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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 |
| They walked hand-in-hand down the red dirt path, around the circle of green scum covering the pond they had dug. Michele spoke about the last time she had tossed back a Guinness as Miguela closed her eyes and inhaled, hoping to recall the fragrance of a deep red wine. The air was dry and still. —I remember the old men making dough, guarding their recipes as if their life depended on it. —I'm sure their livelihood did. —No—their life. "Pizzo paid by pizza" my father always cackled. Miguela pulled a comb thru her snarled wires. Michele just winked and tossed her long black locks. —Want to stop for tea and scones? Her eyes crinkled. —Only if you remembered the garlic and extra oregano. Miguela laughed. She loved laughter, eyes twinkling more than those stars looking down at them thru the black sky. Her homeland rocked to a volcanic beat, she'd always snicker. Michele would just smile, pretending they were walking the Giant's Causeway every time they wandered out to the pond's dock. It was afternoon. They needed no clock; they just knew. The movement of the small blue starlet and big yellow star informed them. Back home, one wall showed a scene of a distant Emerald Isle, the other white stones and blue shutters baking in the heat. Michele served tea and they both sat quietly. Time passed. Michele grabbed her bodhrán and Miguela started to sing. They wove a melody and beat that no one could hear. It was the year... 87... and the denizens of the cemetery were stone deaf, each grave hand dug, the most recent mouldering now for 50 years. Mars was a lonely place for a party of one. Calmed, Miguela quietly stowed her stiletto. Michele knowingly smiled... lost in thoughts of all the worlds she had once visited. She looked up. Beyond the empty sky she could see... Forever. © Kåre Enga [14.March.2017] Notes: Written to prompts: 1. Choose a year and place. [Mars, the Year 87] 2. A person you like [Michele] 3. An 'item' (I heard 'island') [Ireland] 4. A person you don't like ... well I just couldn't, so I though of Michele who is Irish/Sicilian and shows both heritages. [Miguela, Sicilan for Michele] 5. An 'item' (island) [Sicily] 6. Choose 5 words to describe each of the above... 7. WRITE! (for about 30 minutes) This was done in about 15. It just flowed. We meet every Tuesday at the library. |
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