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 LV 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 |
Whitewashed Teach a lesson to that Chink, a lesson to those Spics; we're no longer greasy Dagos, no longer dirty Micks. It's nicer to be White. So nice to be white. ... unless you're a Kike... A FILTHY CHRIST-KILLING KIKE! So... be washed by the Blood, washed till you're cleansed Like Fruit of the Womb, laundered crosses on your chest. It's better to be White, best to be Right, bleached, fresh-smelling white, pure alabaster tight. © Kåre Enga [174.26] (10.april.2017) In response to: "Bent to the Earth" by Blas Manuel de Luna about brutality towards migrant and immigrants; today's incident where a passenger was dragged off a United flight, traumatizing many; the meanness of people here in Montana towards refugees; the "passing" of ethnic Americans of my childhood into the blinding light of Whiteness. |
Smoke It always begins with fire: a controlled burn, a lightning strike, one lit cigarette; then spreads, fueled by dry tinder, embers lifting, creating its own wind. Skies redden at sunset; the horizon blurs; then the pall that moonlight can't pierce, that the dawn merely lightens to a brighter shade of grey. The tongue tastes like ash; the nostrils smell it; the throat chokes... then gasps. And the calm, the calm of it all, the silence of ashflakes falling like snow before one final thought, will I ever be able to breathe again. © Kåre Enga [174.25] (9.april.2017) 80.658 |