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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 |
| Ethics 8 Across a porcelain meadow 8 a jumble of sulphur winged squirrels, 8 jumble amongst winter's ginger, 8 fragrant glowing-scarlet ginger 8 coursing through this drill-pressed meadow, 8 this melancholy of squirrels, 8 four frisky first-birthday squirrels 8 avenging moose-broken ginger 8 harmonizing with Spring's meadow. 12 Squirrels replant ginger buds by a meadow-spring. © Kåre Enga [174.3] (28.March.2018) Missoula Library Writing Group a tritina to fixed by making it 8 syllables per line a final 12 (half) syllables We were given 16 words... most of which I used. Original Ethics 8 Across a porcelain meadow 5 sulphur winged squirrels 7 jumble among the ginger 6 fragrant glowing ginger 7 coursing this drill-pressed meadow 8 a melancholy of squirrels 6 Four first-birthday squirrels 10 avenging boomerang-broken ginger 8 harmonizing with the meadow 12 Squirrels planting new ginger by the meadow spring. © Kåre Enga [174.3] (28.March.2018) Missoula Library a tritina to fix by making it 8-12 per line final 12-18 (half) |
| It is said... It is said... that Hell cannot be ALL English red, for the redcoat hisself has sent many a starving Irishman before him. The road is paved with rebel hearts and trees beam emerald either side of the causeway to the Isles of Incessant Wailing where the bodhrán and the pipes prance with the whistle as the dance goes on forever, long past a blighted Brits time for bed. It is said... that Hell has nary enough colcannon to be served with soda bread. And when the trad-sessions start, it is said... that even the Devil has learned to jive a damn fine jig. © Kåre Enga [174.2] (25.March.2017) |
| Snowbound Dripdripdrip and the silence deepened as a snowdrift deepens at the base of a wave: blue light at the curl dripdrip and the snugness of being encased in ice no wind no sight fear at the coming melt drip then silence waiting—waiting—waiting for even the movement of water gave us hope for life but the silence silence silence drained all color from our voice and in the void the dreadful sound of silence sang the tune of our tomb © Kåre Enga [20.januar.2017] |
| Seul He felt alone sitting on the bench with his friend. —Ils sont partis. As a breeze cleared the cool mist, the old codgers saw the far mountains for first time in months. —Qui est parti? Who has gone? Then the Sun that had hidden for days came out and cast away all doubt. —Les dragons qui ont protégé notre jeunesse. Guy felt old, cold, and very very alone. His friend said nothing for a long time, then pointed at the stone path over the culvert where the creek babbled incessantly. He began to sing. —Sur le Pont d'Avignon On y danse, On y danse Sur le Pont d'Avignon On y danse tous en rond. © Kåre Enga [11.mars.2017] |
| Sidewalks Where do sidewalks go when there is no one left to walk them. When the poor have left town in search of work. When the hungry and homeless huddle by doors. When the winter-bound do not venture away from hearths. When snow-birds seek sunnier sidewalks down south. What of Pompeii ... once covered in ash. What of Atlantis ... leagues under water. What sidewalks will miss us when we too have passed. © Kåre Enga [17.mars.2017] |
| Along the Askerselva She stood silent, her hooded eyes like night embers that burnt through the bullshit of sunlight. She watched those who biked down worn pebbled paths those who then abandoned greased chains in the river for a scooter wending past addicts, still too young to understand what they were too old to not see. Until that too was abandoned to the flowing ditch for dirt tracks and high speed, the drift of it all raising a thin puff of dirt, obscuring the child who once looked towards some future obscuring a memory looking back at her standing there. She still stands there, silent, her hooded eyes like night. © Kåre Enga [11.mars.2017] Note: a fiction based on a walk down the Askerelva that runs through Oslo, Norway. |
| They walked hand-in-hand down the red dirt path, around the circle of green scum covering the pond they had dug. Michele spoke about the last time she had tossed back a Guinness as Miguela closed her eyes and inhaled, hoping to recall the fragrance of a deep red wine. The air was dry and still. —I remember the old men making dough, guarding their recipes as if their life depended on it. —I'm sure their livelihood did. —No—their life. "Pizzo paid by pizza" my father always cackled. Miguela pulled a comb thru her snarled wires. Michele just winked and tossed her long black locks. —Want to stop for tea and scones? Her eyes crinkled. —Only if you remembered the garlic and extra oregano. Miguela laughed. She loved laughter, eyes twinkling more than those stars looking down at them thru the black sky. Her homeland rocked to a volcanic beat, she'd always snicker. Michele would just smile, pretending they were walking the Giant's Causeway every time they wandered out to the pond's dock. It was afternoon. They needed no clock; they just knew. The movement of the small blue starlet and big yellow star informed them. Back home, one wall showed a scene of a distant Emerald Isle, the other white stones and blue shutters baking in the heat. Michele served tea and they both sat quietly. Time passed. Michele grabbed her bodhrán and Miguela started to sing. They wove a melody and beat that no one could hear. It was the year... 87... and the denizens of the cemetery were stone deaf, each grave hand dug, the most recent mouldering now for 50 years. Mars was a lonely place for a party of one. Calmed, Miguela quietly stowed her stiletto. Michele knowingly smiled... lost in thoughts of all the worlds she had once visited. She looked up. Beyond the empty sky she could see... Forever. © Kåre Enga [14.March.2017] Notes: Written to prompts: 1. Choose a year and place. [Mars, the Year 87] 2. A person you like [Michele] 3. An 'item' (I heard 'island') [Ireland] 4. A person you don't like ... well I just couldn't, so I though of Michele who is Irish/Sicilian and shows both heritages. [Miguela, Sicilan for Michele] 5. An 'item' (island) [Sicily] 6. Choose 5 words to describe each of the above... 7. WRITE! (for about 30 minutes) This was done in about 15. It just flowed. We meet every Tuesday at the library. |
| A way in Faint ash and a cough— spare sign that all wasn't well— that the invisible could rob me of breath. Aloft grey clouds loomed ominous— a respite only for others... for me— short breath. Faint memory of smoke— how it lingers, permeates all with its touch. Fainter still... gnawed cardboard in a corner— small pellets. This too— like months you didn't answer— hope fading like smoke. How sorrow gnawed like mice— how it always found a way in— like wings seeking refuge in Autumn. © Kåre Enga [24.February.2017] |
| Rain washing over the rocks, threads joining into rivers rushing thru narrow slots, over the edge. Rain sprayed into space, wetting our small group. We crossed the bridge, peering into the rage below, headed towards tunnels where our lamps would light the darkness, give us a moment's respite from the storm outside. We stood there speechless, drying each other off with whatever we could find. "Do you think they'll ever find Rosa?" someone whispered. No one dared to answer. Rivulets ran down the old roadway now abandoned to tourists on foot or animals seeking shelter. "We were warned" one voice quivered. The deafening torrent lessened. Light enough now for an umbrella. We were a rainbow of color trudging bleakly down a road. At a bus stop we waited until it was obvious there was no traffic. It was getting darker. We carefully picked our way down. No one spoke of Rosa. No one mentioned the warning. No one failed to notice how a sacrifice had surfeited the gods. Next morning we piled into a boat with one empty seat, threatening memories fading like forbidding mountains, diminishing the farther we sailed out to sea. © Kåre Enga [7.march.2017] |
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