|Reviewed by Vasile Baghiu
|It sounds very well, not only as a simple true, but also in terms of poetic effect.
|Reviewed by Lady Peg (Reader)
|Friends always make a differance good poem.|
|Reviewed by Stephanie Sawyer
|Straight to the core, this is beautiful.
I love your poignancy. I love your grasp of the struggle and your ability to convey it so simply. I can see that you have seen it yourself in many ways.
Stephanie S. Sawyer, author FACING ME
|Reviewed by Bonita Quesinberry
|This is a wonderful piece of truism, Keith. Would that all felt the same. Alas, we live in a world gone mad; yet, we struggle to help one at a time, for it is the best we can do. Fortunately, the great psychiatrist, God, is constant: pure love that never changes. ~~Bonnie Q
Associate Editor, Washington
Waltsan Publishing, Texas
|Reviewed by Phillip Williams (Reader)
|This poem touches a universal experience. It could be understood by all mature persons around the world. I think that is what all writers, particularly of poetry and essays are trying to achieve. When I read this poem I immediately say: "Yes, I know the feeling." This is a well written chain of thoughts.|
|Reviewed by Jim Dunlap
|Yes, friends certainly do make the difference. Well done and done well.|
|Reviewed by Marlene Dawn
Just browsing through the den and thought this was a nice write. Well done!
|Reviewed by Mary Deal
|Elegantly simple, as clear as the understanding this piece conveys.|
|Reviewed by Dolores Dawes
|Self-helplessness is prompted by a lack of confidence in oneself. Feeling unthreatened by someone else's youth or potential success separates the mature mind from the immature one. Excellent poem! Dolores|
|Reviewed by Michael Kersting
|Yes,at times a friend can be closer than a brother...well done!|
|Reviewed by Erin Kelly-Moen
|Very altruistic, but is it realistic, Keith? I find myself upsidedown sideways most times, which is how I write. I must admit to pessimism, where is the idealistic dream of the 1970's? Feels to me like it shattered too many people to ever be innocent again. Now generations are materialistic, another type of indoctrination has taken place, under our noses, ah, the loss of roses and wine-colored glasses... I hurt, I ache, I died one day in 2001, to be, necessitarily reborn, for the sake of my children. But, I am not that person who cared before the fact of Innocence's death, that was MY innocence they slaughtered, my viewpoint forever blasted by acerbic intolerance of cultural fanatics, my continued tortured death that will lead to my continued struggling life. I give my children what I was, show them beauty in nature, in an ant or a leaf free-falling from a seasonal reason for being. I would be a ship in the tempest winds, if not for the responsibility, perhaps unwitting and unwilling, but there, in the need to raise my children with tolerance for honest differences, for old "truths", such as the Golden Rule. It is constant. God is not, humanity is not, the world is not, only the sense of respect for life keeps me going, at times. I fear I am already dead.|
|Reviewed by Ashraf Goreja
|A powerful write.
|Reviewed by Retta (Reindeer) Mckenzie
|This was wonderful, I enjoyed this very much, beautifully written,