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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 |
| A prayer of submission Cut out my tongue if it betrays my heart; good words mean nothing if my deeds are not. Allow me to rest at Your feet in submission for nowhere is peaceful without an admission that my spirit withers cut off from the Ark alike the Moon that can't shine should the Sun go dark. KE [177.283] (14.november.2020) For
A short poem of 6 longer lines (aabbcc). Prompt: "giving thanks" |
| Chest-scape of survival I wear these tattoos on my chest. Glare, if you must, where I once had breasts, not to remind you of what I've lost, to honor who I am — and still remain. Stare now at this chest-scape of survival, the designs I chose to give me hope, these flowers that you'll never pluck, this flow of water that you long to touch. It cools my thoughts as I boldly strut, my chest bare and proud to defy your pity. Don't ever berate the choices I've made. Be thankful — they've led me out of the grave. KE [177.282] (22.november.2020) 12 lines: thankful for:
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| The turkey speaks before dinner Kalkunen snakkar før middagen** Yes, I know that you think I should flee but I live in the land of the free. So I'll peck at my feed as they chop up the swedes.* What could possibly happen to me! © Kåre Enga [177.281] (14.november.2020) *swede is another name for rutabaga (a bit of a Sven/Ole joke) **translation of title into Norwegian (nynorsk) 5 line limerick: 9/9/6/6/9 For:
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My room facing south snow on mountain tops cocoa in a pot mist wafting through my room windows tightly shut murmurs from hallways noon traffic calm aroma of onion chili touch of soft wool yarn sun slips in at a slant autumn's waning glow my radiator coming on to banish wintry blows [177.280] Written for "The Whatever Contest."  "The Whatever Contest -- Closed for Now"  Word/Line Count: 12 lines |
| hay ripens in green fields — fresh goat droppings in cropped pens KE [177.279] (14.november.2020) For:
*Sun* focus on the moment as observer X *Frog* no caps, periods, rhyme, X *Bug* present tense X *Spider* Kigo or seasonal word X hay *Flowerb* one main verb X ripe / ripens *Cat* 8-17 syllables {not complete sentences} X 11/12 *Flowery* the 2 contrasting images that create an "aha" or puzzle for reader to discover what you know. ?? |
Day 2915: November 9, 2020 for
Prompt: Use the following words in your entry: cold, blast, rain, clouds, birds, and cat. 40th of Octobrrr It's the 40th day of Octobrrr, sunny, frigid. The blast of electoral winds still blow. Will the 80th be as cold? Will the clouds tomorrow bring rain or snow? Tiny birds hunt for seeds and snug hollows to keep warm. A well-fed cat seeks a lap. I am comforted by its ghost. Tonight, I will curl up alone, grab a pillow, seek to dream of warmer times when hugs were freely given and Octobrrr not so long. |
| NaNoWriMo on Thanksgiving Eve Tom's voluminous Easter stories hop, hop, hop to ominous sounds from the kitchen: chop, chop, chop. © Kåre Enga [177.276] (2.november.2020) 24 syllables: 12/12 a,bbb/a,bbb. For:
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The first line is for
There was a strange sound coming from under the bed of course. Spot and Cookie always fought over the heating grate. They prefered that to warming my cold feet! My feet were forever cold. "Born blue", "My blue baby", my mother was constantly surprised that I'd survived. "We dressed him in red to warm him up", my father would add, "like a mini Santa". Yes my birthday was the 23rd of December. They named me Navidad. Now they never mention it without crying. "Felix Navidad was such a beautiful young boy until..." Until what mom and dad? Until the day I ran away or was it the day I told you I was trans and wanted you to call me Zoe? Or was it the day you got 'the call'. Do you want me to remind you? "So sorry but your daughter was in an accident." Accident my ass. My brakes were cut and everyone knows it. "It's better this way," they all lamented. Better for whom? Not for me! I'd just had implants and now they were leaking just like the rest of me. I could show you pictures. Yes, they have pictures. But you didn't want to look, didn't even want to come to the hospital until grandma begged you. Was it the day I died? No, you felt relief. Was it the moment I revived and gave grandma a heart attack? Sorry about that, Nana, but you wouldn't let me go! So, I stayed. As blue as ever. My feet forever cold. I'd ask Spot and Cookie to join me. They know I'm still here. But cats... they do as they will. Cookie will lick my cheek and Spot meows as if I could answer. If I ever wake up I will. It's odd knowing what's going on and not being able to tell you 'where to go'. If I ever walk again I'll run away, run away from you and 'Felix', your beautiful boy. I'll take grandma with me. She sits with me you know. Never did leave me except for her funeral. I think she was curious. She smiles a lot. Spot and Cookie knows she's there. Thankfully you don't. They're all I have. Flat on my back and hooked up like a Christmas tree, I plan. What else can I do? Last night I made a light flicker and rugs seem to slip out from under you. You change a bulb, swear you'll be careful next time you get out of the tub. You don't suspect it could be me. No, it could be your beautiful boy. And it isn't. It's me, Zoe. Now an item:
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 Icarus drowning in a sea of oil Brueghel was never frugal, covering canvas with every color I know ... because I google. © Kåre Enga [177.265a] (24.oktober.2020) 24 syllables: 7/10/7 axa rhyme. Prompt: 'frugal'. Note that 'I know' can be the end of line 2 or beginning of line 3; it fits both and is done on purpose. For
Bonus?  Dog, Ma? "Where's the dog, Ma?" "Chewing on the bear, Paw, reading Revelations, dogging dogma's expectations." © Kåre Enga [177.265b] (24.oktober.2020) 24 syllables (or silly bulls): 4/6/6/8. Prompt: dogma |
| Pink It's the softness of the color pink when worn by a rose or Rosa wrapped in a cashmere sweater inviting me to eat mayo mixed with beets ensalada rusa se dice in soft tones looking at me sadly as if this loss of what made me — me — were all there ever was to me. I seek a new definition: bold blue hair, crisp crimsom skirt, black lace and black velvet, purple — anywhere and everywhere. I refuse to be reduced to a ribbon in your memory. Remember how we walked October's arbors of yellow and green turning gold, orange rowan berries dangling, clouds scudding across a troubled tourquoise sky rustling the leaves, and yet, pink — how it cheers up that tiny cottage, its eaves trimmed in white. © Kåre Enga [177.262] (23.oktober.2020) 18 lines free verse For October 2020:
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