This suppose to be a world of right and wrong, instead wrong is right and right is wrong in some circles.
This world is based on the right system, but it's full of mystiscism. Then there's God performing miracles, quite a few joining circles. Round and round we go, where we stop nobody know.
I'd swear common sense has gone, and that irrationality has taken throne. Hardly anyone I know makes any sense, they deal mostly with the negative pretense. Starting with my father, who never did bother.
Being right moves to second place, most use selfish as their ace. I'm looking for a few good humans, instead I get fools, kkk, & neo nazi German's. Seems like there's no good in the troop, only foxes & predators in the coup.
Oh, brother, you have just written the novel I am writing, as we speak, in eighteen lines whereas I am on Chapter 41 . . . Something's gotta be wrong with this picture. But you have hit that perverbial nail on the head with your thinking. My character, Martin Rayne Kirby returns to his hometown after eighteen years, as you say, "looking for a few good humans," Great stuff, man.
Reviewed by J M (Reader)
Reviewed on November 6, 2006
I think there are still some good folk in the camp but as always life comes with many and different standards, beliefs...... This one gets one thinking.:)
Reviewed by ~ Holly Harbridge (Reader)
Reviewed on November 6, 2006
Seems like there's no good in the troop, only foxes & predators in the coup.__ Well, it ain't hard to see you're down, but you know OnePoet, I NEVER HAD A DAD AT ALL, so I know some of your pain you speak of, but if I disbelieved in everyone, then that would mean the whole world was corrupt. I don't believe for one moment there are so many bad human beings in this world. For every bad one, there's a good one. Personally,I'm not ever giving up! There are good and just and righteous people. hang tough big guy,*hugs* Holly
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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