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 |
Small changes made 3.April. Nick doesn't like fish! "Nick Neverhome (Dew Drop Inn Day 2)" Nick Neverhome for Nicholas Le Tang You squirm, gold-like in the sun, quicksilver at night; I order a fish taco, offer you a bite; you snigger. What now niggles at my neck if not the carp and cavil of our daily quibble over why you aren't 'here' and why I'm never 'all there'. One glance and off you go, 'going to pot', a murky tale of wheel-thrown-clay and hand drawn scribbles, glazed and ready to oven-bake. Like lemon cilantro carp, eyes-up on a gilded plate, silver waiting on either side. © Kåre Enga [174.8] (2.abril.2017 Small changes from what I first posted less than an hour before, kept here, just in case: Nick Neverhome for Nicholas Le Tang You squirm, gold like the sun, silver like night; you bite into your fish taco, smirk at me. What now niggles at my neck if not the carp and cavil of our daily quibble over why you aren't 'here' and why I'm never 'there'. One glance and off you go 'going to pot', a murky tale of wheel-thrown-clay and hand drawn scribbles, glazed and ready to oven-bake. Like lemon cilantro carp, eyes-up on a golden plate, silver waiting on either side. © Kåre Enga [174.8] (2.abril.2017) Prompt: carp, the fish... or maybe the verb? And my friend Nick... who is never found at home. 80.598 |