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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 |
| Where does the time go? When the clock strikes twenty-one, twenty-one, if you are still awake if I am still alive before our fight... When the clock strikes twenty-two, twenty-two, between tears and seconds spent we'll know by what's been shared that all is right... When the clock strikes thirty-one, thirty-one we've sent messages all night until dawn's reckoning. Sweet dreams, goodnight... © Kåre Enga [182.20] 10.april.25 Original in "Where does time go?"  |
| To all my ghosts No time to write a silly poem about war or peace, or chicken grease, something I know nothing about. Distracted by a piece of key lime pie, pieces of strawberries calling my name, potato chips and sundry things — life got in the way. No time for introspection or even a bath. Dead skin and ennui slough off in the shower. I didn't have time to write to you, to call out your name in vain, ghosts never answer the phone. I'm tired of being alone, tired of the echoes and ripples of the fading Past that will not let me go. Let me go! Where does the time go? I never kept track whilst I lived, and now I'll never know. So few find me hiding, fewer comment. I sent out photos of the sunset today, should send out Songkran blessings tomorrow. Postcards remain unsent. I sent a message to Wren — we're both getting old. I should feel blessed that I'm still getting older. Getting wiser is a ship that sailed without me — a long time ago. © Kåre Enga (12.april.2025) [182.21] 28 lines Original sketch in "Who knows where the time goes?" |
| Quiet after the storms Silence deafens after the storm until the wren sounds the all clear; all life thrills to their trill of joy: we live we live we live — we have survived. In the hush after the beating: the sound of steps walking away; they are heard through the tears, noted with a sigh, they will live — for one more day. The old oak has withstood the rain, a century of wind; today it rests in the bosom of mud that it once reigned over — gone with the storm. New headstones state that here they lie beneath the grass that greener grows, where no signs need proclaim with words: safe-at-last safe-at-last — do not disturb. © Kåre Enga [182.22] (12.april.2025) 20 lines Prompt: safety. Too abstract. What does safety sound like? Steps walking away? The silence after the storm? 122.773 |
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I just went with the flow. Could use a minor edit but I'm happy that you like it.
