Come creature & conjoin the human club,
Donít turn your nose up at it with a snub.
Become a member of the human race,
Where any old mug will fit with a face.
Donít skulk in the shadows an animal beast,
Phase out the music, a human at least.
And should the whole shamozzle then be lies,
It doesnít matter as everyone dies.
Even though weíre neither unique nor great,
Join the human club before itís too late.
A place where all have a story to tell,
Dearly afterwards a soul to sell.
For though it reads as silly and sad,
Itís all the elements good, bad and mad.
Handed down in righteous privilege,
Bred in a sty, in a pidge, in a squidge.
Ice cream man on a green hill far away,*
Last inhabited island after thaw day.*
* An Anglican Hymn
* Now UK one of the last places
to be inhabited after the ice age
about 8000 years ago
Gift of Tongues
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|Reviewed by Aberjhani
|An exceptional write indeed! This particular beast is all too much like reclusive humans who for whatever reason decide they "don't belong" among the throngs of human society and so live either in self-imposed estrangement or as self-appointed judges of human failings. Your "Gift of Tongues" is fully evident and wisely eloquent in HUMAN AT HEART Mr. Hislop.|
|Reviewed by Sage Sweetwater
|Intermingling poetic verse not one bit conceited. Perhaps by looking at the picture, this is the closest parallel to shamanic "madness."
"The ice cream man on a green hill far away,
Last inhabited island after thaw day" after the global warming, what's left, a tupilak, a figure carved by a shaman from Greenland. Has Neanderthal written in too, Robin. Early man was a poetic beast, flint struck out a fire, fire struck out a story, story passed on from generation to generation, generation is wide apart, close the gap, you're right, join the human club 'for it's too late!
|Reviewed by Kate Clifford