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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 |
| In my sleep Your gentle breezes cooled my fever. Your ice-cold fingers probed my pain. I dreamed for centuries while you massaged my ennui—and banked my embers. Let me rest beyond complaint. I've gained the wisdom winds and waters bring. I'll float upon your iceberg seeking sun, until you melt. Until you're done. And then I'll blaze anew, my lava swinging around a distant sun. You'll forever melt my dreams, Zmitri. Until once again we meld as one. © Kåre Enga (23.jui.2017.zm) Lexi#2 [174.189] |
| Unwanted reminder A bulldog carries a dildo, pink, long, completely hung, not neutered. He brings it from the neighbor's yard, carries it like a new-found toy, his precious. He will chew on the boner or bury it like a bone perhaps to be found some day by a prospector looking for treasur, or an anthropologist searching for a cultural artifact. In fact, it's both. Will they laugh? Do you dare visit your neighbor to return the 'gift'? Really... do you dare? © Kåre Enga (23.juio.2017) Lexi#10 [174.188] |
| ... and someone asks whose ghost is leaning against the dying pine, how Billy Biden was so young, only 65... And you remember a kid riding a bike through the rain, tossing a newspaper, missing the porch, the soggy mess of it. How Billy was only 15 and you were only 55... and newly widowed. © Kåre Enga (started July, 2017) [174.187] Note: to become a flash fiction of how going to funerals helps pass the time... |
| Oblate We spin. We cannot stop. To cease to move would be our death. This cannot be our lot. We created gravity that bears down upon our heads. We shrink as our midriff bulges. And still we dance around our god, move as if Sufi taught us how to spin. In truth... we taught them. In the delirium before the capture of our moons, betide the coalescence of fire and ice when once the spark of life begun — we spun. And still we spin rings around our middle flaring out in a dance of starlight reflection of our god, the Sun. © Kåre Enga [174.186] (22.juli.2017) |
| Belle figura Etched in limestone you rise from seas a fossil from Ages of Discovery, times when you were worshiped across Eternity, bound only by your vision. Oh, how they invoked your many names— a pantheon of gods and goddesses fashion from grey clays of darkness you brought forth into light. But I always knew who you were, Zmitri. I saw your visage behind the many masks, your footprints strewn across the continents of land, the bathtubs of the seas, your hand-prints disguised to all but me. Now all the monuments they made have turned to dust, but what you thrust upon this spinning void remains a vast domain obscured by swirling life preserved in fossils, pressed in tomes, still etched in limestone, rising. © Kåre Enga [174.185.zm] (22.juli.2017) |
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