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 |    Online journal capturing the moment and the memory of moments. A meadow meditation. |
   L'aura del campo 'é a lua, é a lua, na quintana dos mortos' ♣ Federico García Lorca ♣  L'aura del campo. A breeze in the meadow. So it began the last day of Spring, 2005; on the 16th day of the month of Light of the year 162. This is a supplement to my daily journal written to a friend, my muse; notes I do not share. Here I will share what the breeze has whispered to me. PLEASE LEAVE COMMENTS! I L  V COMMENTS!On a practical note, in answer to your questions: IN MEMORIUM VerySara  passed away November 12, 2005 Please visit her port to read her poems and her writings. More suggested links:  These pictures rotate.   Kåre  Enga~ until everything was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow! And I let the fish go. ~ Elizabeth Bishop, The Fish |
| Answers come at dawn Grey over grey. I cannot see the mountains clearly at the hour of the dying of the day. Oh, to have new eyes! New ears to hear the river's wailing. New nose to smell the heat of spices. New heart to thank young Bri for gifts of food. What good can come to moaning at the edge of night when the answer comes at dawn. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.98.s] (20.mai.2021) |
| Age of Mayflies Time creeps as light grey deepens to charcoal no embers glowing in the sky to mark the passing of another Age of Mayflies, their lives as short as ours, mere hours between the rising and setting of an earthbound passage, as our last cries echo that moment we burst forth and filled our lungs with breath. Now we empty them to seek the tomb, eternal womb, to mark the passing through the night into another realm of light. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.121] (19.mai.2021) |
| Even the boxes... No sunset worthy of leaving my bed. An hour later a faint blue glow in the northwest teases me. I know its game. It ducks behind the mountains to reappear at some ungodly morning hour. As if I care. This day of nothing's followed by more nothingness. Even the boxes I gather to store my memories remain unfilled. Even the boxes... © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.120] (18.mai.2021) Posted at
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| I catch the glow that doesn't know it's shifting from gold to orange on the edge of twilight. It's westward bound, an elder hound. I'm sighing. Another liminal space I must traverse to call it mine for fleeting moments and new-found memories. I stash them where the sun can't burn them. The flag has turned its back and the river churns as the traffic churns crossing by the bridge above it. Everyone but me going somewhere. Even the glow abandons me until the dawn as the night pulls down its shade. orange flickers at twilight's edge — the night pulls down its shade © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.119.s.gz] (17.mai.2021) |
| By the window One star twinkles at twilight as he searches for the one you wished upon — waiting to hear its answer. As the glow slips below the silhouetted branches and the alpenglow slides up cold mountain slopes to the pine-green treeline the cooling breeze whispers names. He listens for yours roaring down the canyon, sprinting from the east, past the landing's window, sunset bound. the big star sets — the old man sits by the window © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.118.s.gz] (16.mai.2021) A serenade - at evening. A gzaibun - haibunish form. Or... "the old man dies by the window" |
| Invitation for Bri an invitation for pizza — ham and tomato on flat bread — we talk about coffee — the cafe life we used to lead — how the plague hit and the stone was rolled in front of our cave — how we struggled within our coccoon — hands tied, feet tied, voice hushed — we try to burst out in buds, blossom to greet the spring, but — a year of darkness reminds us that nothing will be as before — and what was lost will never return — we sit at the table — pizza in hand — the fragrance of coffee wafting its warmth © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, [178.83] (13.mai.2021) 8 irregular long lines 16/14/14/14/15/16/15/14 |
| Serenade We see cloud linings as if they're cotton, as if they're hung above us like a blanket to keep us safe and snug upon the ground as the flapping flag makes muted sounds; but, through the dirty window, I can only hear it waving to the setting sun. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga, [178.82.s] (14.mai.2021) |
| Grain sifts Grain sifts between soft fingers — time lifts warm seas; between cold mountain ridges — life boldly clings. Forget how once you hurt me — regrets won't heal; by morning light remember — when mourning me. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.81] (14.mai.2021) 8 lines aabb rhymes on 2nd/3rd syllable. 7/4/7/4 rhythm. for
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| Evening coffee Vermilion streaks stretch west to east as thoughts fade from blue to puce to gunmetal. My evening coffee cools as I travel to Thailand, Taiwan, taking the bridge that spans the river that flows beneath me. It races towards the setting sun as if it will flow forever. I take another sip as if I have eternity to savor it. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.80] (13.mai.2021) For
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| Minus your ink Minus your ink this page becomes a palimpsest to receive new joys and tears. Minus my scribbles there is no story, no need to stray beyond the edges of reality. Minus our future there is no need, no need. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.79] (7.mai.2021) For
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