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 |
Carry you home Your stardust weighs nothing: ground bone and leather dry as the moon you fled to, the outpost you died in... frightened I would follow, aware I would find you. I've always sought you out, Zmitri, whether you drowned in the marshes of Zmuda or when on Zmaa'a, you were blasted into mere energy. Signs of your passage have always guided me. I've known your trace of atoms from the beginning of Eternity. I carry you home now, ready to be reborn as a star. © Kåre Enga [174.182.zm] Lexi#6 (17.july.2017) |
Fire and Flame 1. Fill the buckets! Douse the flames! The mountain blazes and sparks when the lush green of Spring ripens and dries. It's ready to burn. 2. Lower the scoop into the river. Raise it full of fish and water. Carry it to the burning mountain. Drop it! Like loaves of manna, quench the thirst of the slopes. 3. Blackened pines and scorched meadows mock the silly folk who mourn. This cycle of life and death renews dead soils, will feed deep roots. Come next Spring all will sprout anew a dapper shade of emerald. © Kåre Enga [174.181] Lexi#3 (17.julio.2017] |
Lick me at the Celtic Fest I meet a puppy, some two-year-old pooch that lives to lick the hands and faces of friends— and all strangers too. Tan floppy ears perk as I pet her and a pink muzzle nuzzles for more. Where there's no fear of contact— we-all connect: me, this puppy, the Celtic universe. But I must inquire, my dearest love —if I were a boxer— could I you lick you too. © Kåre Enga [174.197] (29.july.2017) |
Gold and false gold Kjent eller ukjent men... always... alltid... ready to explode. We fathom our hands, pan golden sands, wash them from mother-lode. We seek to understand the known and unknown... each time we question the distance between gold and false gold. But even iron pyrite has its beauty. That for us must unfold and although gold costs nothing to admire, pyrite wastes little to acquire. In the glitter of quartz strands, by the pearl essence of the moon, even truth bows to beauty and truth or untruth become one and the unknown ravels and to weaves the cloth of what is known. © Kåre Enga [174.196] (29.juli.2017) |