%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    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 |
| I don't mean to cause grief When I leave, my plants suffer, in spite of plans to have someone water them or plans to take them out of the window, soak and let dry... Some survive... better than my african violets that dad kept alive for years until my sister decided they needed to be outside in June's burning sun. Dead in a week, my attic room cleaned out, personal letters tossed and high school projects trashed, emotionally pushed over a cliff, no warning. I speak soft so my geraniums don't hear. they may be on their own this summer... I swear I don't mean to cause them grief. It's a relief when I come home and they've made an offering of one last bloom. They've survived. I've been home for a year now, a very long year now. Do they suspect? Or are they like me, age 20, innocent about Death and Life's relentless cruelty. Like them, a survivor. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.28] (4.april.2021) For
|
| 2:22 and thinking of you There is nothing bluer than deep blue over the hurting-eye green of Kansas after spring rains have rinsed prairie dust so we can see clearly past the horizon where Oklahoma red lies a deep shade of rust. But bruises and blue-bonnets bloom then fade under the heat of a relentless sun. No — there's nothing bluer than blue unless it's eye-blue, a color I cannot remember and can't quite forget, once I have fallen into your depths. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.27] Inspired by a poem written by Rhyssa  For:
Earlier version: There is nothing bluer than deep blue over the hurting-eye green of Kansas after spring rains have washed away prairie dust so we can see clearly past the horizon where Oklahoma red lies a deep shade of rust. But bruises and blue-bonnets bloom then fade under the heat of a relentless sun. No — there's nothing bluer than blue unless it's eye-blue, a color I cannot remember, and can't quite forget, as soon as I've fallen into your depths. |
| Rolling the stone away Yes, I rose this morning — after the three- hour panic attack subsided and I'd slept peacefully knowing that She once dreamt of destroying the world then dreamt better and stilled the waters, opening blinds to let sunshine stream in. Then I rolled out of bed and went to go pee. [178.26] (4.april) An etheree. The prompt was weather but it didn't go that way. It's sunny outside and warming and I've been inside for three days. Today I'll take out the garbage and go hunting for daffodils. For
|
| This is a spoof on the haibun form and how Japanese forms are misunderstood and mangled by most. And yes, both Lilli 🧿 ☕  and Lyn's a Witchy Woman  'like' coffee and yes, Lyn has a sweet black cat, Macavity (real not stuffed).Holy Saturday sun glinting off plastic wrap 7 steaming coffee at hand 6 If the window weren't cracked it would be too hot already and the sounds of deconstruction wouldn't remind us that outside this decrepit hotel life goes on. But the call of the domesticated daffodil trumpets too weak to stir ancient flesh and bones into action. The day wears on: three hours before solar noon, two hours, one. Satan can't wait. quiet motes dancing in sunshine 8 egg salad glares at the fork 7 Lilli called yesterday. She wanted her cup back. Lyn called. She wanted Satan back. But His Majesty's mustache merely focused on his pink-bunny bowl. It was empty and he was tempted to take a swipe to knock it off the table. Black whiskers danced as if he were ready to let out a yowl, a gift from his Siamese heritage. broken cups hold rescued plants 7 my scalp needs scratching 5 The path from the chair to the bed is worn clean. Dust gathers in neglected corners and lies in wait on top of everything. Dirty dishes get done everyday but Satan just sits there glaring at me. What I've forgotten, he remembers. He remembers the day my mother was born. slightly chewed airplane plants 6 a geranium blooms hot pink 8 As if to defy me my pee doesn't darken. It's as yellow as mustard egg salad, as clear as the stick-plant's small flowers, as harmless as Satan's amber eyes beginning to swirl. Stuffed toys have attitudes bigger than their bite. Lyn calls. I demand ransom. Lilli calls. I drain the cold cup and put on a fresh pot of coffee. sun rays move west to east 6 Satan does yoga on the bed 8 © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.25] (3.april.2021) Because I couldn't come up with a haiku for the
|
| Once glittered I thought you'd always be there for me guarding the slice of heart I lent you never expecting it to be refused stamped 'return to sender' as if you didn't know it broke in half — just for you. Now bereft with dull crumpled parts, I have no glue to mend it. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.24] (2.april.2021) For
|
| Pomander Take an orange citrus globe and poke it full of cloves; let the fragrance fill you heart till it clots; next, take an apple.. Take a blue globe of water, add ribbons of highways, inhale clean air till exhaust makes you choke; next, there's no other... © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.23] (2.april.2021) For
|
| Et voilà! And there I was looking at snow left over from winter, Lillehammer's ski-jump wrapping spring around its shoulders as flowers began to bloom in gardens, gasping when I saw you coming down full speed, lifting in the air like an eagle, soaring across Lake Mjøsa to a far-off place where you still breathe, one that smothered my breath long ago when you told me, "Et voilà!" © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.22] (2.april.2021) A memory of Lillehammer, Norway woven with thoughts for a friend. For
Og der så eg på snø som var igjen frå vinteren, Lillehammer hoppbakke pakket våren rundt skuldrene mine då blomster byrja å blomstre i hagen, gispet då eg så deg komme ned i full fart, løfter i luften som ein ørn, svever over Mjøsa til eit fjernt stad der du framleis puster, ein som kvalt pusten for lenge sidan då du sa til meg: "et voilà!" eller: Og der så jeg på snø som var igjen fra vinteren, Lillehammer hoppbakke pakke våren rundt skuldrene mine da blomster begynte å blomstre i hagen, gispet da jeg så deg komme ned i full fart, løfter i luften som en ørn, svever over Mjøsa til et fjernt sted der du fortsatt puster, en som kvalt pusten for lenge siden da du sa til meg: "Et voilà!" |
| On Naw Ruz In the balance twice per year a bright yellow star waxes or wanes but on that edge in this liminal space between our lips we wonder how many more are left as autumn fades; yet — come the month of March hope blooms along old twigs as buds that braved the dark and chill beg for those syrupy flows that burst into flowers, caress our lips with kisses, fewer each year; but, still — until the pith of self has rotted away we sway to glad tidings of one more day among the grateful. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.15] (29.mars.2021) 20 lines free verse Naw Ruz = new day = renewal: observed culturally on the spring equinox throughout Old Persia and religiously by Baha'is and Zoroastrians around the world. For
|
| The flavor of sunshine no sugar needed in my coffee cream enough to lighten this day of errant sunrays pouring in through window panes of this cooped up haven from pain where now bewitched I savor a tuna sandwich and inhale the flavor of sunshine © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.13] I was drinking coffee with my tuna sandwich; sun wasn't in the forecast.
|
| Before I leave I have a need to be loved, a want to be kneaded, an urge to connect while I'm still alive. It's the warmth that a ghost beseeches to feel, the sourdine of your voice, in tune to deaf ears. © Copyright 2021 Kåre Enga [178.12] sourdine = a muted (organ) stop. For
|
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
![Merit Badge in Reviewing
[Click For More Info]
For your support and suggestions on my haiku "Lone Poinsettia" which took second place in the contest and will be published. Thanks for helping make it a winning poem!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Reviewing-2180.gif)
![Merit Badge in Nano Winner
[Click For More Info]
CONGRATULATIONS on your achievement! *^*Bigsmile*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Nano_Winner-2180.gif)
![Merit Badge in Funny
[Click For More Info]](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Funny-200.gif)
![Merit Badge in Friendship
[Click For More Info]
Thanks for being my friend.
Hugz!
grannym](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Friendship-650.gif)
![Merit Badge in Appreciation
[Click For More Info]
For brightening my day with your delightful offerings ~ Thank you so much! *^*Heart*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Appreciation-1985.gif)
). That said, use what the Muse gifts.
