ride with a limp
and to hesitate for the taste of want
is detrimental for weak flaunt

Tis true loved the old lovers are not
steeped in the lore of sympathy
but poetic practise instead

all the trails like halls like mirrors
I listen to the voices haunt the
shadow beneath the brilliant
glamour of the lights

the lure is a hunger borne
that gnaws and keeps company
at the door

Thank You for centering on the truths
believable of what reflection I try to be
on Neo here...

Mr Wolf

had puter issues Posted twice !

"Saffon" light came from making tea in a clear mug long long ago
and how at dusk or in storm skies there comes a break often
when the ray of light finds our setting in a glow..Sunsets brief
angle is often that rare moment in all the day when things are
golden and electric with light!!

The movies of old and then teen years and adulthood spent
idle and alone....The art movies from the Library entrance too
on my little DVD player and television set up on a dresser
Foreign made and with subtitles of a different land Different
faces and scenes..But all rich with humanities meaning in
directors and screenwriters symbolism and touch

I know of many female freinds who write of their gardening
the soil their happiness as they ponder their lives putting in
life...In rains of spring or fall when wandering the house with
ghosts It was always the gardens I was drawn too Too
troubled to walk the streets and the old gardens either draped
with all the wet slinking winter or the new rains soaked me
I felt like a clown.. a scarecrow as the water dripped down
shedding drops like liquid crows diving down to waken the
sleeping bulbs of birth with their call!

where was I when all that preparing was going on but
elsewhere too much a harried soul to share in the ritual
never time to admire the work but come spring when
the moodiness of weather drew down my vision from
the clouds beautiful dreams are not the sustenance
of the soul ..but the toil of togetheness is

I always loved the hall of mirrors thinking of how this is
mans ego at most...We look back in memory for some
sacred precious peice to only see our own ghost
looking back for attention and we cannot shove
that away safely behind the glass And the true
face of meaning of memory evades too like a mist

she smiles and sadly slips away behind his back

wait wait he cries

but the mirror is silent and hung with only his own
image aged and empty for her sunshine that shone
like safron warmth from the cold storm that clung to
him dearly his one flickering hope through time
behind his wall where only black crows nodded
watching him in his garden pace going round and
round

I love your Haiku Ann

thank Y ou

In the woods Im always looking for signs
old and new The eyes taking everything in
Like when Im on the bike too
routes fences look outs
just the way I t hink
the way I was groomed
the people whom know life
as more then just the courtesy
of protocol

I am very satisfied that you like my
poetry A man that knows paths
and routes

this is a great comment for me

Thank You Lonnie
Your freind Esker!

"dangerous beauty beckoning.."

immense