her need.

Then enters Pierrot, young, rebellious, warm,
With well-lined purse, to teach the fine-souled wife
That the old fool's gold should aid a world-reform
(Confused with sex). This wrecks the old fool's life.

O, there's no doubt that Pierrot was clever,
Quick to break hearts and quench the dying flame;
But why, for his own pride, does Pierrot never
Choose his own mate, work for his own high aim,

Stand on his feet, and pay for his own tune?
Why scold, cheat, rob and kill poor Pantaloon?


II.

(_On a certain goddess, acclaimed as 'new' but known in Babylon._)

I saw the assembled artists of our day
Waiting for light, for music and for song.
A woman stood before them, fresh as May
And beautiful; but, in that modish throng,

None heeded her. They said, 'In our first youth
Surely, long since, your hair was touched with grey.'
'I do not change,' she answered. 'I am Truth.'
'Old and banal,' they sneered, and turned away.

Then came a formless thing, with breasts dyed scarlet.
The roses in her hair were green and blue.
'I am new,' she said. 'I change, and
Death knows why.'

Then with the eyes and gesture of a harlot
She led them all forth, whinneying, 'New, how new!
Tell us your name!' She answered, 'The
New Lie.'


III.

(_On Certain of the Bolsheviki 'Idealists.'_)

With half the force and thought you waste in rage
Over your neighbor's house, or heart of stone,
You might have built your own new heritage,
O fools, have you no hands, then, of your own?

Where is your pride? Is this your answer still,
This the red flag that burns above our strife,
This the new cry that rings from Pisgah hill,
'_Our neighbor's money, or our neighbor's life_'?

Be prouder. Let us build that nobler state
With our own hands, with our own muscle and brain!
Your very victories die in hymns of hate;
And your own envies are your heaviest chain.

Is there no rebel proud enough to say
'We'll stand on our own feet, and win the day'?


IV.

(_On Certain Realists._)

You with the quick sardonic eye
For all the mockeries of life,
Beware, in this dark masque of things that seem,
Lest even that tragic irony,
Which you discern in this our mortal strife,
Trick you and trap you, also, with a dream.

Last night I saw a dead man borne along
The city streets, passing a boisterous throng
That never ceased to laugh and shout and dance:
And yet, and yet,
For all the poison bitter minds might brew
From themes like this, I knew
That the stern Truth would not permit her glance
Thus to be foiled by flying straws of chance,
For her keen eyes on deeper skies are set,
And laws that tragic ironists forget.

She saw the dead man's life, from birth to death,--
All that he knew of love and sin and pain,
Success and failure (not as this world sees),
His doubts, his passions, inner loss and gain,
And borne on darker tides of constant law
Beyond the margin of this life she saw
All that had left his body with the breath.
These things, to her, were still realities.

If any mourned for him unseen,
She saw them, too.
If none, she'd not pretend
His clay were colder, or his God less true,
Or that his grave, at length, would be less green.
She'd not deny
The boundless depths of her eternal sky
Brooding above a boundless universe,
Because he seemed to man's unseeing eye
Going a little further to fare worse;
Nor would she assume he lacked that unseen friend
Whom even the tragic ironists declare
Were better than the seen, in his last end.

Oh, then, beware, beware,
Lest in the strong name of 'reality'
You mock yourselves anew with shapes of air,
Lest it be you, agnostics, who re-write
The fettering creeds of night,
Affirm you know your own Unknowable,
And lock the wingéd soul in a new hell;
Lest it be you, lip-worshippers of Truth,
Who break the heart of youth;
Lest it be you, the realists, who fight
With shadows, and forget your own pure light;
Lest it be you who, with a little shroud
Snatched from the sightless faces of the dead,
Hoodwink the world, and keep the mourner bowed
In dust, real dust, with stones, real stones, for bread;
Lest, as you look one eighth of an inch beneath
The yellow skin of death,
You dream yourselves discoverers of the skull
That old _memento mori_ of our faith;
Lest it be you who hunt a flying wraith
Through this dissolving stuff of hill and cloud;
Lest it be you, who, at the last, annul
Your covenant with your kind;
Lest it be you who darken heart and mind,
Sell the strong soul in bondage to a dream,
And fetter us once more to things that seem.


V

(_An Answer_)

[After reading an article in a leading London journal by an
'intellectual' who attacked one of the noblest poets and greatest
artists of a former century (or any century) on the ground that his
high ethical standards were incompatible with the new lawlessness.
This vicious lawlessness the writer described definitely, and he paid
his tribute to dishonour as openly and brutally as any of the Bolsheviki
could have done. I had always known that this was the real
ground of the latter-day onslaught on some of the noblest literature
of the past; but I had never seen it openly confessed before. The
time has now surely come when, if our civilization is to make any
fight at all against the new 'red ruin and breaking up of laws,' we
must cease to belaud our slack-minded, latter-day 'literature of
rebellion' for its cleverness in making scraps of paper out of the
plain laws of right and wrong. It has been doing this for more than
twenty-five years, and the same has become fashionable among
those who are too busy to read carefully or understand fully what
pitfalls are being prepared for their own feet and the feet of their
children.]


I

If this were true, England indeed were dead.
If the wild fashion of that poisonous hour
Wherein the new Salome, clothed with power,
Wriggled and hissed, with hands and feet so red,
Should even now demand that glorious head,
Whose every word was like an English flower,
Whose every song an English April shower,
Whose every thought immortal wine and bread;
If this were true, if England should prefer
Darkness, corruption, and the adulterous crew,
Shakespeare and Browning would cry shame on her,
And Milton would deny the land he knew;
And those who died in Flanders yesterday
Would thank their God they sleep in cleaner clay.


II

It is not true. Only these 'rebel' wings,
These glittering clouds of 'intellectual' flies
Out of the stagnant pools of midnight rise
From the old dead creeds, with carrion-poisoned stings
They strike at noble and ignoble things,
Immortal Love with the old world's out-worn lies,
But even now, a wind from clearer skies
Dissolves in smoke their coteries and wings.

See, their divorced idealist re-divorces
The wife he stole from his own stealing friend!
And _these_ would pluck the high stars from their courses,
And mock the fools that praise them, till the end!
Well, let the whole world praise them. Truth can wait
Till our new England shall unlock the gate.


III

Yes. Let the fools go paint themselves with woad,
For we've a jest between us, Truth and I.
We know that those who live by fashion die
Also by fashion, and that mode kills mode.
We know the great new age is on the road,
And death is at the heart of every lie.
But we've a jest between us, Truth and I.
And we have locked the doors to our abode.

Yet if some great new 'rebel' in his pride
Should pass that way and hear us laughing low
Like lovers, in the darkness, side by side,
He might catch this:--'The dullards do not know
That names are names. New 'rebel' is old 'thrall.''
And we're the lonely dreamers after all.

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There Is A Cycle That Is Consistent With The Doing

It doesn't take a scientist,
Or a mathmetician...
To identify the feeling,
Of being unappreciated.

Those who set patterns of self indulgence,
Are as obvious as a tree...
That begins to shed its leaves.
There is a cycle that is consistent with the doing.

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There Is a Poetry That Believes

THERE IS A POETRY THAT BELIEVES

There is a Poetry that believes
It need only to be written
To exist.

There is a deeper Poetry
No one has the formula for it
No one knows how to unfailingly write it
No one knows when and how it will appear.

The Deeper Poetry
The Poetry that means what Poetry is
The Poetry these lines miss.

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There Is Something About That Done

When people begin to believe,
Any kind of lie to tell is okay?
There is something about that done,
That diminishes them as a human being.
Can anyone like this ever again be trusted?

Well...
It really doesn't matter how you respond.
I know for myself,
Someone like that...
Becomes erased from my memory.

And that seems to happen automatically.
Experience is the teacher.
And the student in me,
Has completed successfully...
All testing for this lesson.

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There Is No Spotlight That Comes As A Given

The making of anything look easy,
Gets the attention from those who believe it is.
And if there is any hint of notoriety attached...
Only those interested in what is done,
Seek the limelight and not the work and sweat...
Involved in the achievement of that pat on the back.

Baubles, bangles and beads...
And bright shiny things that bling to impress,
Is all most people want to address.
Assuming with success there is no stress.
Or the getting of a much needed rest.
There is no spotlight that comes as a given.

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There Was a Heart that Burnt Out: Light

There was a heart that burnt out: light
Light O god, O god light

Flower, perfume, stars, breeze: light
These are your names, no matter how we shape you

When afternoon rose on the evening's horizon
Who was it in my heart who said: light

Now there is no point in adorning the stars
The season of meeting him is gone: light

Dawn broke on a dream in which
I wrote simply by looking: light

The two curses we are trapped between:
How we live in darkness, how we imagine: light

[Translated by Nukhbah Langah and Lavinia Greenlaw]

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There is no ice that will never melt

There is no ice that will never melt
Slowly, gradually
Though freeze to sleep forever
Or not be moved by emotion
Slowly, gradually
It’s not needed fire arms
It’s not needed the right law
Only time
Slowly, gradually
The cold drips in my hands
Like a burning candle
Like a bleeding body
Gone into puddle

There is no ice that will never melt
Slowly, gradually
Will it be a thin hope
Or silent word
Slowly, gradually
It’s not needed genius mind
It’s not needed global warning
Only time
Slowly, gradually
The crystal vanishes in my hands
Like a crying stone
Like a dying swan
Gone into water

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There Is This Sadness That Brings......

there is this sadness that i want
to give to you
but of course, you shall not accept it

for who is foolish enough
to welcome sadness when all hopes
of our humanity are pinned
on happiness?

but there is this sadness that makes us silent
and responsible upon our own shoulders
there is this sadness that makes us
fully human, and fully alive,
there is this sadness that brings you literature
and poetry
and then all those fame and fortune that you
have been seeking
there is this sadness which has another consequence
the purification of the soul
the everlasting happiness

shall you not take it now?

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There Is This And There Is Also Always That

there is always a star
and there are always trees that want to reach it

there is a cliff that knows the void up there
there is always a river that sings for it

there are grasses that spread
too there are goats and cows to graze over them

there are seas that rage with big waves
there are rocks waiting for them at the shore

there are dreams that do not come true
there are those who listen and write about them

there are those that die
there those who are newly born

there are ends
and there are beginnings too

war sleeps and peace is awake
this world spins and revolves as the sun looks unblinking

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There Are Numerous Things That I Find

There are numerous things that I find,
on the atlas of your lovely body,
sometimes eddies with wandering deer,
deep valleys where tranquil waters flow

places of shelter where my ship can anchor
and also a storm tossed raging ocean
with in its blue goes to the depth of your soul

and dreams, silences and hopes and joys
I find with you and a kind of intimate trembling,
that yearns for a much deeper kind of contact
as if in our togetherness in pleasure we are dying

in tender touch, in bliss and in sweet tranquillity
we celebrate the life that pulses as we come together,
you open to me like morning glories waiting
upon the rays of the sun, with blessing of sudden heat.

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There Is a Freedom That Comes

What are you going to do with it?
Sit and sulk?
Or use it to get results?

There is a freedom that comes,
When one is labelled crazed!
And then one day the truth overpowers.
It stuns many.
And will amaze.

And once one has it,
All conflict is lifted from the consciousness.
Some choose to sit like you do!
While others confront the ones who have abused them...
Just to be amused they are armed with truth.
Knowing from within their minds,
They are free and don't care...
Who finds the time to call them foolish,
Or stupid or criticize what they say or do!

To hear these words,
Becomes a luxury deserved.

What are you going to do with it?
Sit and sulk?
Or use it to get results?

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There Is a Realization That Has Come

All of their thug cronies,
Have silenced themselves of late.
Few seem to be demanding today,
Proof of a president's birth certificate.
And/or birthdate.

There is a realization that has come,
To land upon their sensibilities.
Everything President Obama is trying to correct...
Has been directly associated,
With their incompetence and deeds misguided.
And a prior leadership misdirected.

All of their thug cronies,
Have silenced themselves of late.
Few seem to be demanding today,
Proof of a president's birth certificate.
And/or birthdate.

And their latest fiasco sits in the Gulf of Mexico.
Without a clue how to fix it.
But a blame of this,
Will be wherever President Obama sits.
Since a shifting of blame has been a custom we live with.

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There Is A Goodness That Comes

When I feel a good deed is done,
I feel a goodness that comes over me.
And when I know I can let go of my woes,
I feel a goodness that comes over me.

I feel a goodness that comes.
A goodness that comes.
There is a goodness that comes over me.

I feel a goodness that comes.
I feel a goodness that comes.
There is a goodness that comes over me.

When I awaken from a peaceful sleep,
There is a goodness that comes over me.

There is a goodness that comes.
There is a goodness that comes.
There is a goodness that comes over me.

When I feel a good deed is done,
I feel a goodness that comes over me.
And when I know I can let go of my woes,
I feel a goodness that comes over me.

I feel a goodness that comes.
I feel a goodness that comes.
There is a goodness that I feel over me.

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There Is No Heart That Wont Heal

So youre thinking that its over
Cause he said goodbye
Left you with nothing
But the tears in your eyes
You dont know how youre gonna get through this pain
But the rain wont claim your days forever
Chorus
There is no heart that wont heal
There is no tear that wont dry
No matter how lost you feel
Remember there is a light on the other side
There is no night that wont end
No sun that wont shine again
Therell be an end to this hurt that you feel
There is no heart that wont heal
Love can lift you to the heavens
But it can let you down
And the fall aint always easy
I know what youre feeling right now
But in time you wont find a trace of this pain
You get rainbows from rain just remember
Chorus
There is no heart that wont heal
There is no heart that wont heal
There is no heart that wont heal
Hold on gotta be strong
Chorus

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There Is A Moment That Is So Perfect

There is a moment that is so perfect
that I do not want to disturb it with a word
as love becomes a perfect melody;
there is a moment that is so perfect,

that I do not want to disturb it with a word
when your glance frolic over me like a butterfly,
where any movement can hinder it
that I do not want to disturb it with a word,

when your glance frolic over me like a butterfly,
where love matchless radiate through each other
and I for moments long barely breathe,
when your glance frolic over me like a butterfly

where love matchless radiate through each other
there is a moment that is so perfect,
when you love me with an intimate knowledge,
where love matchless radiate through each other,

there is a moment that is so perfect
that I do not want to disturb it with a word
as love becomes a perfect melody;
there is a moment that is so perfect.

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If There Is A God That God

If there is a God That God is not for you and yours alone God is for everyone
And for every man and woman and their daughter and their son
When you say God is for you and all of your religion it shows how arrogant you must be
God is in every good living Human Being that's how it would seem to me
A true God would embrace good living people of all religions and all good living non believers as well
The people you have condemned in words to an afterlife of hell,
You do seem so judgemental and in your thinking you seem small
If there is not a God for every good Human Being there is not a God at all
People like you are not in minority and that does seem sad to say
And meeting you and your kind never seems to make my day
To the religious fundamentalists of the World you and your kind belong
But suppose if you think you must be right then you cannot be wrong
If there is a God that God does not live remote from the World of Humankind
And in every good living Human Being that God lives in their mind.

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There's More Where That Came From

I had forgotten just what love felt like
And in that motel room, all my senses came to life
All the passion in his touch
And I knew I could, never get enough
But the worst part of doing what I never should have done
Is that I know, there's more where that came from
In the darkness, there's a distance as I lie here every night
And I beg the Lord, please won't you get this cheatin' off my mind
But then he'll call to say, that he sure had fun
Just so I'll know, there's more where that came from
My guilty conscience can't kill my heart's desire
Just like a drop of rain can't put out a raging fire
Oh, the price I'm paying now
Is a secret that I'm forced to carry around
But the worst part of doing what I never should have done
Is that I know, there's more where that came from
In the darkness, there's a distance as I lie here every night
And I beg the Lord, please won't you get this cheatin' off my mind
And then he'll call to say, that he sure had fun
Just so I'll know, there's more where that came from
Yes, I'm afraid, there's more where that came from.

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Emily Dickinson

There is a flower that Bees prefer

380

There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—

And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—

She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—

Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—

And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—

Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—

The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—

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If There's A God

If there's a God that God is for everybody and in every good person that God you will find
And if there's a God that God is not judgemental but understanding very wise and kind
The fundimentalists say that their God is a true God and those who pray to other Gods to false Gods pray
The true God than their God must be far kinder a far superior God in every way,
Some people who are spiritual as well as quite wise say there's only one God and that's the God within
And that God is ever kind and none judgemental and capable of forgiving even mortal sin
The God men wage war for is not a true God and many go to war in their God's name
A true God would not need them as worshippers war to a true God would be a thing of shame
If there's a God that God is a kind spirit and far greater than the God's we hear about
He even could embrace the non believers and give them the benefit of any doubt
The Gods we hear about they do seem cruel Gods so egotistical in their own way
An eye for an eye does seem for to appease them for everyone's life a true God respect would pay
And if there's a God that God is for all people unlike the God that humankind create
A God who believes on a fair go for all people and the only God we ought to celebrate.

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