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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 |
| Winter's here This darkening day fastens me to reality that time of year when snowflakes whisper "winter's coming" and I hold dear old memories, hands hugging a mug of coffee. I ride life saddled to the seasons, cinched to withstand the rollercoaster of meager victories and the many failures. I galloped through youth, through middle-age, now ask to slow down before my dotage. Snowflakes whisper, "Winter's here!" as I make sure I'm secured, surcingle strapped to my mount, the only life I've known. © Kåre Enga [174.291] (5.november.2017 on envelope) |
| Pink A frosted glow upon cold-frosted pine, the golden birch now naked. White-november news. And the smells of baking rye, the taste of coffee by-the-pot, the constant purr of cat. All noise hushed by snow. You aren't here, no loving touch. Today dims grey and slush adorns the weeping willow. Catclaws remind it's time to wake up, time to move on to another. © Kåre Enga (1.noviembre.2017) [174.287] 81.682 |
| Our writers Group on Halloween Pen to paper, Monsters gather to bleed across blank pages, twisted wisps that seep ghostly thoughts, those darksome demons once sought, now vanquished. Adverbs languish between noun-verb-noun, now slash at semi-colons, hide from exclamation marks... dot... dot... dot... gallop towards predetermined dénouements, some quaint surprise, some gruesome plot of poison, vengeance, death by rot; the reason for their treason lurking in warped minds that search to find mistaken jots, then cross them out. © Kåre Enga (31.oktober.2017) [174.286] |
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